Only a girl's love
Lord Charles nodded, not too gallantly.
"All right," he said; and as he spoke, his hand wandered to his pocket.
The game commenced. They were well matched, and presently Lord Charles,
whose two games were billiards and tennis, got interested. He also got
warm, and taking off his coat, flung it on to the grass.
Lady Lenore glanced at it, and presently, as she changed places with
him, took off her bracelet and threw it on the coat.
"Jewelery is superfluous in tennis," she said, with a soft laugh. "We
mean to win this set, do we not, Lord Charles?"
He laughed.
"If you say so," he replied. "You always win if you mean it."
"Nearly always," she said, with a significant smile.
All the four were enthusiasts, if Lenore could be called enthusiastic
about anything, and the game was hotly contested. The sun poured
down upon their faces, but they played on, pausing occasionally for
the usual squabble over the scoring; the servants brought claret and
champagne cup; Lady Wyndward and the earl came out and sat in the
shade, watching.
"We shall win!" exclaimed Lord Charles, the perspiration running down
his face, his whole soul absorbed in the work, the letter entirely
forgotten.
"I think so," said Lady Lenore, but as she spoke she missed a long ball.
"How did you manage that?" he inquired.
"It is the racquet," she said, apologetically. "It is a little too
heavy. It always gets too heavy when I have been playing a little
while. I wish I had my other one."
"I'll send for it," he said, eagerly.
"No, no," she said. "They won't know which it is--they never do."
"I'll go for it, then," he said, gracefully. "Can't lose the game, you
know."
"Will you?" she said, eagerly. "It stands on the hall table----"
"I know," he said. "Wait a moment!" he called out to the others, and
bolted off.
Lenore looked after him for a moment, then she glanced round. The other
two were standing discussing the game; the on-lookers were gathered
round the champagne cup. Lady Wyndward was lost in thought, with eyes
bent to the ground.
The beauty's eyes flashed, and her face grew slightly pale. Her eyes
wandered to the coat, she hesitated for a moment, then she walked
leisurely toward it and stooped down and picked up the bracelet. As she
did so she turned the coat over with her other hand, and drew the note
from the pocket.
A glance put her in possession of the address, and she returned the
note to its place, and strolled back to the tennis-court with an
unmoved countenance; but her heart beat fast, as her acute brain seized
upon the problem and worked it out.
A note to the boy! A letter which can be confided to no less trusty a
hand than Lord Charles! Leycester's sudden departure for London! Lord
Charles's confusion and embarrassment! Secresy and mystery! What does
it mean?
A presentiment seemed to possess her that a critical moment had
arrived. She seemed to feel, by instinct, that some movement was in
progress by which she should lose all chance of securing Leycester.
Her heart beat fast, so fast that the delicate veins in her white
hands throbbed; but she still smiled, and even glided across to Lady
Wyndward, who sat thoughtfully in the shade, looking at the tennis, but
thinking of Leycester.
She looked up as the tall graceful figure approached.
"You are tiring yourself to death, my dear," she said, with a sigh.
"No, I am enjoying it. What is the matter?"
Lady Wyndward looked at her candidly.
"I am troubled about my only troublous subject. Leycester has gone off
again."
"I know," was the quiet answer.
"Where, I know not; he said London. I don't know why I should feel
particularly uneasy, but I do. There is some plot afoot between Lord
Charles and him."
"I know it," smiled Lenore, "Lord Charles is not good at keeping a
secret. He makes a very bad conspirator."
"He would do anything for Leycester, any mad thing," sighed Lady
Wyndward.
The beautiful face smiled down at her thoughtfully for a moment, then
Lenore said:
"Do you think you could keep Lord Charles on the tennis-lawn, here, for
half-an-hour?"
"Why?" asked Lady Wyndward. "Yes, I think so."
"Do so, then," replied Lady Lenore, "I will tell you why afterward.
Lord Charles is very clever, no doubt, but I think I am cleverer, don't
you?"
"I think you are all that is good and beautiful, my dear," sighed the
anxious mother.
"Dear Lady Wyndward," softly murmured the beauty. "Well, keep him
chained here for half-an-hour, and leave the rest to me. I am not apt
to ask unreasonable requests, dear."
"No. I'll do anything you want or tell me," replied Lady Wyndward. "I
am full of anxious fears, Lenore. Do you know what it means?"
Lady Lenore hesitated.
"No. I do not know, but I think I can guess. See, here he comes."
Lord Charles came striding along, swinging the racquet.
"Here you are, Lady Lenore. Is that the right one?"
"Yes," she said, "but I can't play any longer. I am so sorry, but I
have hurt my hand. No, it's a mere nothing. I am going in to bathe it."
"Oh, it's an awful pity," said Lord Charles. "I am very sorry. Well,
the game is over. We must play it out another day. I'm going down to
the village, and I'll call at the chemist's for a lotion. I expect you
have sprained your hand." And suddenly, reminded of his mission, he was
walking toward his coat, but Lenore glanced at the countess, and Lady
Wyndward stopped him with a word.
"We can't have the game stopped," she said. "Here is Miss Dalton dying
to play, aren't you, dear?" she said, turning to a young girl who had
been watching the game. "Yes, I knew it. You must take her in place of
Lenore. Go on, my dear."
