CHAPTER XVIII.

THE WEDDING JOURNEY.

“Go to Grayling Station, and get into the two o’clock Portsmouth train with Lord C. and me.”

Such was the message, scrawled in a shaky handwriting, on the scrap of paper thrust by the bride into Stephen Lee’s hand.

It perplexed him beyond measure, but it seemed to him that her will was law, and he must obey. For more than five years he had cherished a dog-like devotion, of which she had been apparently quite unconscious. Yet now she wanted him, and he could not choose but obey her orders. First, however, he must contrive to show the paper to old Sarah, and this he succeeded in doing while the bridal party were leaving the church, at which time the crowd had eyes for none but the chief actors in the ceremony.

Quickly running her eye over the bit of paper he had slipped into her hand, for the old woman’s sight was excellent in spite of her years, Sarah grinned in intense and evident amusement as she thrust it back upon him. Stephen was angry with her for her inexplicable merriment, but there was no time for controversy now; and abruptly leaving the group about the doors, he strode away in the direction of Grayling.

“Your daughter’s a handsome girl, sir,” the Duke observed to Sir Philip Cranstoun, as he and his host, with Lady Northborough and her son, sat in the vast and gloomy dining-hall of the Chase, facing that sardonic gray portrait in armor which had so greatly interested Lord Carthew on the occasion of his first visit to the house--“a very fine girl indeed. And I don’t wonder that Carthew here had his head turned. Can’t think where she gets her looks from. You’re not a beauty yourself, Cranstoun, and we Douglases have never been good-looking. Only known her a month, eh, Carthew? Well, well, marry in haste and repent at leisure, you know!”

“Now, Duke, you are just too cruel!” exclaimed Lady Northborough, as the old gentleman wheezed with elderly laughter over his own humor. “Stella is quite too lovely, and would certainly have been the most beautiful _débutante_ at the Drawing-Room this year but for her unhappy mourning. Now mind, Claud, dear, that you get her quite well at Northborough Castle, and on the yacht. Though, really, she doesn’t look a bit ill now; but that’s on account of her lovely complexion.”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” persisted the old gentleman, teasingly. “Cranstoun, I am a judge of character, and I shouldn’t be surprised if Carthew here had caught a Tartar in your child and my granddaughter.”

For the first time in his life, Sir Philip seemed to have lost his gift of bitter speech. The Duke of Lanark’s words filled him neither with indignation nor amusement, but with something approaching alarm. The Stella he had always known, with her sensitiveness, refinement, and proud self-control, seemed to have altered into something strange and fierce, wholly beyond his influence. This impression deepened when she presently entered the room, in her going-away costume of soft gray crape, and gray velvet cape trimmed with gray ostrich feathers, which last also adorned her large, shady hat. It had seemed unlucky to start a honeymoon in black, so for the time her mourning for her mother had been mitigated by this very becoming compromise.

The new Viscountess Carthew was buttoning one of her long gray Suède gloves as she came in. She stopped in her employment at the threshold of the dining-room, and gazed with a sort of bold, amused curiosity at the group who sat discussing an elegant lunch of old wines and cold viands at the other end of the room. Her bridegroom hurried to meet her, followed by the Duke of Lanark.

“Allow me, my dear,” the latter said, and deftly fastened the button, while almost at the same time he clasped round her wrist a magnificent bangle of rubies and diamonds.

“From your grandmother and myself,” he said, with a courtly bow.

She flushed with pleasure, and her wonderful eyes sparkled at sight of the jewels. She was almost as tall as he, and seemed to tower over her bridegroom, her father, and little Lady Northborough, who tripped up to her, full of compliments and admiration.

Under a thin gray net veil the bride looked more beautiful than ever, and Claud found himself wondering why he had never before noted the wonderful tints of her skin, where the whites and reds were indeed “cunningly laid on” by Nature’s lavish hand. She was strangely silent, though, and hardly spoke one word in reply to Lady Northborough’s fluent effusiveness. As to her father, she pointedly ignored him, and every one present noted with a shock of surprise that when, at the very last moment of leaving her home, as she stood on the terrace steps before entering the carriage, Sir Philip took her hand and would have kissed her cheek, she drew sharply back, and laughed in a way not pleasant to hear.

The next moment she had sprung lightly into the open carriage, and Lord Carthew, after taking an affectionate leave of his mother, got in beside her, the signal was given to the coachman, the gray horses started at a brisk pace, and without rice, or satin slippers, or any other harbingers of good luck in their rear, the bridal pair started on their journey.

