CHAPTER IV.

ENEMIES.

As Lord Carthew approached, the girl ceased playing.

“Is he better?” she asked. “Will my singing disturb him?”

“It will soothe him, I should say. Only a faint sound of it can be heard in his room. He seemed to fall asleep just as I left.”

“Did you tell him,” she asked, with flushed cheeks and lowered lashes, while her fingers strayed over the strings without striking them, “how very, very sorry I am for my thoughtless folly?”

“You are too hard upon yourself,” he said, taking a seat near her, and drinking in every detail of the charming picture before him, “and to ease your mind I will make a confession. My friend and I--or, at least, I can answer for myself--were prompted by impertinent curiosity when we entered your grounds. It was not by accident that we strayed into them, but of malice prepense. The fact is, we are both devoted to horseflesh, and as we rambled about, smoking, in a wood by the wayside, you flashed past us on your black horse, and took a jump which seemed almost impossible. In our admiration and delight, we forgot the rules which hold good with regard to our neighbor’s landmark, and scrambling up the bank and over the wall, and down the bank again, we forced our way through the trees and sighted you again. Your horse was rearing and plunging; by the half light at that distance it seemed as though he had got the bit well between his teeth, and was running away with you, and your scream strengthened that impression. Then came our unlucky interference, and its deplorable result.”

“Did you think that jump impossible?” she asked, turning wide-open eyes upon him. “Zephyr and I often take it. Zephyr can jump almost anything. He goes out of his way to find jumps, and he is never happier than when he finds something that looks difficult.”

“Aren’t your people afraid lest some accident should befall you when you ride about the park unattended?”

“My people?”

She looked at him in surprise as she spoke, and then in some confusion struck several chords lightly on the harp.

“My father is a great deal away,” she said, in a somewhat constrained tone; “and of course, I do not make mamma nervous by telling her the pranks Zephyr and I enjoy together.”

“You are fond of riding?”

“Fond of it!” she repeated, slowly, while her face lit up with sudden enthusiasm; “I could not live without it. After a certain number of hours have passed in the house, my foot seems to tingle to be in the stirrup again, and my fingers burn to take hold of the reins. Whatever the weather it is the same; I want to be away and outside and in it! If I hear the wind wailing and sighing in the trees round the house, I long to feel it whirling round me, blowing sad thoughts away; and even when a thunderstorm is at its height, it seems to draw me like a magnet. I want to be part of the storm, drenched with the rain, wrapped round with the lightning, horse and I both stirred to the last touch of quivering excitement, driven along, with the thunder rumbling and crashing behind us! Then I feel alive and happy--so happy that I can rise in my saddle and scream like a child from sheer delight!”

In the low light where they sat, he could see the faint color come and go in her face as the eager words came softly from her parted lips. Her eyes shone out like sapphire stars and seemed to glow with some inner light. To him she was not a nineteenth century young English lady, but a princess from a fairy tale.

“What would you do,” he asked, half laughing and half tenderly, “if by some accident or illness you were kept a prisoner in the house?”

“I should die--if it were in _this_ house,” she answered quietly, looking straight into his face for the first time. “I suppose to you, who are a stranger here, the Chase appears simply an interesting old historical mansion. To me it seems a prison, haunted by the spirits of all the women who have been unhappy here.”

“You have studied the records and legends of your family, no doubt?”

“They were given to me as soon as I could read. Before I heard of Cinderella and the Sleeping Beauty, I had gone through those horrible tales of treachery and murder, and tyranny. Cranstouns of mediæval times hardly ever died in their beds, and the lives of their ladies were records of martyrdom, except in those cases when they also had some spirit, and turned against their brutal lords. Pride of race, cruelty, cunning, and revengefulness--there you have the dominant notes in the characters and lives of my ancestors, qualities which to me are all equally hateful.”

“Yet if there is anything in heredity, you should be intensely proud of your family on both sides,” he said. “The Douglases are to the full as proud as any Cranstoun can be.”

