CHAPTER XI.

AN OLD STORY.

In the study, Sir Philip Cranstoun assumed his favorite position, with his back to the fire, and his feet planted firmly on the hearth-rug.

Stella stood at a little distance, her hands folded over the back of a tall, carved oak chair. Looking at her under his heavy black eyebrows, her father was instantly reminded of another scene which had taken place in that same house more than eighteen years ago, on the night when Clare Lady Cranstoun first learned of her father’s murder.

“I called you in here,” the Baronet began, abruptly, “to speak of your forthcoming marriage.”

Stella tightened her lips, and held fast to the back of the chair, but she did not speak.

“Your forthcoming marriage,” reiterated Sir Philip, “with my friend, Lord Carthew.”

Still no word came from Stella. Her disdainful silence irritated her father.

“Carthew is noted for his eccentricity,” he sneered. “Hence, no doubt, his lucky admiration for you. Very few men would have forgiven the exhibition you made of yourself just now over that silly and vulgar song.”

The color came faintly into her cheeks, but she still kept silent. Silence was her best weapon against her father, as she knew well.

“The marriage will take place early in May,” he proceeded; “so you must make your preparations, and name a date for the ceremony not later than the sixteenth of the month. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” she answered, raising her eyes at length, and steadily meeting his gaze, “I hear you; but I shall not marry Lord Carthew.”

“You will marry him,” he said, a dark flush spreading under his pallid skin. “So surely as you stand there you will marry him!”

“I shall not!”

Her voice rang out now clear and sharp, and into her fair face came a look of dogged resistance, at sight of which Sir Philip’s smouldering wrath broke into a flame.

“You will do as I tell you!” he swore, the veins in his forehead starting into ugly prominence. “You, a beggar’s brat, born in a hovel, dare to set your will against mine! You should by rights be tramping from door to door at the heels of some filthy caravan, selling brooms, and stealing chickens, with a hedge to sleep under, and the police on your track! Do you know what you are--you, with your white face, and your defiant airs and graces, who do not consider an earl’s son good enough for you, but must needs disgrace yourself by a servant-girl flirtation in the corridor with a man who will make your folly a smoking-room jest? You think yourself a duke’s grandchild, a Douglas by descent, and daughter to my wife, Lady Gwendolen. But you came into this world some months before I ever saw that lady; you were born in a miserable cabin, and your mother was a wayside tramp, a common gypsy!”

He hurled the words at her with stinging emphasis. She stood before him, pale as ashes, her eyes distended, quivering in every limb. But for the support of the chair she would have fallen to the ground. A hundred little incidents seemed to start simultaneously to prominence in her mind as she listened to him, chief among them being the old fortune-teller’s assurance that she was a “Romany,” and that the gypsies would befriend her.

Stephen Lee, too, through whom she was to communicate if necessary with old Sarah, had he not told her only that day that there was not so much difference between her rank and his as she supposed? And Dr. Netherbridge’s strange recognition of her by her “likeness to her mother,” was not that also a link in the chain?

The room seemed to rock round her, and the ground to give way under her feet. Something told her that her father was speaking the truth, and her heart contracted with pain as she realized that gentle, affectionate Lady Cranstoun, from whom she had received the only tenderness and kindness which had as yet warmed her young life, might not really be her mother after all.

But whatever she felt, however great her astonishment, dismay, and even horror at his words, it was chiefly necessary to retain her self-control, and no cry, no exclamation escaped her lips as she mutely waited for her father to say more.

“When my wife, Lady Gwendolen, lost her child,” Sir Philip went on, mercilessly, “you were sent for and admitted into this house on sufferance, lest she should lose her reason. The poor, weak-witted thing chose to believe that you were hers, and partly to humor her, partly to conceal your disgraceful origin, I allowed the deception to be kept up until now. You would never have known from what beggar’s stock you sprang but from your folly and pride, which to me, who know the truth about your origin, is equally offensive and ridiculous.”

“Will you tell me one thing?” she asked, in an unnaturally steady voice. “You say I am not Lady Cranstoun’s child; am I yours?”

She could not keep the eagerness she felt out of her tones. He glanced at her curiously, ignoring her reason for the question.

“You are a gypsy’s child,” he answered, hoping to humiliate her.

“Not yours?” she cried, a ray of unmistakable relief flashing into her face. “Not yours! Oh, thank Heaven!”

In an instant he saw his mistake. The thought that she owed him neither reverence nor respect had come as a joyful relief to her.

“You are my daughter,” he said, harshly, “and you have to obey me. Fortunately for you, no one suspects the truth, or you would certainly not have been honored by an offer of marriage from the heir to Lord Northborough.”

He had purposely chosen such words in alluding to her mother that Stella might infer that she had no legal title to the name she bore. The object he had in view was to humble her pride, and whether or not he broke her heart at the same time was a matter of perfect indifference to him.

As he finished speaking, she began to move toward the door. A mist seemed to hang before her eyes, and she was trembling so much that her feet could hardly bear her weight; but she was as proud as he, and fully resolved that he should not see the full effect of his words upon her.