Lord Carthew was very loath to begin his married life with fault-finding. But his bride’s conduct on the steps had startled and shocked him.

“I am sorry, dearest,” he said, gently, “that you did not part friends from Sir Philip.”

She turned her head sharply, and looked straight into his eyes under the brim of her shady gray hat.

“_I hate him!_” she whispered, emphatically, drawing her full red lips back from her white teeth, with a grimace which had something animal in its ferocity.

He felt startled and chilled by the sight. He knew quite well that Stella did not love her father. In her frank and naïve confidences, she had acknowledged this, but always with regret. To-day, with her beauty enhanced by what seemed a sudden and astonishing return to bodily health, she seemed already to have lost some of the womanly charm which had gone as far to win his heart as her personal attraction.

Even before the bridal pair had entered the train at Grayling Station, Lord Carthew began to be glad of his bride’s silence.

So long as she sat by his side without speaking, beautiful as a poet’s dream, he could go on attributing to her all kinds of ideal qualities. But, although he would hardly yet acknowledge it even to himself, when she spoke she dispelled the illusion.

Not only did she display the utmost vindictiveness on the mention of her father’s name, but she appeared hardly to listen when he spoke to her of his mother, and of the latter’s admiration for his bride; and when he went on to descant on the beauties of the scenery in which they were going to pass the first days of the honeymoon, she cut him short by saying, abruptly, that she would “sooner go to London.”

Her voice jarred upon him. Hitherto he had admired its melodious accents--to-day they sounded hoarse and rough, and he inquired anxiously if she had taken a chill.

“No,” she answered, staring vacantly at him. “Why do you ask?”

“Your voice sounded a little strained and hoarse to me.”

“I have a bad cold,” she said, quickly. “I did not like to worry you about it before. I caught it last night. Sir Philip had kept me a prisoner in my room ever since my mother’s death, and last night while dew and rain were falling I managed to give them all the slip and ran into the wood. I got my feet wet, lost my voice, and have been feeling queer ever since.”

This was the longest speech she had made that day. Lord Carthew listened to it, trying in vain to catch the sweet cadences of the voice which he had loved so well. In some way, for which he was at a loss to account, the soul seemed to have gone out of the girl beside him, leaving only the beautiful body behind it.

He tried to think that she was nervous in her new position, and hoped that time and companionship would bring back that frank confidence which had so much delighted him. But meantime he also relapsed into silence, which was hardly broken until they reached the railway station at Grayling.

Here they were met by Lord Carthew’s valet, and Lady Northborough’s maid, lent by the Countess to her daughter-in-law for the honeymoon on account of her exceptional tact and cleverness. Lady Carthew’s bright eyes, glancing about beyond these persons, sought for Stephen Lee, and perceived him at length by the third-class portion of the train.

Dispatching Lord Carthew for a book, she beckoned to Stephen, who, flushed and confused, came at her bidding.

“I shall take you on as my groom,” she said. “You shall leave the Chase, and enter my service.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“We’re a bit late for the train, and can’t talk here,” she said, her restless eyes roving about the platform. “When the train stops at Peterstone, come to my carriage.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Stephen retired as Lord Carthew returned, book in hand, and assisted his bride into a luxurious saloon which he had reserved for their use on the journey.

“Was not that the keeper who shot poor Hilary I saw you speaking to just now?” he asked, carelessly, as the train began to start, while he was still arranging on the table the baskets of flowers which had been prepared by the station-master as a compliment to Sir Philip’s daughter.

“Yes; Stephen Lee. He taught me to ride, and I want him in my service now as a groom. He’s in this train.”

Lord Carthew did not speak for a few moments. He was, indeed, too much surprised at first to make any remark.

“Is it by your wish that the man is coming by this train?” he asked, at length, in a constrained voice.

She nodded.

“Yes. I have engaged him, and I thought he might as well come along now.”

“The fact is,” he said, after another pause, “I have a not unnatural prejudice against the fellow who was clumsy enough to have wounded my friend. I own, too, I don’t like the appearance of the man. There is a surly, gypsy-like look about him, which sets me against him.”

She turned and looked at him critically, a mocking light shining in her eyes.

“You don’t like his looks?” she repeated. “Well, in _my_ opinion, he’s a lot better looking than _you_ are.”

Lord Carthew flushed with annoyance.

Was this his ideal Lady of Shalott, this the girl like a fairy princess come to life, all poetry, romance, and charm? She looked back at him, full in the eyes. Suddenly her face changed, and seemed to grow softer, and more what used formerly to appear to him.