Miss Dalton, or Miss any one else, would as soon have thought of
disobeying Lady Wyndward as jumping off the top story of the Hall, and
the girl rose obediently and took the racquet which Lenore smilingly
held out to her.
Then what did Lenore do? She walked deliberately to Lord Charles'
coat, dropped her bracelet on it, stooped, picked up the bracelet,
and abstracted the letter, and concealing the latter in her sunshade,
glided toward the house.
With fast beating heart she gained her own room and locked the door.
Then she drew the letter from her sunshade and eyed it as a thief might
eye a safe in which lay the treasure he coveted.
Then she rang the bell and ordered some hot water.
"I have sprained my wrist," she said, in explanation, "and I want the
water very hot."
The maid brought the water and offered to bathe the wrist, but Lady
Lenore sent her away, and locked the door again.
Then she held the envelope over the steaming jug and watched the paper
part.
Even then she hesitated, even as the note lay open to her.
This which she contemplated doing was the meanest act a mortal could be
guilty of, and hitherto she had scorned all baseness and meanness. But
love is stronger than a sense of right and wrong in some women, and it
overcame her scruples.
With a sudden compression of the lips she drew out the note and read
it, and as she read it her face paled. Every word of endearment stabbed
her straight to the heart, and made her writhe.
"My darling!" she murmured; "my darling! How he must love her!" and for
a moment she sat with the letter in her hand overcome by jealousy and
misery. Then, with a start, she roused herself. Let come what might,
the thing should not happen. This girl should not be Leycester's wife.
But how to prevent it? She sat and thought as the precious moments
ticked themselves out into eternity, and suddenly she remembered
Jasper Adelstone--remembered him with a scornful contempt, but still
remembered him.
"Any port in a storm," she said; "a drowning man clings to a straw, and
he is no straw."
Then she inclosed the letter in its envelope, and taking out the
writing-case wrote on a scented sheet of paper: "Meet me by the weir
at eight o'clock." This she inclosed in an envelope, and addressed to
Jasper Adelstone, Esq., and with the two notes in her hand returned to
the tennis lawn.
They were still playing--Lord Charles absorbed in the game, and once
more quite oblivious of the letter.
She stood and watched them for a minute; then she went and sank down
beside the jacket, and hiding the movements with her sunshade, restored
Leycester's letter to its place.
A few minutes afterward the single line she had written was on its way
to Jasper.
CHAPTER XXV.
"I am Frank Etheridge," said Frank, looking up at Lord Charles, as
the latter stopped at the little gate in the lane. "Yes, I am Frank
Etheridge." And as he repeated the sentence, a shy, almost a timid,
apprehensive expression came into his eyes.
"All right," said Lord Charles, looking round with a most inconsistent
look of caution on his frank, handsome face. "Then I have a letter for
you."
"For me!" said Frank, and his face paled.
Lord Charles eyed him with astonishment.
"What is the matter?" he said. "What are you alarmed at? I am not a
bailiff--I am only Mercury." And he chuckled at the joke at his own
expense. "I have a letter for you--from my friend Lord Leycester."
Frank's face lit up, and he held out his hand promptly.
Lord Charles took the letter from his pocket and turned it over quickly.
"It's got tumbled and creased," he said. "Fact is, I ought to have
given it to you an hour or two ago, but I was led on to tennis and
forgot it."
"Oh, it's all right," said Frank, eagerly. "I am very much obliged,
sir. Won't you come in? My father and my cousin Stella will be glad to
see you."
But Lord Charles shook his head, and glanced at the pretty cottage,
with its air of peace which surrounded it, with something like a pang
of remorse.
"I do hope this will all turn out right," he thought. "Leycester
means well, but he is as likely as not to bungle it in one of his
mad humors!" Then aloud, he said, "No, I won't come in, but----" he
hesitated a moment, "but will you tell your cousin--Miss Etheridge,
that--that----" Simple Lord Charles hesitated and took off his hat, and
stared at the maker's name for a moment. "Well, look here, you know, if
either you or she want any assistance--want a friend, you know--come
to me. I shall be at the Hall. You understand, don't you? My name is
Guildford."
Frank nodded, and took Lord Charles's extended hand.
"Thank you, very much, Lord Guildford," he said.
And Lord Charles, with another rather rueful glance at the cottage,
retired.
Frank tore open the envelope and devoured the contents of the short
and pregnant note, then he went in search of Stella.
She was sitting at the organ, not playing, but touching the keys with
her fingers, a rapt look of meditation on her face. Mr. Etheridge was
hard at work making the best of the golden evening light.
Stella started as the boy came in, and would have spoken, but he put
his finger to his lips and beckoned her.
They both passed out without attracting the attention of the absorbed
artist, and Frank drew Stella into the garden, and to a small arbor at
the further end. She looked at his flushed, excited face with a smile.
"What does this mysterious conduct mean, Frank?" she asked.
He put his arm round her and drew her to a seat.
"I've got something for you, Stella," he said. "What will you give me
for it? It is worth--well, untold treasure, but I'll be satisfied with
a kiss."
She bent and kissed his forehead.
"Of course it is nothing," she said, with a laugh; but as he took the
letter from his pocket and held it up her face changed. "What is it
Frank?"
He put the letter in her hand, and, with an instinctive delicacy got up
and walked away.
"Read it, Stel," he said. "I'll be back directly."
Stella took the letter and opened it. When Frank came back she was