CHAPTER VIII.

AN OLD FRIEND.

Father and daughter faced each other under the delicate spring foliage, both pale, set, and determined.

Sir Philip spoke first.

“If Lord Carthew has done you the honor to ask you to marry him,” he said, “you will most certainly accept him.”

“That I shall never do,” she answered, her heart beating high with excitement at her own temerity.

“What imbecile school-girl freak is this?” he asked, harshly. “This morning you were encouraging him.”

“I did not know my own mind this morning,” she said, blushing deeply; “and I did not know Lord Carthew’s real position. He belongs to a class I greatly dislike.”

“He belongs to the class from which your husband will come, or you will die an old maid. You have been reared, trained, educated, solely for this end, and you will be presented at Court next month as Viscountess Carthew on her marriage.”

“I will never marry Lord Carthew.”

He took her roughly by the shoulder. He hated her proud, pale face, so like her dead mother’s at that moment that he could almost hear Clare’s voice speaking to him from the dead. He longed to strike those firmly shut lips, to bring a look of fear into those dauntless eyes. But he contented himself by gripping her shoulder with all his strength, so that for days afterward five dark bruise-marks showed the clutch of his cruel fingers.

“You have never yet set your will up in opposition to mine,” he said, in a low voice. “And I warn you not to try. In dealing with me it is better to bend, to avoid being broken. Go back to the house now, to your own room, and think over what I have said. Before this month is over you will marry Lord Carthew.”

“That I shall never do!”

Her voice rang out in clear defiance, accentuated a little by the sharp pain of his grasp upon her arm. He threw her roughly off, and proceeded on his walk through the grounds, while she retraced her steps, trembling with indignation and anger, toward the house. As she emerged from among the trees, she came upon Stephen Lee, the keeper. His face was flushed, and his eyes shone so strangely that the idea occurred to her that he must have been drinking, and she was walking quickly past him when he stopped her.

“I beg your pardon, miss. But may I make so bold as to ask whether he--Sir Philip, I mean--was hurting you in any way just now? It seemed to me he gripped your arm that tight he must have hurt you.”

“My father, do you mean?” Stella asked in cold surprise. “Certainly not, Stephen. Why did you ask such a thing?”

“Because,” answered Stephen, with a sudden half-suppressed savagery of manner, “if he laid a finger upon you to really hurt you like, I’d shoot him down like a dog!”

“You must be mad!” the girl exclaimed, with a fine mixture of pity and disdain. “Quite mad!”

“Maybe, miss. But not so mad as you think, and not so much beneath you as you think, neither. Anyway, I’m not too mad to have heard and understood every word as you and Sir Philip were saying just now under the trees. And if you are going to be tormented by this Lord Carthew as I shot in the shoulder--lord or no lord, I’d put another lot of shot through him as soon as look at him.”

Stella was intensely surprised by the man’s method of address, and still inclined to the belief that he had probably been drinking. But it occurred to her on the instant that there might be danger to the man she loved in allowing Stephen to continue in the dark as to his identity.

“The gentleman who was wounded by your clumsiness last night was not Lord Carthew, but a friend of his, named Mr. Pritchard,” she said. “And please understand, Stephen, that the interest you appear to take in my affairs is neither pleasant nor desirable to me. I must ask you to say no more on the subject, and not to offend in this way again.”

The young man ground his teeth with anger as she passed him on her way to the house, with heightened color, and her proud little head more erect than usual.

“I oughtn’t to ha’ said so much,” he muttered to himself, as he watched her. “But when I see the gray wolf grip her shoulder, I could ha’ murdered him. It would take her haughtiness down a bit to learn as she and me are second cousins, come of the same old gypsy stock. But Granny Sarah will tell her the truth some day, she swears, and bring her pride a peg lower. Sarah’s got some deep game in her wicked old head lately; I can see that by her nods and grins, and mutterings to herself. She and Uncle James are hatching a plot together, I’ll be bound; and between them they’ll serve the gray wolf out, if they swing for it!”