“I was only laughing,” she said, in a very low voice. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me to-day. I think I am over-excited, and too glad to get away from that dreary prison, which the Chase has been to me. Why do you look at me in that shocked sort of way? Are you sorry you married me now that you have got me safe?”

Before he could answer, she had taken off her large hat and veil. Without them she looked more beautiful than ever, with the naturally waving and silky curls of her blue-black hair framing her exquisite face. Coming nearer to him, she nestled her head on his shoulder with a spontaneous gesture of affection, and lifting her long, soft eyes to his, she inclined her red lips toward his face in a little _moue_, irresistible in so beautiful a woman.

Lord Carthew was only a man, and in an instant he had forgotten all that she had said and done amiss in his delight at her unexpected tenderness. In a transport of passionate love, he pressed her in his arms, and repeatedly kissed her lips, her eyes and cheeks, and the soft curls about her brow.

“How adorably beautiful you are, my darling!” he exclaimed, as he caressed her face with his hand. “It is strange that I never until to-day realized your wonderful loveliness. You were always so pale, but to-day you have a color like a _la France_ rose, and eyes that will make your diamonds look dowdy and dull. Have you the least idea how beautiful you are, Stella?”

She smiled for answer, and appeared pleased at his kisses and caresses. It was not until afterward that her ready affection struck him as unusual in a girl of her training. At the time, being very much in love, he was too much delighted to analyze her conduct.

At Peterstone Station there was a stoppage of a few minutes, and Lady Carthew, who was intensely restless, ran to the window, looked up and down the platform, and then suddenly turning on her bridegroom, informed him that she was longing for a cup of tea.

“I will tell Trevor,” he said, and was hurrying to the window to summon his servant when she laid her hands on his arm.

“I would rather you fetched it me yourself,” she said, coaxingly. “I shall not enjoy it from any one else.”

Thus adjured, Lord Carthew could do nothing less than spring out of the carriage at once to carry out his lady’s behests. The moment he had gone, his bride stretched herself, yawned, arranged her hair at the looking-glass, and then leaned out of the window again. As she expected, Stephen Lee stood a little way down the line, watching her saloon, and she motioned with her hand for him to join her.

All the other passengers by the Portsmouth train were fully aware that Lord Northborough’s heir was travelling toward his father’s seat, in the Isle of Wight, on his honeymoon journey with Sir Philip Cranstoun’s daughter. The rank of the pair and the extreme beauty of the bride naturally attracted many curious glances in the direction of the saloon, and at Peterstone several of their more inquisitive fellow-travellers left their seats in order to stroll about the platform, in the hope of getting a good look at the newly made Viscountess Carthew.

The bride herself appeared utterly indifferent to their scrutiny. She was sitting by the open door of the saloon, talking in low and, as it appeared, familiar tones with a handsome, black-bearded man in the dress of a gamekeeper, and her conversation, could the bystanders have heard it, would have considerably surprised them.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Stephen,” she was saying. “You know we are cousins. Old grandmother Sarah told me so. It’s a relief to look at a handsome man after being shut up in this carriage with that little monkey of a Carthew.”

Stephen stared at her in undisguised astonishment, but she only laughed.

“Well, isn’t he ugly?” she asked, and began to mimic the slight nervous twitching of the facial muscles which characterized Lord Carthew in moments of excitement. “Now, if he was like _you_,” she added, looking straight into the young gypsy’s eyes with a long, soft glance, “perhaps I shouldn’t get so bored over his compliments and his love-making.”

Sarah Carewe’s prophecy was certainly coming true. And yet, such is the contrary disposition of men, Stephen, who had for years passionately longed for the right to address one word, one look of love, toward his young mistress, felt a shock of disappointment, and even of disgust, when she thus went out of her way to lower herself to his level, and hardly knew how to answer her.

She had closed the saloon door, and was leaning out of the window, whispering something to Stephen, with her cheek actually touching his, when Lord Carthew returned with the tea. At first he could hardly believe his eyes when they rested upon his bride and her father’s servant in this familiar and even affectionate converse. It seemed too horrible, too degrading, to be true that here, under the gaze of grinning railway porters and curious and amused third-class passengers, his wife, his lovely, refined and innocent Stella, was publicly flirting with her father’s gamekeeper on a railway platform at three o’clock in the afternoon of her wedding-day! But the evidence of his eyes could not be doubted, and if anything were needed to acquaint Lord Carthew with the extent of his misfortune, Lady Carthew’s next words, which he plainly overheard, would have done so.

