Only a girl's love
boy could find a word of expostulation or entreaty, Leycester pushed
him aside and went out.
CHAPTER XXXI.
Leycester went down the stairs with the uncertain gait of a drunken
man, and having reached the open air stood for a moment staring round
him as if he were bereft of his senses; as indeed he almost was.
The shock had come so suddenly that it had deprived him of the power
of reasoning, of following the thing out to its logical conclusion.
As he walked on, threading his way along the crowded thoroughfare,
and exciting no little attention and remark by his wild, distraught
appearance, he realized that he had lost Stella.
He realized that he had lost the beautiful girl who had stolen into
his heart and absorbed his love. And the manner of his losing her made
the loss so bitter! That a man, that such a creature as this Jasper
Adelstone, should come between them was terrible. If it had been any
other, who was in some fashion his own equal--Charlie Guildford, for
instance, a gentleman and a nobleman--it would have been bad enough,
but he could have understood it. He would have felt that he had been
fairly beaten; but Jasper Adelstone!
Then it was so evident that love was not altogether the reason of her
treachery and desertion; there was something else; some secret which
gave that man a hold over her. He stopped short in the most crowded
part of the Strand, and put his hand to his brow and groaned.
To think that his Stella, his beautiful child-love, whom he had deemed
an angel for innocence, should share a secret with such a man. And
what was it? Was there shame connected with it? He shuddered as the
suspicion crossed his mind and smote upon his heart. What had she done
to place her so utterly in Jasper Adelstone's hands? What was it? The
question harassed and worried him to the exclusion of all other sides
of the case.
Was it something that had occurred before he, Leycester, had met her?
She had known this Jasper Adelstone before she knew Leycester; but he
remembered her speaking of him as a conceited, self-opinioned young
man; he remembered the light scorn with which she had described him.
No, it could not have happened thus early. When then? and where was
it? He could find no solution to the question; but the terrible result
remained, that she had delivered herself, body and soul, into the
hands of Jasper Adelstone, and was lost to him, Leycester!
Striking along, careless of where he was going, he found himself
at last in Pall Mall. He entered one of his clubs, and went to the
smoking-room. There he lit a cigar, and took out the marriage license
and looked at it long and absently. If all had gone right, Stella would
have been his, if not by this time, a very little later, and they would
have gone to Italy, they two, together and alone--with happiness.
But now it was all changed--the cup had been dashed from his lips at
the last moment, and by--Jasper Adelstone!
He sat, with the unsmoked cigar in his fingers, his head drooped
upon his breast, the nightmare of the secret mystery pressing on his
shoulders. It was not only the loss of Stella, it was the feeling that
she had deceived him that was so bitter to bear; it was the existence
of the secret understanding between the two that so utterly overwhelmed
him. He could have married Stella though she had been a beggar in the
streets, but he could have no part or lot in the woman who shared a
secret with such a one as Jasper Adelstone.
The smoking-room footman hovered about, glancing covertly and curiously
at the motionless figure in the deep arm-chair; acquaintances sauntered
in and gave him good-bye; but Leycester sat brooding over his sorrow
and disappointment, and made no response.
A more miserable young man it would have been impossible to find in all
London than this viscount and heir to an earldom, with all his immense
wealth and proud hereditary titles.
The afternoon came, hot and sultry, and to him suffocating. The
footman, beginning to be seriously alarmed by the quiescence of the
silent figure, was just considering whether it was not his duty to
bring him some refreshment, or rouse him by offering him the paper,
when Leycester rose, much to the man's relief, and walked out.
Within the last few minutes he had decided upon some course of action.
He could not stay in London, he could not remain in England; he would
go abroad--go right out of the way, and try and forget. He smiled to
himself at the word, as if he should ever forget the beautiful face
that had lain upon his breast, the exquisite eyes that had poured the
lovelight into his, the sweet girl-voice that had murmured its maiden
confession in his ear!
He called a cab, and told the man to drive to Waterloo; caught a train,
threw himself into a corner of the carriage, and gave himself up to the
bitterness of despair.
Dinner was just over when his tall figure passed along the terrace, and
the ladies were standing under the drawing-room veranda enjoying the
sunset. A little apart from the rest stood Lenore. She was leaning
against one of the iron columns, her dress of white cashmere and satin
trimmed with pearls standing out daintily and fairy-like against the
mass of ferns and flowers behind her.
She was leaning in the most graceful air of abandon, her sunshade
lying at her feet, her hands folded with an indolent air of rest on
her lap; there was a serene smile upon her lips, a delicate languor in
her violet eyes, an altogether at-peace-with-all-the-world expression
which was in direct contrast with the faint expression of anxiety which
rested on the handsome face of the countess.
Every now and then, as the proud and haughty woman, but anxious mother,
chatted and laughed with the women around her, her gaze wandered to the
open country with an absent, almost fearful expression, and once, as
the sound of a carriage was heard on the drive, she was actually guilty
of a start.