Lord Carthew was still chatting comfortably with Lady Cranstoun in the library when Stella returned to the house. On the floor above, she noticed in passing that the two rooms which had been used by Hilary were wide open and empty. Her heart sank at the sight, and she turned eagerly toward Margaret, whom she saw approaching down the corridor.

“Has he gone?” the girl asked, anxiously. “And when did he go? And oh, Margaret, do you think it was safe for him to be moved yet?”

“Of course it wasn’t safe,” the woman answered, rather crossly. “But, dear me, when young gentlemen get notions in their heads there’s no stopping them. If you’ll come into your room, miss, I notice the hem of your dress is frayed, and I’ll see to it for you.”

Stella passed into her bedroom, and Margaret, following her, carefully closed the door. Then she came over to where her young mistress stood, and whispered in her ear:

“There’s spies about. One can’t be too careful. Here’s a bit of a note was left for you. Read it, while I pretend to see to your dress.”

With trembling fingers, Stella tore open the envelope, and read the following words, written in pencil on a half-sheet of paper:

“Good-by, my dear and only love. Try to forgive me. And forget me as fast as possible. I shall think of you always, but as of one far above me, meant to make some better fellow happy. I must not see you again, and I must not write to you. It would not be fair or honest. Good-by, dear, again.

“Hilary.”

Stella gave a little cry of pain.

“Where has he gone, Margaret?” she whispered, while the tears started to her eyes. “To London, or to Yorkshire? Can you tell me?”

“He didn’t say a word, miss; but he seemed in a great hurry to get off. If I was you I wouldn’t trouble my head about him. Handsome is as handsome does, _I_ say.”

“Surely he ought not to be alone. Lord Carthew should go after him!” Stella exclaimed. “I must speak to him!”

She made a quick movement toward the door, and then checked herself. It was impossible, she felt, to face Lord Carthew at this moment. She had forgotten until now her half-promise of the morning, but it recurred to her as she realized the difficulty of explaining to the Viscount the knowledge she possessed of Hilary’s movements. She must trust to chance for Lord Carthew to find out that his friend had left the house. Meantime, resentment against her father kept her from going downstairs lest she should meet him. Anxiety on Hilary’s account made her restless. Putting on her hat and cloak, she ran lightly downstairs at about five o’clock, and stealthily out by the front entrance. The wind had freshened, and a little rain was blown into her face. She hurried on beneath the thickly planted trees in the park, urged by she knew not what impulse, until, as she neared the lodge gates, she met coming in her direction a horsey-looking man, whom she at once recognized as the hostler of the inn where Hilary’s Black Bess and Lord Carthew’s chestnut cob were put up.

The man recognized her and touched his cap. She stopped him at once.

“Are you going to the house?” she asked. “Have you a message for some one? And has anything happened?”

“Well, miss, the fact is that Lord Carthew, one of the young gentleman as was staying up at the Chase, we think as he’d got a bit of fever over his wound, for about two o’clock this afternoon in he staggers to the inn-yard all alone, and pale as a co’pse. ‘Hullo, my lord, is it you?’ I begins, being the first to see him, when he cuts me short like, telling me it ain’t his name, and that he’s called plain Mr. Pritchard. Then he orders me to saddle Black Bess at once, and be quick about it. I thought he looked a bit queer and feverish, so I makes a long job of it, but I had to get it through at last. When mounted, he was that weak he could hardly hold the reins, but he chucks me a sovereign and rides out of the yard, sitting as upright as you or me could do--begging your pardon, miss. I felt sort of anxious about him, but I’d a deal of work on hand, being market-day in Grayling, when about an hour later who should come clattering back into the yard but bonny Black Bess, with her master hanging half unconscious over her neck, and his shoulder all covered with blood, owing to his wound having broken out again. I never did see a sensibler animal nor that mare. It’s my belief that Lord Carthew had nothing to do with it, but that that there animal’s own instinct told him to make the best of his way back to us. My master, he wanted to drive his lordship back here to the Chase, miss; but Lord Carthew, he was conscious by that time, and he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Send for a doctor,’ he said; ‘any one about here will do. Let him patch up this wretched scratch so that I can get on with my journey to London.’ So, as they couldn’t spare me, our boy was sent to Grayling in the cart to fetch Dr. Netherbridge, as has been settled in the town twenty years or more, and is a very good doctor as doctors go, though I don’t much believe in ’em myself. The boy he couldn’t find the doctor at first, and when at last he brings him, his lordship was pretty bad, particular when he was called by his own name. Dr. Netherbridge he takes the boss aside and asks him a few questions. Then he says, ‘Send some sensible person to the Chase to inform Lord Carthew’s friend of his condition.’ Says the boss, hemming and ha’ing, ‘Sir Philip’s my landlord,’ he says, ‘and I don’t want to be party to nothing that’ll put his back up. He’s a very difficult gentleman to deal with.’ Says Dr. Netherbridge, with a queer sort o’ smile to himself like, ‘I don’t need to be told,’ says he, ‘of what Sir Philip Cranstoun is like. I’ve had some dealings with him a good many years ago. Don’t send a message by a boy,’ he says, ‘but by some one you can trust.’ With that the boss asks me to do the office, as I ain’t specially afraid of anything, living or dead, miss, saving your presence, and away I comes.”

