CHAPTER XV.

THE WEDDING EVE.

Housekeeper Margaret was a quiet, reserved, and cautious woman with the caution bred of extreme nervousness and dread of being bullied.

Her fear of Sir Philip was extreme. She was a woman of limited intelligence, and much addicted in the privacy of her own room, when there was no one to observe her, to the consumption of cheap sensational literature. Ever since the night of Clare Lady Cranstoun’s disappearance Margaret had cherished the conviction that Sir Philip had secretly murdered her; luckily she kept this belief to herself, but it naturally did not lessen her fear of him.

She was not at all popular with her fellow-servants, and, strange to say, they were somewhat afraid of her. The fact that she was the only female servant who had been retained at the Chase more than a few years, together with her silent, reserved manners, really born of nervousness, made the others restrained and uncomfortable before her; even Dakin, the spy, did not know how far Margaret might be in her master’s confidence, and invariably treated her with elaborate respect, an example which was followed by all the other servants, the more willingly as Sir Philip doled out the housekeeping money both before and after his second wife’s death into Margaret’s hands.

In her secret heart Margaret was far from preserving the adamantine character with which she was credited. So far from it, indeed, she took an intense interest in Stella’s love affair, and considered Hilary Pritchard an ideal hero of romance, his splendid figure, handsome face, and genial, grateful manners having made a strong impression upon her during the short period while he remained under her care.

When, therefore, Stephen Lee handed her the note for Stella, under pretence of assisting her to pick up the plate she had purposely dropped from the kitchen table, Margaret instantly jumped to the conclusion that it must be another communication from Stella’s handsome sweetheart, Hilary, which the latter had contrived to transmit to the young gamekeeper.

It was very desirable, so Margaret decided, that Stella should receive the note that same night. “It will comfort the poor dear,” she said to herself, “and, maybe, make her sleep better to know that her young gentleman is thinking of her.”

But since her lady’s death, Margaret had had no opportunity of seeing Stella, and it would have provoked comment and inquiry had she tried to do so now. Presently, however, when Ellen, the lady’s maid, gave vent to a grumbling remark that she “supposed some supper would have to be taken up to Miss Stella, since she hadn’t touched anything that day, and she must be kept alive somehow until she was married and done for,” it occurred to Margaret that her chance had come. Miss Cranstoun’s supper consisted of a wing of a bird, some Camembert cheese and salad, and some Burgundy in a decanter, the doctor having ordered her that wine. Margaret decided intuitively that even if Stella ate nothing, long fasting would have made her so faint that she would probably sip a glass of wine. Risking detection, therefore, she contrived to slip the piece of folded paper she had received from Stephen under the decanter under pretence of smoothing the cloth under the tray in passing. Only Stephen Lee saw her do it; not much escaped his keen gypsy eyes. But in order to complete her work it was necessary that Ellen’s attention should be turned in some other direction than the tray she was about to carry up to her mistress, and towards that end he suddenly made a remark in an awkward shamefaced manner, all the more effective because it appeared spontaneous and genuine.

“If I was Lord Carthew,” he said, “it’s not the missus I’d be after, but the maid.”

The lie almost choked him as he mentally contrasted the limp, round back, colorless eyes, and retreating chin of Ellen with the willowy, supple form, delicate features, and luminous eyes of his adorable cousin. But the lady’s maid herself saw no inappropriateness in the compliment, which was the more valuable as the young gamekeeper seldom joined the kitchen circle and had never before paid the least attention to any of the women. Ellen therefore bridled with pride and satisfaction as she caught up the supper-tray and made her way to Miss Cranstoun’s room in the turret, the door of which was opened to her by Dakin.

“What a time you’ve been!” exclaimed the latter. “I’ve been just longing to get down to my supper.”

“Young Stephen Lee’s been in the servants’ hall,” said Ellen, in a loud whisper, and Stella, hearing the words, listened with all her ears.