“Understand,” he called after her, “your marriage will take place early in May.”

She turned and faced him at the door.

“Lord Carthew shall hear to-night every word that you have said to me. Then, as you suggest, he will cease from troubling me.”

“I forbid you to exchange one word with him on the subject.”

Joining her by the door, he gripped her arm in his fingers as he had done in the morning. The pain of his clutch was intense, but she never winced under it.

“It is my duty to tell him, Sir Philip,” she said, as though she were addressing a stranger.

“Go to your room at once, and do not presume to leave it until you have my permission.”

“As you please. But as soon as I meet Lord Carthew, he shall hear every word.”

Baffled and furious, he released his hold on her arm, and following her upstairs, he watched her enter her own room, and drawing out the key, turned it on the outside, and slipped it into his pocket. He had totally miscalculated the effect upon her of the announcement he had made. He imagined that it would lower her pride to the dust, and break down once and forever her opposition to his will. But she had gone from the study with head erect and flashing eyes; and so far from dreading lest the secret of her humble birth should become known, she had instantly decided upon sharing it with the last person in the world who ought to be made aware of it.

More than ever it was necessary to hurry on this match with Lord Carthew. In such a spirit as that in which Stella now found herself, it was impossible to say what reckless step she might take. On returning to the drawing-room, therefore, Sir Philip pretended to read a newspaper, while his two guests finished their game, and he afterward contrived, in the course of a short talk with Lord Carthew, to strongly encourage that young gentleman’s hopes, and indeed to turn them to certainties.

“I have been having a little talk with my daughter,” he began, as the gentlemen sipped their grog and enjoyed a parting smoke before retiring for the night. “She is quite willing that the wedding shall take place during the second week in May. I haven’t a doubt that this house is extremely lonely for Stella, and that in her secret heart she is overjoyed at the thought of leaving it. The only difficulty is that she has never been separated from her mother, and I rather fancy that that is what she wanted to speak to you about just when I came up and interrupted her.”

“I shall be delighted if Lady Cranstoun will come with us when we set up housekeeping in town,” Lord Carthew answered, his plain face radiant with happiness. “I will talk over all arrangements with my mother when I go up to town to-morrow. I ought to go up early, because I am really anxious about my friend Hilary. Dr. Graham has been declaring how extremely rash it was for him to leave the shelter of your roof at present, and I am most anxious to find out whether he has suffered any ill effects from the journey.”

Lord Carthew retired to his room that night with a light heart, which not even the recollection of the palmist Kyro’s prediction could depress. “A passionate love affair, a hasty marriage, followed speedily by overwhelming misfortunes,” such were the terms of the prophecy made for his future a few weeks before. But now, in the belief that he had secured at least the warm friendship and willing consent of a lovely, high-born, fascinating, and gifted bride, Claud felt that he could laugh such gloomy predictions to scorn. Stella liked him, and would soon grow to love him, for Lord Carthew fully believed, as do so many men, that love is a plant which can be induced to grow in any woman’s heart with proper care and trouble.

Not for one moment did he suspect that the beautiful girl whom he hoped so shortly to make his wife was at that moment pacing up and down the boards of her bedchamber, completely dressed, with all idea of slumber banished from her mind, and her head in a whirl of passionate and rebellious thoughts, of which not one was devoted to him.

Her father’s statements had affected her to the full as much as he intended, but in a totally different direction from that which he had expected. So far from the knowledge of her mother’s humble origin inclining her to gratefully accept Lord Carthew’s offer, it seemed to her to place an insuperable and not unwelcome barrier between them.

“Hilary thought I was his superior in position,” she said to herself; “and oh, how glad I am that that is altered now! He was so humble, he begged my pardon so earnestly for having taken me into his arms; and I am only a poor gypsy’s daughter after all--beneath him, not above him! He must know that. I must tell him, and as soon as possible, before he has time to leave the neighborhood.

“And my mother--what became of her? Is she dead? Can any one tell me of her? Would Margaret know? She has been in the house many years, but she would not tell, I think. But there was the little doctor, who knew I was Miss Cranstoun because I was so like my mother. He must have known her, then. Did not the hostler tell me that when Dr. Netherbridge sent him here last night he told him that he knew the Chase, and knew Sir Philip, and had been here years ago? I must see this doctor privately, and at once must find out who and what my mother was. If she ever loved my father--and could any one love him, I wonder?--she must have been very, very miserable.”

Until the day broke, Stella remained lost in excited thought, wide-awake, and either walking restlessly up and down the room, or rocking herself backward and forward in a rocking-chair. Her desire to see Hilary immediately grew stronger every moment. She fully believed that when he knew her to be of humble birth, he would no longer avoid her, but would give his love as frankly as he would accept hers. Yet she felt that she must first of all see Dr. Netherbridge, and learn from him the truth about her mother. Her cheeks grew hot with shame at the thought that she had perhaps no right to bear the name of Cranstoun. The idea was so inexpressibly painful that she tried to banish it from her mind; but it returned again and again with a persistency not to be denied. Could she once ascertain that to be a fact, she decided, in an outburst of grief and humiliation, that she would escape from the Chase, and hide herself as far away as possible, unknown to any one. If she was indeed without either legal father or mother, she would no longer live upon grudgingly doled-out charity, but would go into the world and earn a living for herself, as many other poor and friendless girls were doing daily, banishing from her mind forever all thoughts of love and marriage.