“But mamma wears her pride with a difference,” she said, quickly. “It is more like the interest any one might take in some heirloom, not because it is something peculiar to herself, and raising her above all other people. It is impossible to imagine any one more gentle and kind than mamma. She suffers a deal, and bears it beautifully. Her heart constantly troubles her, yet she must be in terrible pain before she utters a complaint. I am not a bit like her, I am sorry to say,” she added, humbly. “I shall never have her gentleness, her patience and resignation. When I am angry, I hate--mamma is incapable of hatred. I don’t know how I should have lived at all but for her constant kindness.”

Tears suddenly gathered in Miss Cranstoun’s eyes. Hastily brushing them away, she turned to Lord Carthew with a sweet smile.

“I ought to apologize,” she said, “for my very bad manners in talking of myself and my private affairs to you when I have never met you before to-day. But somehow I hardly feel that you are a stranger.”

She spoke in all simplicity, but the most practised coquette could hardly have chosen words better calculated to heighten the feelings of love and admiration which filled the young man’s heart.

She should be painted just so for the Academy, he was telling himself, seated at her harp, with one little hand showing off the supple wrist, slim fingers, and rosy nails, as it strayed over the strings. But what painter could reproduce her charm, the purity of her eyes and lips, the girlish grace of her form, and especially that light shining round her dilated pupils? Would Millais understand her temperament, and do her justice? Hardly. Sargent might. Yes, it must be painted by Sargent, this picture of a young girl in simple white silk dinner-dress, playing a harp before a hazy background; and the name of the picture should be “Portrait of Viscountess Carthew.”

Meanwhile, he was telling her that so far from boring, her talk had interested him greatly.

“I am honored by what you say,” he said, “when you tell me I do not seem wholly a stranger to you. It is the more amiable of you to treat me with such gracious cordiality as I am not at all in your own sphere of life, but just what is now called a ‘gentleman farmer,’ and in the old days before the term gentleman was invented, was simply yeoman, a name quite good enough for me. Altogether, a poor, struggling, and undistinguished person, whose parents denied themselves every luxury to give him a college education, by which he had not the wits to profit; just capable of those simple and ineffective qualities of gratitude, affection, and loyalty, and capable of very little else, believe me.”

She turned her sweetest smile upon him.

“Do you know,” she said, nodding confidentially towards him, “that I believe that is just the reason why I feel as if we were already friends? All my life I have had the value of birth and rank exaggerated to me. I have been taught to consider myself made of too fine a stuff to associate with any one in the neighborhood. I have never been allowed to play with other children, and when I was a baby child my nurses were constantly changed lest I should get too fond of any one so low and common as a nurse. I have been given the ‘Peerage,’ and the ‘County Families of England,’ and ‘Tales of Aristocratic Families,’ and ‘Legends of Ancestral Houses,’ and similar books, to amuse myself with ever since I could read; my German master was a decayed baron, and my French tutor the son of a marquis. I have always been forbidden to speak to the servants, except to give orders, and they also are very frequently changed. This is particularly so in the case of the lady’s maid who waits upon mamma and me; she never remains longer than a year, usually only a few months, just long enough to learn our ways and suit us. And do you know what the consequence of all this has been? As soon as I could be free from the presence of my nursery-governess--a very stiff person of over fifty, who could not forget she had once been in a duke’s family--I used to run away to my great, bare nursery, and dressing my dolls in rags, would pretend they were peasants, and hop-pickers, and beggars. And especially,” she added, her face lighting up with a mischievous gleam, “I loved making my dolls into poachers and tramps, and, best of all, gypsies. This was sheer naughtiness, I know, because Margaret had once told me that Sir Philip particularly detested gypsies, and that I was never on any account to mention them before him. I used to get up a little play in which a gypsy was unjustly accused of stealing and tried for it before my father, who was represented by a black-faced doll in a red coat. My father would try the gypsy and condemn him to be hanged, and then, just as the sentence was being carried out, a gallant young gentleman doll would come riding up on the shaft of an old wheelbarrow and cut him down. There was no game I enjoyed playing so much as that.”

