Only a girl's love
old and wasted and wearied, watching over a sick and perhaps dying
girl, who eats three huge meals a day, and can outwalk Weston. I will
go," and he goes and leaves them, Stella's soft laughter following him
like music.
Leycester stands beside her looking down at her in silence. For him
that rustic seat holds all that is good and worth having in life, and
as he looks, the passionate love that burns so steadily in his heart
glows in his eyes.
For weeks, for months he has watched her--watched her patiently as
now--watched her from the shadow of death, into the world of life;
and though his eyes and the tone of his voice have spoken love often
and often, he has so tutored his lips as to refrain from open speech.
He knows the full measure of the shock which had struck her down,
and in his great reverence and unfathomable love for her, he has
restrained himself, fearing that a word might bring back that terrible
past. But now, to-night, as he sees the faint color tinting the clear
cheeks--sees the sunset light reflected in her bright eyes--his heart
begins to beat with that throb which tells of long-suppressed passion
clamoring for expression.
Maiden-like, she feels something of what is passing through his mind,
and a great shyness falls upon her. She can almost hear her heart beat.
"Won't you sit down?" she says, at last, in that little, low, murmuring
voice, which is such sweet music in his ears. And she moves her dress
to make room for him.
He comes round, and sinks in the seat beside her.
"Can you not feel the breeze now?" he asks. "I wish I had brought a
wrap with me, on the chance of your having forgotten it."
She looks round at him, with laughter in her eyes and on her lips.
"Did you not hear what uncle said?" She asks. "Don't you know that
he was laughing, actually laughing at me? When will you _begin_ to
believe that I am well and strong and ridiculously robust? Don't you
see that the people at the hotel are quite amused with your solicitude
respecting my delicate state of health?"
"I don't care anything about the people at the hotel," he says, in that
frank, simple way which speaks so plainly of his love. "I know that I
don't mean you to catch cold if I can help it!"
"You--you are very good to me," she says, and there is a slight tremor
in her voice.
He laughs his old short, curt laugh, softened in a singular way.
"Am I? You might say that a man was particularly 'good' because he
showed some concern for the safety of a particularly precious stone!"
Her eyes droop, and, perhaps unconsciously, her arm draws a little
nearer to him.
"You are good," she says, "but I am not a precious stone, by any means."
"You are all that is rare and precious to me, my darling," he says;
"you are all the world to me. Stella!----" he stops, alarmed lest he
should be alarming her, but his arm slides round her, and he ventures
to draw her nearer to him.
It is the only embrace he has ventured to give her since that night
when she fell into his arms at the cottage door at Carlyon, and he half
fears that she will shrink from him in the new strange shyness that
has fallen upon her; but she does not, instead she lets her head droop
until it rests upon his breast, and the strong man's passion leaps full
force and masterful in a moment.
"Stella!" he murmurs, his lips pressed to hers, which do not swerve,
"may I speak? Will you let me? You will not be angry?"
She does not look angry; her eyes fixed on his have nothing but
submissive love in them.
"I have waited,--it seems so long--because I was afraid to trouble you,
but I may speak now, Stella?" and he draws her closer to him. "Will you
be my wife--soon--soon?"
He waits, his handsome face eloquent in its entreaty and anxiety, and
she leans back and looks up at him, then her gaze falters. A little
quiver hovers on her lips, and the dark eyes droop.
Is it "Yes"? If so, he alone could have heard it.
"My poor darling!" he murmurs, and he takes her face in his hands and
turns it up to him. "Oh, my darling, If you knew how I loved you--how
anxiously I have waited! And it shall be soon, Stella! My little wife!
My very own!"
"Yes!" she said, and, as in the old time, she raises herself in his
arms and kisses him.
* * * * *
"And--and the countess, and all of them!" she murmurs, but with a
little quaint smile.
He smiles calmly. "Not to-night, darling, do not let us talk of the
outside world to-night. But see if 'all of them,' as you put it, are
not exactly of one mind; one of them is," and he takes out a letter
from his pocket.
"From Lilian!" she says, guessing instinctively.
Leycester nods.
"Yes, take it and read; you will find your name in every line. Stella,
it was this letter that gave me courage to speak to you to-night. A
woman knows a woman after all--you will read what she says. 'Are you
still afraid, Ley,' she writes, 'ask her!' and I have asked. And now
all the past will be buried and we shall be happy at last. At last,
Stella, where--where shall it be?"
She is silent, but she lifts the letter to her lips and kisses it.
"What do you say to Paris?" he asks.
"Paris!" she echoes, flushing.
"Yes," he says, "I have been talking to the old doctor, and he thinks
you are strong enough to have a little excitement now, and thinks that
a tour in Paris would be the very thing to complete things. What do
you say," he goes on, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact voice, but
watching her with eager eyes, "if we start at the end of the week, that
will give you time to make your preparations, won't it?"
"Oh, no, no----!"
"Then say the beginning of next," he returns, magnanimously, "and we
will be married about Wednesday"--she utters a faint exclamation, and
turns pale and red by turns, but he is steadfast--"and then we can have
a gay time of it before we settle down."
