STELLA.
By half-past six Lord Carthew and Hilary, having finished their
improvised meal, strolled down the country road together, smoking,
glad to stretch their legs after being so long in the saddle.
The former especially was in high glee because of mine host’s
deferential manner toward Hilary when he was told by Claud that his
name was Lord Carthew.
“Until that moment, as you saw,” he exclaimed, “the eggs and bacon and
cold beef were supposed to be quite good enough for us. But as soon as
the good man found that you had what cockneys call ‘a handle to your
name,’ he promptly started profuse and tiresome apologies. It’s such a
relief to have that sort of rubbish lavished on you instead of on me.”
“I think you make an absurd fuss about trifles,” observed Hilary,
calmly.
One great reason for the warm affection cherished by “mad Lord
Carthew” for his friend was Hilary’s utter absence of either arrogance
or toadyism. The sturdy Yorkshire independence of young Pritchard
never degenerated into the roughness which sometimes characterizes
Northerners. He was proud of his family in his way. The Pritchards had
farmed their own land for over two hundred and fifty years, and their
present homestead had been built in the days of Elizabeth. Lord
Carthew had had to make the first advances toward friendship, but once
he had succeeded in winning Hilary’s respect and liking, the latter
was too sensible to withdraw proudly from his companionship because he
was not his equal in social position.
“You worry about things, trifles as it seems to me, in such an
extraordinary way,” he said. “Now this evening, what can be pleasanter
than this scene, the little wood by the roadside, where every tree is
budding into leaf, the primroses in yellow patches among the ground
ivy, and that fresh, delicious smell of spring in the air? I’m
thankful I was sent away from home to Harrow and Oxford, and an
accountant’s office in London. I suppose if I’d never left the country
I should never have seen any beauty in it.”
“You would have felt it, but would have been unable to put it into
words,” returned his friend. “Let’s explore this wood a bit, and see
where it leads to.”
They struck in over the moss under the young trees. Straight ahead of
them, as they pushed their way through the branches, they saw a high,
precipitous bank, crowned by a low stone wall, and beyond more trees.
“That will be Sir Philip Cranstoun’s place again, I suppose,” observed
the Viscount. “He’s got a good bit of land enclosed about here.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when both men heard the sound
of a horse’s hoofs trampling over the dry leaves and young twigs
behind them. Pressing a little forward, they came to a point where a
passage seemed to have been made through the trees, not much more than
four feet wide. Standing within the shadow of the woods so that their
figures were hidden, both young men turned their gaze in the direction
of the horse’s galloping feet, and through an opening in the trees
both saw at the same moment a young girl, mounted on a beautiful
little black thoroughbred, flying towards them.
She was making straight for the bank. Her small, half-childish face
was pale, her mouth fast shut, while her great dark eyes shone with
excitement. Under her soft felt hat her dark hair, tossed by the wind,
fluttered in soft ringlets round her face, rebellious of the hairpins
which held it in check in a coil at the back of her head. In figure
she was very slender and youthful looking, and her plain dark green
habit emphasized her lack of superfluous curves. Even though she
passed so quickly, both the two friends received the same powerful
impression of excitement, intensity, and enjoyment stamped upon her
features.
“She can’t be going to jump that wall!”
The same exclamation was on the lips of both. At the foot of the bank
rider and steed paused. The girl stooped over her horse’s neck, and
murmured something in caressing tones. Then she lifted the reins, the
little thoroughbred ran up the bank like a cat, lifted his forefeet,
and disappeared with his rider over the wall.
“By Jove!”
“I never saw anything neater!”
Just an interchange of these remarks, and then Claud and Hilary
instinctively made their way to the bank, and slowly and laboriously
ascended its steep sides. The stone wall was about five feet high, and
over the other side the ground shelved again in an awkward dip before
what seemed the fringe of a dense wood.
Hilary paused by the wall, but found that Claud had already begun to
climb it by means of the uneven stones.
“We can’t go any farther,” said the Yorkshireman, quietly; “this is
private property.”
“What does that matter? We are out for adventures. I never saw any one
with a seat like that child’s, did you?”
“She rides well, certainly,” Hilary returned, deliberately; “but she
isn’t a child.”
“Fifteen, I should say.”
“Or a little more.”
“Anyhow, I am interested, and am going over.”
“I shall have to stand by you, and keep you out of mischief, I
suppose.”