Lord Carthew laughed with her, but was a good deal touched at the same time. The picture of the lonely child, snubbed and repressed and deprived of all healthy young companionship, secretly planning revolutionary dramas with her dolls, struck him as being equally original and pathetic. Stella Cranstoun’s utter dissimilarity from the young ladies of his acquaintance was a source of great delight to him. Her perfectly clear and distinct enunciation and sweet-toned voice came as a blessed relief after the fashionable high key and slipshod speech in vogue in London at that time, which had been aptly aped by the pretty Braithwaite girls. Stella’s somewhat old-fashioned method of speech, which was that of a well-educated girl who had heard little but read much, and her entire ignorance of slang and absence of self-consciousness, were equally charming to him, The one desire of fashionable women, as he knew well, is to speak, move, dress, and behave in precisely the same style as the known leaders of society. But Stella had no idea that it behooved her to mould herself on some one else’s model; she was consequently altogether modest, natural, and unaffected, and unlike any woman he had ever met before.

As to her strong natural sympathy with the poorer classes, the result, as he imagined, of the repressive system on which she had been reared, he himself affected and believed that he possessed the same quality. Theoretically, he looked upon a costermonger as a man and a brother, and failed to see the use of the House of Lords; practically, he regarded the lower orders as interesting curiosities, and strongly resented the admission of brewers into the peerage. Stella’s republican sympathies would impel her, no doubt, in the direction of soup-kitchens and schools when she became Lady Carthew, and soup-kitchens and schools were very desirable outlets for the generous instincts of a future countess. For under her gentle, graceful manner, it was impossible for any one unacquainted with her earliest history to detect an absolute hatred of aristocratic proclivities; in the granddaughter of a Duke her unconventional sentiments were piquant and interesting, and in no way suggestive of the fierce blood dormant in the veins of the daughter of a gypsy.

Stella herself had not the least suspicion of her Romany descent. Not a servant remaining at the Chase had seen the first Lady Cranstoun, or knew aught of her beyond a brief record in the local papers of her death, eighteen years ago, with the one exception of Margaret. And even Margaret knew very little. Only that on the thirteenth day of December, eighteen years ago, Dr. Ernest Netherbridge and two women had arrived at the Chase, immediately after a farmer’s cart had carried thither a certain bundle, from which feeble cries proceeded. For fully an hour the visitors were closeted with Sir Philip in his study, after which time they left in the carriage and were driven to Grayling railway station, where the two women entered a train for London. Three months later, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, Sir Philip Cranstoun was married to the Lady Gwendolen Douglas, daughter of the Duke of Lanark, a woman of no particular beauty and rather over thirty years of age. The following Christmas the second Lady Cranstoun gave birth to a girl, a weakly creature who, after a few days of wailing remonstrance, faded out of this life altogether. The mind of Lady Cranstoun, never of the strongest order, gave way under the strain; in the care of nurses she was taken by her husband to London, whence she returned in a few months’ time with a lovely dark-haired and blue-eyed baby girl whom she persisted in regarding as her own, in which belief was upheld by her husband, and by all those about her.

Thus the infant child of Clare Carewe the gypsy made her second entry into the house of her ancestors, having been adopted in order to save her stepmother’s wandering wits. For years Sir Philip, after his wife’s complete recovery, hoped against hope that she might yet bring him an heir; but fate was against him, and the gypsy’s child was the only descendant he might now hope to possess.

Against this daughter, lovely and intelligent as she proved herself to be, the Lord of Cranstoun Chase cherished a deep-rooted and immovable dislike, which showed itself in every glance that he directed toward her. The resemblance which she undoubtedly bore to the woman who had defied him and fled from him intensified this feeling a hundredfold, and the girl’s proud if silent rebellion against his harshness and unkindness was a perpetual reminder of the untamable spirit which she had inherited from her Romany ancestors.