“Lor’, he’s that complimentary,” giggled Ellen. “Says he, ‘If I was Lord Carthew,’ he says, ‘it’s not the mistress I’d be after, but the maid.’ I got that hot and uncomfortable at the way he said it and looked at me that I had to ketch up the tray and run upstairs out of the way. It never seemed to me he was a marrying sort of man; but there, perhaps he was only waiting until Miss Right came along.”

Dakin stared, with a striking absence of sympathy. She was wondering what a fine, handsome young fellow like Stephen could see in the pallid, watery-eyed, flabby-looking young woman before her. Only Stella, as she reclined on a sofa in the bedroom, to all appearance absorbed in listlessly turning over the pages of a novel, could guess at anything between the lines of Stephen Lee’s compliment. That Stephen should dare to lift his eyes as high as her, his master’s daughter, had not entered her mind. But she knew now that he was a gypsy of the same wild, untamed race as herself, and she guessed that his motive for entering the servants’ hall that night was to bring some message from old Sarah, and that his unwonted gallantry toward the far from comely Ellen was a trick to cover some scheme of his for the future.

It was therefore not without prescience of what might be in store for her that Stella watched the tray which was placed on a little table near her couch. She fully expected, indeed, that a communication of some kind would be lurking among the articles upon it, and when, presently, waiting her opportunity until Ellen, under pretence of rearranging the ornaments on the mantelpiece, became absorbed in the reflection of her own plain features in the looking-glass, she began to closely examine the contents of the supper-tray, the result was that her fingers speedily closed on Sarah’s message. Slipping it into the open pages of her book, with her heart beating high with excitement, Stella read the pencilled words with eager eyes. Not for one moment did she doubt the gypsy’s power to help her. “Your mother’s friends watch over you, and soon you will be free.” The words came as light in the darkness to the girl, drooping under the forced confinement to the house, and the detestable system of _espionage_ by which she was never for one moment free from Dakin’s or Ellen’s prying eyes. It was true that when she thought of Lord Carthew, and recalled his sympathetic talk on the morning when he had compared her to the “Lady of Shalott,” and the charm of his manner toward the late Lady Cranstoun, she was not so unjust or so prejudiced as to believe that he was a party to the system which was depriving her of her liberty and breaking down her health in order to force her into an uncongenial marriage. She believed, on the contrary, that could she only obtain an hour’s uninterrupted talk with the young Viscount, he would be the first to condemn her father’s drastic treatment and to yield his claim to her hand when she informed him that she was passionately in love with another man. She knew all this, but knew, too, that Sir Philip would never allow a meeting between her and Lord Carthew, whose town address she did not even know. Grief for Lady Cranstoun’s death, desperate anxiety as to her own future, a perpetual longing to see Hilary again and to be assured of his love and faithfulness, the impossibility of even communicating with him, the misery of her present situation, bereft of love, hope, sympathy, and even of seclusion, and above all, the terrible trial of absence of fresh air and outdoor exercise to a girl of her race and temperament, these things were seriously affecting her health. But for the hope held out in Sarah’s message Stella would hardly have lived through the twenty days that followed.

Her nights were sleepless, and what slumber she enjoyed came to her by day and by the use of opiates, which her father, who would allow no doctor to see her, caused to be administered to her in her tea and coffee; and it was in a deep sleep, brought on by a dose of this kind, that Lord Carthew saw her, lying fully dressed on the sofa, the window, which was open to allow the fresh spring air to blow through the room, letting in a torrent of clear, bright sunlight, which seemed absolutely to shine through the girl’s attenuated form as she lay resting among cushions, her cheeks of a marble whiteness under her long, black eyelashes.

Sir Philip himself brought his future son-in-law to see his daughter, as the latter, on his third visit, would not be denied.

“If you don’t let me see her, I shall think she is dead,” he said, half laughing, but half seriously, too.