A few scrambling steps, a slide, and a roll, brought them to the base
of the declivity, and within the precincts of Cranstoun Chase
enclosure. The identity of the girl had not suggested itself to either
of them; but simultaneously within their hearts the sight of her had
aroused a strange feeling of interest and excitement. About that
small, pale face, shining dark eyes and lithe, girlish form, there
clung a fascination which both men felt powerless to resist. And
although he had not yet had time to realize it, Lord Carthew, for his
part, had fallen in love at first sight with the beauty and the daring
of the thoroughbred’s rider.
Dusk was gathering about them; yet they pressed on, both filled with
the overmastering desire to catch another glimpse of that charming
vision. After forcing their way in silence through the thick
undergrowth, they came upon a wide, grassy avenue ploughed by the
recent tramp of horses’ feet. As they emerged from among the trees
again, upon their ears came the sound of a horse’s flying feet tearing
up the turf. A good way off yet they could see her, and see, too, the
antics of the small, black horse, beside himself with excitement,
rearing, plunging, and throwing up his heels in a way which would have
unseated any but a clever and experienced rider.
Suddenly the thoroughbred paused, raised his head, sniffing the air,
and then started off at a mad pace along the turf avenue. It seemed
patent to the two spectators that he was running away with his daring
rider, the more so as a little feminine shriek reached their ears.
Clearly it was their duty to stop him. The girl would most certainly
break her neck if thrown at that rate of progress. Their plans were
formed after a second’s deliberation. As the horse neared them, coming
like the wind, with clods of earth torn up by his heels flying in the
rear, Lord Carthew sprang into the open, waving the animal back, and
in the moment’s pause of alarm, Hilary dashed forward and seized the
reins, hanging on to them with all his weight.
Snorting, and quivering in every limb, the horse at length came to a
standstill, and looked with wide-open, bloodshot eyes at his captor.
He for his part had his gaze fixed upon the rider.
For a moment she stared down at his face, which was not so very far
below her own, without speaking. Her great clear eyes were distended,
like those of her horse, and in the twilight her face seemed to wear
an unearthly pallor. His hand was still upon her bridle. She withdrew
her eyes from his, and asked, petulantly:
“Why did you stop my horse?”
“He was running away with you.”
She laughed disdainfully as she repeated!
“Running away--with _me_!”
“I heard you scream.”
“Yes. Because I was enjoying myself.”
“No one ought to ride at such a pace as that,” he said, coolly, still
with his brown eyes fixed upon hers. “It is dangerous.”
“Not to me. And who are you, and what right have you to lecture me?
Take your hand off my bridle, and let me go.”
As she spoke she gave a sharp cut with her whip on her horse’s
shoulder. The animal reared and plunged, and simultaneously the clear,
sharp “ping” of a shot rang through the silent woods.
Hilary’s hand dropped from the bridle, and a short exclamation of pain
escaped his lips as his arm dropped by his side. Through the sleeve of
his shooting-coat near the shoulder the blood oozed out, and began
rapidly pouring down his arm. Lord Carthew sprang to his assistance.
“I am shot,” Hilary said. “It serves me right for interfering with a
woman. Carthew, let’s get out of this.”
The girl, whose horse had dashed on ahead as soon as Hilary’s
restraining hand was withdrawn, returned now, and uttered a little cry
of horror as she saw that Hilary was wounded.
“How did it happen?” she asked breathlessly.
“Some one in the woods over there shot him in the shoulder as he was
holding your horse,” returned Lord Carthew. “I must get him to the
nearest inn as soon as possible.”
“No,” she exclaimed, impulsively. “Look how the blood is pouring from
his shoulder! It is all my fault. We have a doctor staying in the
house. Your friend must be taken home.”
“Home! Where?”
“To the Chase. I am Miss Cranstoun.”
Even in the hurry of the moment and the anxiety he felt on his
friend’s account, for Hilary was very pale and evidently in pain, Lord
Carthew could hardly refrain from a look of surprise at the girl’s
statement. She was so utterly unlike his ideal of what “the product of
a union between a Douglas and a Cranstoun” would be. No “long, limp,
watery-eyed fairness” was here, but a small face, eloquent in its
every line, a sensitive white skin, mobile red lips whose expression
changed constantly, and eyes more wonderful even by this imperfect
light than any he had ever seen, eyes strangely luminous, dilated
pupils, and a border to the iris of so dark a blue that it seemed
almost black. He could not have said at that moment whether she was
adorably beautiful or only supremely interesting. She had captured and
chained his imagination, and her every movement seemed to him the
perfection of grace. Without any assistance she sprang off her horse,
and taking his bridle, approached Hilary timidly.