"Settle down," she says, with a little longing sigh. "How sweet it
sounds--but next week!"
"It is a cruel time to wait," he declares, drawing her nearer to him,
"cruel--next week! It is months, years, ages----"
"Hush!" she says, struggling gently away from him, "here is uncle."
It is uncle, but he is innocent of wraps.
"Going to stay out all night?" he asks, with fine irony.
"Why, where are the wraps?" demands Leycester.
"Eh? Oh, nonsense!" says the old man. "Do you want to commit suicide
together by suffocation? It's as warm as an oven. Oh, for my little
garden, and the cool room."
"You shall have it in a week or two," says Leycester, with a smile of
ineffable satisfaction. "We are going to take you to Paris, and then
will come and stay with you----"
"Oh, will you? and who asked you, Mr. Jackanapes?"
"Why, you wouldn't refuse shelter to your niece's husband?" retorts
Leycester, laughing.
"Oh, that's it!" says the old man. "Allow me to wish you good-night.
I'll leave you to your Midsummer madness--no, to your Autumn wisdom,
for, upon my word, it's the most sensible word I've heard you utter for
months past!"
And he goes; but before he goes he lays his hand upon the sleek head
and whispers:
"That's a good girl! Now be happy."
* * * * *
They were married in Paris, very quietly, very happily. Lord Charles
came over from Scotland, leaving the grouse and the salmon, to act
as best man, and it was an open question which of the two men looked
happiest--he or the bridegroom. Lord Charles had never heard of that
forged note and his inadvertent share in the plot that had worked so
much harm, and he never would hear of it; and furthermore he never
quite understood how it was that Stella Etheridge and not Lady Lenore
became Leycester's wife; but he was quite satisfied and quite assured
that it was the best of all possible arrangements.
"Leycester's the happiest man in the world, and he used to be the most
wretched, and so there's an end of it," he declared, whenever he spoke
of the match. "And," he would add, "the man who could have the moral
cheek to be anything but absurdly happy with such an angel as Lady
Stella wouldn't be fit to be anywhere out of a lunatic asylum."
They were married, and Charlie went back to the grouse, and the painter
went back to the cottage and Mrs. Penfold, leaving the young couple to
have their gay time of it in the gayest city of the world. It was not
particularly gay after all, but it was ecstatically joyous. They went
to the theaters and concerts and enjoyed themselves like boy and girl,
and Leycester found himself continually amazed at the youthfulness
which remained in him.
"I have begun to live for the first time," he declared one day. "I only
existed before."
As for Stella, the days went by in a sort of ecstatic dream, and only a
little cloud lined the golden sky--the earl and countess still hardened
their hearts.
Though not a week passed without bringing a letter full of love
and longing from Lilian, the old people made no sign. In the proud
countess' eyes her son's wife was still Stella Etheridge, the painter's
niece, and she could not forgive her for--making Leycester happy. It
would have made Stella miserable if anything could have done so, but
Leycester's love and watchful care often kept the cloud back--for a
time.
They stayed in Paris until a little bijou place in Park Lane was ready,
then they went home and took quiet possession.
It was the most charming of little nests--Leycester had given Jackson
and Graham _carte blanche_--and formed a fitting casket for the
beautiful young viscountess.
"After all, Ley," she said, as she sat upon his knee on their first
evening and looked round her exquisite room, "it is almost as good as
the little laborer's cottage I used to picture for myself."
"Yes, it only needs that I should sit in my shirt sleeves and smoke a
long pipe, doesn't it?" he said, laughing.
For some weeks they did almost lead an isolated life; they were always
together, never tired or wearied of each other. Of Stella, with her
exquisite variety, with her ever changing mirth and rare, delicate
wit, it would certainly have been difficult for any man to tire, and
what woman would have wearied of the devoted attention of such a man
as Leycester! They lived quietly for a little time, but as the season
commenced people got scent of them, and soon the world swooped down
upon them.
Stella protested at first, but she was powerless to resist, and
soon the names of Lord and Lady Trevor appeared in the fashionable
lists. Then came a surprise. Like Lord Byron, she woke one morning to
find herself famous; the world had pronounced her a beauty, and had
elected her to one of its thrones. Men almost fought for the honor of
inserting their names upon her ball-cards; women copied her dress,
and envied her; the photographers would have hung her portraits in
their windows if she had not been too wary to have one taken. She had
become a reigning queen. Leycester did not mind; he knew her too well
to be afraid that it would spoil her, and it amused him to find that
the world was rowing in the same boat with him--had gone mad over his
little Stella.
Now it was a gay time, but still the countess made no sign. The
Wyndwards were away on the continent in the winter, and in the spring
they went down to the Hall. Letters came from Lilian regularly, and she
grew more pathetic as time rolled on, she was pining for Leycester.
Stella urged him to sink his pride and go down to the Hall, but he
would not.
"Where I go I take my wife," he said, in his quiet way, and Stella knew
that it was useless to urge him.
But one day when it chanced that Stella was at home resting after a
grand ball at which she had reigned supreme, a brougham drove up to
the door, and while she was just preparing to say "not at home," the