He was morbidly fearful, too, lest that bad strain, as he considered it, should some day break out in her, and prompt her to a course of conduct which might bring discredit upon his name. All that could be done in the way of conventional training, carefully supervised reading, and a closely watched and guarded existence, he had resorted to in her training. So far he could complain of nothing in Stella’s conduct, except indeed, the scornful curl of her lip and flashing of her dark eyes when he indulged in any fresh act of petty domestic tyranny. All that man could do to wipe out the disgraceful mistake of his first marriage he had already done. Not only had he chosen for second wife a duke’s daughter and a Douglas, but he had brought up his daughter Stella, the descendant of a long line of wild gypsy Carewes, in the belief that she also was a Douglas by descent, and that the Duke of Lanark’s daughter was her mother.

The excellent understanding which prevailed between Lady Cranstoun and her supposed daughter, so far from pleasing, annoyed and irritated him. The feeling he inspired in his wife was one of absolute terror. To a woman of Lady Cranstoun’s weak and delicate health, the very sound of her husband’s voice was painful. In his presence she was conscious of a guilty and apologetic feeling. He had wished for an heir to keep the estates among his children, and she had failed to give him one; he had never loved her, and now he wished her dead. Stella’s high spirit and determined will seemed a shield between her and her husband’s displeasure, and the two ladies formed a party in the house tacitly opposed to him, although forced to a show of obedience and resignation.

As to the servants at the Chase, there were three women besides Margaret and the lady’s maid, a butler and two footmen. Not one, except Margaret, had been in the house more than two years, and Margaret, the most discreet and silent of women, was retained chiefly because she was able to explain their business to the newcomers, and because of her notable expertness with her needle and as a sick-nurse. But in a household staff of eight, Sir Philip had seldom much difficulty in filling one post, that of spy. A quiet-mannered housemaid named Dakin, noiseless and freckled, and white about the eyelashes, was at present entrusted with the task of acquainting her master, by letter, telegram, or word of mouth, concerning all the details of home life at the Chase, and it was this person who had lit the fire in the bedroom apportioned to Hilary, and who had subsequently listened at the keyhole to scraps of the conversation between the patient and his friend.

The result of her observation she decided to transmit at once to her master, and during dinner she asked and obtained leave of absence from housekeeper Margaret and hurried down toward the lodge gates, close to which an inn and a few cottages were clustered about the small post and telegraph office of the nearest village.

In her pocket Dakin carried a piece of paper upon which a cipher was written, and by the aid of this she dispatched the following message to Sir Philip Cranstoun’s telegraphic address in London:

“This evening Stephen Lee shot a trespasser. Wounded man brought to house, also friend. Wounded man called Lord Carthew; friend called Mr. Pritchard. Staying here to be nursed. Have made discovery. Two men have exchanged names. Wounded man is Pritchard, friend Lord Carthew.

“Dakin.”

While this message was being dispatched to her lord and master in London, Lady Cranstoun was peacefully enjoying her favorite diversion of a game of chess with the doctor. Just after the successful accomplishment of a somewhat difficult move, she remembered that her daughter and Mr. Pritchard were being left altogether in _tête-à-tête_ at the other end of the vast drawing-room. With her fingers nervously touching a bishop, she appealed to her old friend Dr. Graham.

“Ought I to leave Stella with a stranger?” she asked doubtfully. “She has hardly ever talked so much to any one before, and Sir Philip would be furious if there was any idea of a sentimental feeling between Stella and this gentleman. You see, from what he says, he has no money, or family, or anything. Sir Philip is so utterly bent upon Stella making a brilliant marriage. Now if it had been his friend, Lord Carthew--”

“Make your mind easy, my dear lady,” said the doctor, soothingly. “I don’t think there is much fear of any _tendresse_ between Stella and Mr. Pritchard. A little cheerful society will do her good.”