They were nearing the lodge gates now, Stella having turned in that direction as soon as the man had arrived at his recital of what had befallen Hilary.

“I will come with you,” she said, in tones that allowed of no opposition. “I must see how he is. He is my mother’s guest, and it was partly my fault that the accident happened to him. He stopped my horse last night, thinking it was running away with me, and one of the keepers fired to frighten him and accidentally hit him. And what he says about his name is not a proof of fever, but perfectly true. Lord Carthew, his friend, had changed names with him in jest; his name is Mr. Hilary Pritchard.”

“Well, young gentlemen are up to queer larks certainly,” the man observed, but Stella’s manner did not encourage him to talk, and she walked so fast that it was all he could do to hasten his slow, bow-legged, stableman’s gait sufficiently to keep up with her.

Dusk was falling fast as they reached the inn. Before the door stood the light cart in which the doctor had arrived, ready for his return journey. Already Stella was beginning to feel nervous and self-conscious, as she noted the curious glances of the farming folk gathered under the old-fashioned arched entrance to the yard. The bar stood on one side of the building, the coffee-room on the other; the latter room was empty as Miss Cranstoun was shown into it, and she glanced around in some curiosity. It was a low-ceilinged apartment of considerable antiquity, but marred and vulgarized by a cheap varnished paper above the dark wood wainscoting round the walls, by flaming gas-jets, the light from which flickered on colored prints of racing scenes and tradesmen’s calendars, and by a small, mean fireplace, totally inadequate to the size of the room.

A man’s gloves and walking-stick lay on the long wooden table, stained with the rings left by glasses and pots, and almost as soon as Stella entered the room a gentleman came in hastily to claim them.

The newcomer was short and pale, with brown hair and beard plentifully streaked with gray, and a face redeemed from plainness by thoughtful and penetrating blue eyes.

He came in with his hat on, but at sight of Stella he removed it, exclaiming as he did so, in evident surprise:

“Miss Cranstoun!”

“That is my name. Do you know me?”

“I knew you directly, by your remarkable likeness to your mother,” he answered, and then suddenly stopped and blushed very red.

For he had seen the look of astonishment in her face, and remembered that every one in Grayling supposed Miss Cranstoun to be the daughter of Lady Gwendolen, a rumor which, as he had never seen the young lady, he was not in a position to discredit, though he often wondered what had been the fate of the infant girl whom he himself had seen conveyed to her father’s house and sent away from thence in the nurse’s care, one winter’s morning eighteen years ago.

The mystery was solved now. She stood there before him, a slimmer, more fairy-like, and more refined version of her mother; even her voice, in its rich, soft intonation, recalled to his mind the unhappy Clare Lady Cranstoun.

“No one has ever called me like my mother before,” she was saying. “I did not know you had ever met her. She is a great invalid.”

“What can I do for you now?” he asked, to change the dangerous subject.