She was fully resolved of one thing: that no man but Hilary Pritchard should be her husband; but she would never come to him with a stain upon her name.

Then, again, her reflections were disturbed by the memory of the gentle lady who believed her to be her daughter. How could she possibly desert her under any circumstances? Whatever the amount of her obligation toward Sir Philip, Stella realized that the love and duty she owed to Lady Gwendolen were none the less, but rather the more, urgent, should there, indeed, be no blood relationship between them. The more she pondered, the more troubled her mind became, and she longed above all things for the daybreak in order that she might put into action some of the plans which were formulating in her brain.

Meantime, she was locked in, and could only be let out at Sir Philip’s pleasure. This reflection filled her with a deep annoyance, and she set about evolving methods of escape.

There were two windows in her room, both tall and wide, divided by woodwork into squares about a foot high. She was only on the first floor, and the ivy which clung about every part of the walls would appear to offer a tolerably easy means of descent to one as light and agile as she. By half-past five o’clock she could endure her attitude of waiting and thinking no longer. Performing her toilet hastily, she changed her white silk evening gown into her serge morning costume, donned her hat and jacket, and pushing up the heavy sash of one of the windows, looked down on the terrace below and across at the trees to see whether her movements were observed.

No one was astir yet. A faint morning haze lay upon the fresh spring foliage about the treetops, and the morning sun, as it tried to burst through the vapor which rose from the damp earth, turned the dewdrops on the grass to shimmering diamonds. Catching her skirts close to her, she ventured one slender foot over the ledge of the window, testing the strength of the support accorded by the ivy. Luckily for her, the roots of a great ivy tree started at a point exactly between the windows of her room, and the branches were strong enough to support a far heavier burden than her light frame. A few scrambling steps, a prodigious rustling of ivy leaves, some tiny stones displaced, and then, with a flushed face, a dusty dress, and the palms of her soft hands a little cut and scratched, Stella found herself standing on the terrace, free.

A few moments later, she was running like a startled hare in the direction of a weak point in the wall which surrounded the Chase enclosure, as she particularly wished to avoid awaking the lodge-keepers from their slumbers. By a quarter past six she had reached the inn where Hilary was staying. The window-blinds were all drawn down, and no one was stirring but her friend the hostler, who, whistling an air popular in London some months before, was pottering about the stable-yard.

Catching sight of the tall, slight, girlish figure in plain blue serge gown and close-fitting serge jacket, he dropped in surprise the great horse-sponge and the bucket with which he was laden, and uttered a prolonged whistle of astonishment.

“Miss Cranstoun, as I’m alive!” he exclaimed. “Why, who’d ha’ thought of seeing you so early, miss?”

“I have to go into Grayling as soon as possible, and I want you to lend me a horse,” she explained. “I will bring it back to your stables very shortly, and will take great care of it. I could not get one at home, as every one was asleep when I left.”

The man’s eyes twinkled. Not being a householder, and coming as he did from London, the hostler had none of the local dread of Sir Philip Cranstoun’s displeasure.

“How would you like to borrow our young gentleman’s Black Bess, that you admired so much, for a little spin?” he suggested. “She takes a bit of riding, but I lay you’ll manage her.”

The offer was one after Stella’s own heart, and after a short time spent in fitting upon Black Bess’ back the unaccustomed side-saddle, Stella sprang lightly into her seat, and stroking the mare’s glossy black neck, turned her head toward Grayling and started her off in a gallop.

At first the mare, who had never before been ridden by a lady, was sorely puzzled by the flapping of Stella’s gown, and curved her long neck every now and then in a vain attempt to bite at her rider’s skirts. Gradually, however, getting used to this phenomenon, and realizing the difference between Stella’s weight and Hilary’s, she put her head down and made one determined effort to run away with her unusual burden. Baffled in this attempt, she settled down to the inevitable, and carried Stella as the girl had never been carried before, skimming over the ground in a way which would have left even fleet-footed Zephyr far behind.

Grayling, at seven o’clock, was still chiefly asleep, but a red-cheeked Grayling boy, who was spinning a top in the principal thoroughfare, desisted from his occupation in order to stare at Stella, and to inform her, in a drawling Surrey dialect, of the whereabouts of Dr. Ernest Netherbridge’s house.

The little doctor was no longer a bachelor. A knowledge of the fact that many steady-going provincial patients preferred their doctors married, together with the extreme dulness of having “no one to come home to,” had induced him some few years before to relinquish his vague ideals of a beautiful and attractive helpmeet, and to satisfy his wish for companionship and a more extensive income in the person of a spinster of uncertain age who was popularly supposed in Grayling to have been “setting her cap at the doctor” for over fifteen years.

And this person it was, in brown woollen and a large white apron, who opened the door on lovely Stella Cranstoun and Black Bess, and waspishly demanded to know her business with the doctor.