Thus reassured, Lady Cranstoun went on with her game, while Stella naïvely questioned Lord Carthew about his life at Oxford, and he, dropping for the moment his _rôle_ of undistinguished and unintellectual farmer, talked his best to her concerning his way of life and of study at the University.

“And Lord Carthew,” she asked softly; “was he a good scholar?”

“Not particularly. But there was no man like him for the long jump, or for running either, in spite of his size. At cricket, football, rowing, and swimming, it was the same. He was _facile princeps_. A splendid fellow, isn’t he?”

“He is certainly very big. He is not clever, then?”

“Well, there are different sorts of cleverness. He doesn’t care very much for reading if there’s a good horse to be had. And by the way, he himself has a beauty--‘Black Bess,’ a long-neck, powerful creature, who carries him as though he were no heavier than a cat.”

“Is Lord Carthew revengeful?” she asked presently. “I mean, do you think he will ever forgive me?”

“Of course he would, if he had anything to forgive. What makes you dwell upon that idea that he would blame you?”

“I heard what he said to you in the wood,” she answered, blushing deeply.

Lord Carthew hardly knew how to explain away his friend’s harsh words. Already he had been greatly surprised by Hilary’s antagonistic attitude toward. Sir Philip’s lovely daughter, although, perhaps, in his secret heart he was not ill-pleased thereby. Hilary had neither the intention nor the desire to get married, and he was far too handsome to be regarded without alarm as a rival. It was, therefore, by no means a misfortune that he should have taken so strong a dislike against Stella, although Lord Carthew was too loyal not to praise his friend to her in his absence.

That evening was one of the most delightful he had ever experienced. Every moment he fell deeper in love with this beautiful girl, who seemed to realize the ideal of perfect womanhood which he had dreamed of since he had arrived at man’s estate. Her manner to him was frank and friendly, and she so evidently liked his society that he went to bed feeling both hopeful and elated. Yet when the subject of his thoughts retired to her own room, it is to be feared that Lord Carthew’s image by no means occupied her mind.

The windows of her bedroom, large, gloomy, and scantily furnished like the rest of the house, were open, and a flood of moonlight poured into the room. Stella walked toward it, and stood within its silver radiance, with delicate face upturned toward the stars.

“He must have disliked me very much to speak like that,” she murmured, as she slowly began to unfasten her gown, without lighting the candles on her dressing-table. “Will he ever forgive me, I wonder? I could ask his pardon better if he were not what he is; if he and that kind Mr. Pritchard could only change places!”

A sudden thought struck her, and caused her to quickly fasten her dress again. Crossing the room she opened her bedroom door and listened. There was no sound in the wide corridor, in which Lady Cranstoun’s rooms as well as her daughter’s were situated. At the other end was the guest-chamber assigned to the wounded man, while Dr. Graham and Lord Carthew occupied rooms in another part of the house.

After a moment’s hesitation Stella ran lightly to the room occupied by Hilary and tapped at the door, which was at once opened, as she expected, by Margaret.

“How is he?” Stella whispered.

“He’s wandering, miss. Dr. Graham and the other young gentleman came to see him, and he seemed asleep then, though the doctor didn’t quite like the looks of him. But now he seems delirious, and if he gets worse I must rouse the doctor. You needn’t fear to look in; he won’t recognize you.”

Hilary’s face was flushed, and his brown eyes glittered unnaturally as he muttered under his breath an unintelligible string of words and tossed his head from side to side on the pillow.

Tears started to Stella’s eyes as she watched him.

“Margaret,” she said suddenly, “shall I try to soothe him with my touch on his forehead? I always charm away mamma’s headaches.”

Margaret shook her head doubtfully.

“I don’t suppose you’ll have much effect,” she said, “but there’s no harm in your trying.”