“My dear Carthew, I have really been afraid of startling you. The poor child’s grief has been so excessive that she is wasted to a shadow. She is morbidly fearful lest you may be shocked at the change in her; but I will myself go and prepare her for your visit, and entreat her to receive you.”

“Seeing that we are to be married in a week, it would seem very strange if I could not see her for a few minutes,” observed Lord Carthew; and Sir Philip recognizing a certain doggedness in his tone, knew that he had made up his mind. Not for the first time the Baronet realized that his future son-in-law had a strong will of his own, and he rejoiced to see it manifested. A husband with a strong will, he told himself, was imperatively necessary in the case of a girl with Stella’s erratic and vagrant instincts. It was, indeed, almost pitiful to consider Sir Philip’s anxiety that the marriage between Lord Northborough’s heir and his daughter should come off without any hitch. The chatelain of the Chase was accustomed to be obeyed in fear and trembling, and he never once questioned the wisdom of his own decrees. It was of vital importance, so he told himself, that Stella should marry Lord Carthew, and he was placed in a position of extreme difficulty by the fact that if Stella and Claud once met before the ceremony, the girl would undoubtedly blurt out the terrible facts of her preference for Hilary Pritchard, and of her gypsy descent. The dread of such a contingency prevented Sir Philip from resting by night or by day. He did not like the Chase, but he remained in the house simply and solely to prevent his daughter from running away, as he felt sure she would do should the least opportunity present itself.

On the day, therefore, when he conducted Lord Carthew into the presence of his lovely _fiancée_, Sir Philip ascertained first of all that the latter was under the influence of an opiate which would prevent her from recognizing and speaking to her future husband. Thus satisfied that no ill result could ensue, Sir Philip led Lord Carthew to the couch of his pale lady love, as she lay asleep, with her thin face on her thinner hand, Dakin, the black-browed and shifty-eyed, hovering in close attendance.

Stella’s heavy mourning accentuated her unearthly pallor. Even Sir Philip was startled, so deathlike was her appearance, while Lord Carthew’s heart was stirred to infinite pity.

“Poor child!” he murmured. “Poor child!”

Kneeling by her side, he very tenderly, very reverently lifted the hand which hung over the side of the sofa to his lips before he took from his pocket and slipped on her third finger a superb diamond engagement-ring.

“I wish she would awaken and speak to me,” he said, wistfully. “I wanted to ask her about our honeymoon--whether she would like to go at once in my yacht to the Mediterranean, or, as she is so delicate, whether a stay of a few days in the Isle of Wight before setting out on our travels might not be the best thing for her. My father has placed Northborough Castle at my disposal, and it would not be much of a journey from here. Has she been asleep long?” he inquired of Dakin.

The woman was primed with her answer.

“No, my lord, not long. Poor young lady, she was awake all night. She _do_ grieve dreadfully over her mamma’s death; she don’t seem to have the heart to sleep or eat or go out. But she gets a bit excited about her trousseau, my lord. That’s the only thing now that seems to interest her.”

This was a daring flight of fancy on the part of Dakin, for Stella had not even troubled to look at the patterns for materials, the gloves, and shoes, and cloaks, and dresses, which every day brought her.

“She looks dreadfully ill,” said the lover, anxiously. “What does the doctor say?”

“There’s nothing the matter with her but fretting, my lord, and change of scene is bound to cure her in no time.”

“I have brought down a present from my mother to my bride,” Lord Carthew next remarked, drawing a large, flat jeweller’s case from his pocket. “I had hoped to have clasped them round Stella’s neck myself.”

He opened the lid and displayed before Sir Philip’s approving eyes five rows of superb pearls, caught here and there by diamond clasps.

“My mother would like to have presented the gift in person,” he explained, “but when I told her of Stella’s extreme delicacy and nervous depression, she agreed that it would be better not to see her until the wedding-day. She pleaded so hard, however, to be allowed to come to the wedding that I could not refuse her. Of course she perfectly understands how essentially quiet the affair will be, so soon after Lady Cranstoun’s death. I suppose you have made every arrangement for the service to be read in the chapel here?”