“A man from the stables here met me in the park,” she answered, her color rising high, “and told me of an accident to a gentleman who was staying at our house last night. I suppose you know all about it--about how it happened, I mean, and how the wound broke out again. You have just come from seeing him, have you not? How is he? Pray tell me!”

Dr. Ernest Netherbridge was a man of extremely observant mind, and he drew his own conclusions from the evident interest shown by the young lady before him for the handsome young giant upstairs.

“He is very feverish, and has a nasty wound in the shoulder, which has not been improved by the shaking and jolting he has gone through to-day. I understand that he was your father’s guest last night?”

“My father has never seen him; he only returned home to-day, and Mr. Pritchard left before luncheon. He seemed very anxious to get back to London,” faltered Stella, conscious that she was blushing crimson under the steady gaze of Dr. Netherbridge’s blue eyes. “You have not told me yet whether there is any danger, and whether--whether I can see him.”

“I should not say there was any absolute danger except the risk that fever might supervene after the very unwise exertions of to-day. I intended going myself to Grayling to fetch a reliable nurse of my acquaintance. As to seeing him----” he paused, and looked at her doubtfully. “May I ask,” he inquired, abruptly, “whether the sight of you is likely to disturb him?”

She blushed deeper still.

“It might perhaps excite him a little,” she stammered; “but I would be very quiet, and would not speak more than you let me.”

“I am afraid it would be inadvisable,” said the little doctor, shaking his head. “Quiet is so essential. With rest and care, and obedience to orders, he ought to be as right as possible within a week. But any excitement to-night might produce the worst possible effect.”

Tears started to Stella’s eyes.

“Dr. Netherbridge,” she said, humbly, “I have an idea that I shall not have another opportunity of seeing Mr. Pritchard, perhaps, for a very long time. If I write something on a slip of paper, will you let him have it when he is better, and will you yourself tell him that I came, and that I may not be allowed to do so again? And may I see him just for one moment, without his seeing me?”

The doctor reflected a moment.

“He was sitting in an arm-chair when I left him,” he said. “He had refused strenuously to go to bed, and persisted in declaring he must get on to London to-night. If you will promise not to let your presence be known, you might come with me now, and see him at least.”

She stole up the stairs after the doctor, her heart beating wildly. Before a half-open door on the floor above he paused, and beckoned to her to join him. She was so much taller than he that she easily saw over his shoulder into the room. Hilary was leaning back in an old chintz-covered arm-chair. His coat was half off, and his wounded arm was resting in a sling fastened round his neck. His eyes were closed, and his brows contracted as if in pain. Tears rolled down Stella’s face as she looked at him. The room was lit by a single candle, and where she stood she was in semi-darkness, and undistinguishable. Something seemed to tell her that it might be long, very long, before she looked upon his face again, and that this love which had so suddenly sprung up within her heart was destined to be “tried by pain” indeed. A sob rose in her throat, and turning quickly away, that it might not be overheard by Hilary, she groped her way down to the coffee-room through her tears, and taking pen and paper from a side table, she scribbled the following lines:

“Please write to me. I have just seen you, but dared not let you know I was here. Please do not forget me, for I shall not forget you. And pray do not leave off loving me, for I cannot leave off loving you.

“Stella Cranstoun.”

She folded the note, placed it in an envelope addressed to “Hilary Pritchard, Esq.,” and placed it in Dr. Netherbridge’s hands.

“You will give it to him, won’t you?” she asked, and he promised.

“Thank you, Dr. Netherbridge, and good-by!”

“You are surely not returning to the Chase alone? It must be half an hour’s walk, and it is so late.”

“Twenty minutes, as I walk it. And it isn’t half-past six yet. I will send Lord Carthew to his friend. Good-night!”

Before he could say another word she had fled from the room, passed swiftly out from the arched entrance to the inner yard on to the road, and disappeared in a bend of the way, leaving Dr. Netherbridge to ponder on the strange chance which had made him acquainted with the girl whom he had first seen as a helpless infant of not more than two days old, more than eighteen years before.