But the carriage was only that of one of the guests, and the countess
sighed and turned to her duties again. Lenore, with head thrown back,
watched her with a lazy smile. She was suffering likewise, but she had
something tangible to fear, something definite to hope; the mother knew
nothing, but feared all things.
Presently Lady Wyndward happened to come within the scope of Lenore's
voice.
"You look tired to-night, dear," she said.
The countess smiled, wearily.
"I will admit a little headache," she said; then she looked at the
lovely indolent face. "You look well enough, Lenore!"
Lady Lenore smiled, curiously.
"Do you think so!" she answered. "Suppose I also confessed a headache!"
"I should outdo you even then," said the countess, with a sigh, "for I
have a heartache!"
Lenore put out her hand, white and glittering with pearls and diamonds,
and laid it on the elder woman's arm with a little caressing gesture
peculiar to her.
"Tell me dear," she whispered.
The countess shook her head.
"I cannot," she said, with a sigh. "I scarcely know myself. I am quite
in the dark, but I know that something has happened or is happening.
You know that Leycester went suddenly yesterday?"
Lady Lenore moved her head in assent.
The countess sighed.
"I am always fearful of him."
Lenore laughed, softly.
"So am I. But I am not fearful on this occasion. Wait until he comes
back."
The countess shook her head.
"When will that be? I am afraid not for some time!"
"I think he will come back to-night," said Lenore, with a smile that
was too placid to be confident or boastful.
The countess smiled and looked at her.
"You are a strange girl, Lenore," she said. "What makes you think that?"
Lenore turned the bracelet on her arm.
"Something seems to whisper to me that he will come," she said. "Look!"
And she just moved her hand toward the terrace. Leycester was coming
slowly up the broad stone steps.
Lady Wyndward made a move forward, but Lenore's hand closed over her
arm, and she stopped and looked at her.
Lenore shook her head, smiling softly.
"Better not," she murmured, scarcely above her breath. "Not yet. Leave
him alone. Something has happened as you surmised. I have such keen
eyes, you know, and can see his face."
So could Lady Wyndward by this time, and her own turned white at sight
of the pale, haggard face.
"Do not go to him," whispered Lenore, "do not stop him. Leave him
alone; it is good advice."
Lady Wyndward felt instinctively that it was, and so that she might not
be tempted to disregard it, she turned away and went into the house.
Leycester came along the terrace, and raising his eyes, heavy and
clouded, saw the ladies, but he only raised his hat and passed on.
Then he came to where the figure in white, glimmering with pearls and
diamonds, leaned against the column and he hesitated a moment, but
there was no look of invitation in her eyes, only a faint smile, and he
merely raised his hat again and passed on; but, half unconsciously, he
had taken in the loveliness and grace of the picture that she made, and
that was all that she desired for the present.
With heavy steps he crossed the hall, climbed the stairs, and entered
his own room.
His man Oliver, who had been waiting for him and hanging about, came in
softly, but stole out again at sight of the dusky figure lying wearily
on the chair; but presently Leycester called him and he went back.
"Get a bath ready, Oliver," he said, "and pack a portmanteau; we shall
leave to-night."
"Very good, my lord," was the quiet response, and then he went to
prepare the bath.
Leycester got up and strode to and fro. Though she had never entered
his rooms, the apartments seemed full of her; from the easel stared the
disfigured Venus which he had daubed out on the first night he had seen
her. On the table, in an Etruscan vase of crystal, were some of the
wild flowers which her hand had plucked, her lips had pressed. These he
took--not fiercely but solemnly--and threw out of the window.
Suddenly there floated upon the air the strains of solemn music. He
started. He had almost forgotten Lilian; the great sorrow and misery
had almost driven her from his memory. He sat the vase down upon the
table, and went to her room; she knew his knock, and bade him come in,
still playing.
But as he entered, she stopped suddenly, and the smile which had flown
to her face to welcome him disappeared.
"Ley!" she breathed, looking up at his pale, haggard face and
dark-rimmed eyes; "what has happened? What is the matter?"
He stood beside her, and bent and kissed her; his lips were dry and
burning.
"Ley! Ley!" she murmured, and put her white arm round his neck to draw
him down to her, "what is it?"
Then she scanned him with loving anxiety.
"How tired you look, Ley! Where have you been? Sit down!"
He sank into a low seat at her feet, and motioned to the piano.
"Go on playing," he said.
She started at his hoarse, dry voice, but turned to the piano, and
played softly, and presently she knew, rather than saw, that he had
hidden his face in his hands.
Then she stopped and bent over him.
"Now tell me, Ley!" she murmured.
He looked up with a bitter smile that cut her to the heart.
"It is soon told, Lil," he said, in a low voice, "and it is only an
old, old story!"
"Ley!"
"I can tell you--I could tell only you, Lil--in a very few words. I
have loved--and been deceived."
She did not speak, but she put her hand on his head where it lay like a
peaceful benediction.
"I have staked my all, all my happiness and peace, upon a cast and have
lost. I am very badly hit, and naturally I feel it very badly for a
time!"
"Ley!" she murmured, reproachfully, "you must not talk to _me_ like
this; speak from your heart."