“Certainly. It is a little in disrepair and I have workmen employed at this moment in putting it right,” answered Sir Philip. “Only my father-in-law, the Duke of Lanark, will be present besides myself. He has not seen Stella for some time, but she was always his favorite grandchild, and he much desires to be present. Stella is fond of him and glad to have him.”

With much relief Sir Philip saw his future son-in-law depart for town that same evening. He had been dreading lest Stella should unexpectedly awaken and spoil all. Everything was going on as well as could be expected. According to Dakin and Ellen, Stella, although she took no active interest in her trousseau, consented to stand passive while hats and gowns were tried upon her, and made no remark even when she was “fitted” for her wedding-dress. The servants thought that she must be getting reconciled to the idea of the marriage; but as she never spoke, it was difficult for them to pronounce on the subject with certainty. This neutral attitude was at least better than active opposition, and Sir Philip’s heart was elated by hope that nothing would occur to mar the ceremony.

It was the more irritating to him, therefore, when on the night before the wedding eve a strange and ominous dream troubled his repose. He thought that he was standing within some vast cathedral, in which, amid much pomp and magnificence, to the strains of a superb organ, and before the eyes of the highest in the land, the nuptials of his daughter and Lord Carthew were being celebrated. He thought he was giving his daughter away, was standing close by her side and placing her hand within that of her bridegroom, when a cold film seemed to hang across him, and he perceived the spirit of his dead wife Clare, with one hand uplifted in warning, and the other stretched protectingly around her daughter, who seemed unconscious of her presence.

Suddenly the light in the church flickered and paled; people looked at each other, whispering and alarmed. Bride and bridegroom sprang apart, affrighted, and instead of the rich notes of the organ came the shrill, eldritch laughter of the hag Sarah Carewe, as she croaked again in his ears the curse which she had uttered on the day when James Carewe was sentenced for defending his father.

It was a horrible dream, and Sir Philip awoke unnerved and alarmed. At the same hour of the night visions of help and escape hovered over Stella, the memory of which kept her in a fever of excitement throughout the day. Mechanically she let them attire her in her bridal robes in the afternoon, and Sir Philip was sent for to see her in them.

She was white as her dress, and her eyes shone strangely. The look of strain and tension about her face startled her father, suggesting, as it did, a state of mind bordering on insanity. Had these three weeks of solitary confinement been too much for her? he wondered.

“I am glad,” he said, speaking more gently than usual, “to see that you are prepared to accept with pleasure the brilliant fate in store for you.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then disconcerted him by giving vent to a low, mirthless laugh as she turned away.

Alarmed by something unexpected and uncanny in her manner, Sir Philip took Dakin apart, and gave orders that for the rest of the evening Miss Cranstoun was to be closely watched, but allowed apparent liberty of action.

“Does she seem to you at all light-headed?” he asked, and Dakin owned that that idea had occurred to her.

“Let her move about the house,” Sir Philip said, “always, of course, with one or two persons within call. Fretting and starving in that foolish way have pulled her down badly.”

All the watching during that evening, however, fell to Dakin’s share, for handsome Stephen Lee presented himself in the servants’ hall, and made such open love to Ellen that that young woman forgot everything in the joy of her supposed conquest.

Finding that she was able to leave her room unmolested, and remembering well old Sarah’s promise of help on the wedding eve, Stella took the opportunity while her father was at dinner of running lightly down the broad oak staircase toward the hall door. Here she paused a moment, and then suddenly, with trembling fingers and thumping heart, she drew back the bolt of the door.

Dakin was close behind her, although she knew it not; and Dakin followed her young mistress out on the terrace, hiding in the shadow of the doorway, and watched her hesitate a moment, and then speed across the grass to where the woods began, and lose herself among the gathering shadows.