“Well, I wish you could change places with him, Stephen.”

“Stand out of my way, if you please!”

The words, very quietly uttered immediately behind him, made Stephen start. But the bride merely laughed as she saw her husband’s white face, and heard his voice, in hard, level tones, suggesting that she should sit farther away from the door, as her movements were being watched by a crowd.

“I like a crowd,” she said insolently.

“_I_ do not,” he returned, closing the door, drawing up the window, and placing the tea upon the table before her.

Stephen Lee strolled back to his own compartment, but his indifference was only assumed. He was utterly dazed and puzzled. “’Tis some trick of old Sarah’s,” he kept on repeating to himself, and his bewilderment was so great that he hardly troubled his mind by surmises as to what would pass between the bride and bridegroom, left alone together again after the episode of the station.

What did actually happen became a fruitful topic for society newspapers for many, many months afterward.

Lord Carthew’s face was fixed like a mask as he seated himself on the opposite side of the carriage to his bride, while the train began slowly moving out of the station. It vexed him that presently he could not control that nervous twitching at this moment when he needed all his firmness, all his dignity. He could not speak to her, for with all his radical notions he was essentially a proud man, with a very high ideal of womanhood, and a still higher ideal of the position and duties of the woman he had chosen for his wife. Her conduct filled his mind with the utmost dismay, and a sensation of strong repulsion against her began to overmaster him.

“Are you cross?” she asked at last, lightly, breaking the silence. “I only mean to tease you.”

“Stella,” he exclaimed in desperation, “are you mad? Are you not capable of appreciating the value of your own actions, or has grieving over your recent loss turned your brain? Do you understand that you are my wife, Lady Carthew, that my honor is yours, and that it is outraging my name and your own reputation to make yourself a laughing-stock for station idlers by vulgar familiarity with one of your father’s servants? Stella, I can hardly believe it possible that I should have to address such words to _you_; _you_, whom I have reverenced as the most innocent, most refined of women! You cannot surely know what you are doing; fever must have mounted to your brain--great Heaven! If I thought you were truly responsible for such coarse and immodest behavior, I would never willingly look upon your face again!”

He had risen in his excitement, and stood staring across at her, noting with ever-increasing wonder and disgust the way in which she leaned forward, with her elbow on the table, and her face resting on her right hand, while with her left she drummed an impatient tattoo in front of her.

She looked up at him, furtively.

“Am I to understand,” she asked, “that you hope I’m mad?”

“You are to understand,” he broke out, passionately, “that only temporary insanity would, in my eyes, excuse your revolting conduct.”

“Well,” she cried, suddenly opening the carriage-door, “here goes for a little more insanity! I’m tired of you already. By-by, dearest!”

On the last word, to Lord Carthew’s horror, she sprang from the open door of the now rapidly moving train, and was lost to sight almost immediately as the engine entered a tunnel.

To communicate with the guard was hopeless until the train had passed through, by which time, after a prolonged search, Lord Carthew realized that in this particular carriage the communicator was missing.

His nerves were stunned by the unexpectedness of the blow. That Stella was mad, he had now not the slightest doubt, but this conviction did not decrease his anxiety on her account. An overwhelming dread, too, of the scandal which her crazy conduct would cause, increased his mental disquiet. What if his unfortunate bride were crushed to pieces, or maimed for life by her terrible leap! It seemed impossible that she could escape some such fate, for he could not even say for certain that she had jumped clear of the tunnel. The train was an express from this point to Portsmouth, and every moment the speed was increasing. He tried thrusting his head through the window of the saloon, and endeavored to attract the guard’s attention; but the wind, driving through his hair, and seeming to cut his face as the express darted on, blew his cries in the other direction. All that he could do was to draw down the blinds of the saloon so that Lady Carthew’s disappearance should not be noted by curious passers-by when the train stopped, and to possess his soul with such patience as he might until Portsmouth was reached at last.

Arrived there, he summoned the guard and the station-master, pledged them to secrecy, and informed them of the disastrous accident by which his bride, leaning against an imperfectly closed door, had been precipitated on to the line, not far from Peterstone Station.

Instantly the telegraph wires were set at work, but no trace of the missing bride could be found at first, until a telegram, addressed to Lord Carthew, care of station-master, Portsmouth, and sent from Clapham Junction Station, was handed in to the distracted husband.

The message ran:

“Off to London. Stella Carthew.”