“If you feel faint,” she said, “will you not mount my horse, and let
me lead him to the house? Indeed, I don’t think you can walk. And may
I try to bind your shoulder?”
Her voice was very sweet, and her gentle, even humble manner of
speaking delighted Claud. He was astonished to hear his friend answer
so coldly:
“I require no assistance, thank you, Miss Cranstoun. I am only sorry I
spoiled your ride. Claud, we must get back to the inn as soon as
possible.”
With that he raised his hat with his left hand, and turning his back
on the lady, began to make his way through the trees in the direction
whence they had come.
“Go after him! Go after him!” the girl whispered to Lord Carthew,
clasping her small hands impulsively, while tears sprang to her eyes.
“He is not fit to be alone. I can see he is badly hurt.”
Her words were only too true. A few seconds later Claud, hurrying
after his friend, found him leaning against a tree, with set, white
face, and half-closed eyes.
“I’m all right,” Hilary muttered in response to Carthew’s anxious
inquiry. “Let’s--get--on.”
His voice sounded faint and muffled. Under the trees, in the waning
light, it was impossible to see his face, but Claud realized that he
was in great pain.
Here was a predicament indeed! Hilary weighed nearly fourteen stone. A
space of tangled underwood, a bank, a wall, a steep declivity, another
wood, and a walk of half a mile, separated the young men from the
nearest inn. Even could they contrive to reach it, one wounded and
half-insensible man and his slenderly-built companion, the
accommodation would be of the poorest, and they were several miles
from the nearest town, that of Grayling. Miss Cranstoun had offered
the hospitality of her home, but Hilary had refused it, and Claud knew
him to be extremely obstinate. Clearly he could not remain where he
was, trespassing in the grounds of the Chase, with the night fast
approaching, and Lord Carthew tried to rouse him.
“Hilary, old boy,” he said, “remember where we are, and what a
distance we have to go. Won’t it be better to accept Miss Cranstoun’s
offer and go to her house, to get your wound dressed by the doctor
there?”
Hilary suddenly raised his head, and spoke in tones of unexpected
emphasis.
“I wish I’d let the little vixen break her neck!” he remarked,
viciously. “And I certainly am not going to accept the hospitality of
a man who takes snapshots at any stranger who is fool enough to try to
oblige his daughter.”
There was a sound of quick footsteps over the dead leaves and twigs.
Miss Cranstoun had joined them in time to overhear Hilary’s last
words. It was too dark to see her face, but her tone was courteous, if
cold.
“It was not my father who fired that shot,” she said, quietly, “but
one of the keepers. Stephen!” she called, authoritatively, to some one
behind her. “This is the gentleman whom you wounded by your stupid
mistake.”
The squarely built figure of a young, black-bearded man, in the dress
of a gamekeeper and carrying a gun, appeared in attendance on her.
“I am very sorry, gentlemen,” he said, in a dogged manner, without
looking at them, “but in the half light I thought it was a tramp
worrying the young mistress, and so I fired my gun off to frighten
him. I hadn’t any thought to hit any one.”
“Your confounded carelessness may have very serious results,” said
Lord Carthew. “My friend is half-unconscious now from loss of blood.
You must help me to get him out of this wood, and to bind up his
shoulder roughly until we can get a doctor for him.”
Hilary muttered an impatient protest as the gamekeeper, in obedience
to a few hurried words of command from Miss Cranstoun, assisted Hilary
back to the spot where they had left the horse, with his bridle
fastened to a tree. The young Yorkshireman’s coat was already
saturated with blood, and Miss Cranstoun stood by, silent and very
white, while Lord Carthew and her father’s servant drew off the
wounded man’s coat, and made with their handkerchiefs a temporary
bandage for the injured shoulder.
“He must come to the house at once,” burst from her lips at last. “You
can see quite well he can hardly walk. Stephen, alter the saddle, and
help him on to Zephyr.”
“I can very well walk, Miss Cranstoun. There is not the slightest need
for all this fuss and trouble,” said Hilary, still with the same
coldness he had before shown in his manner towards her.
“Nonsense, man! Miss Cranstoun is perfectly right, and we are very
much obliged to her. Now, help us all you can in getting on this
horse, for lifting you is no light matter, I can tell you.”
A feeling of growing faintness did more than his friend’s injunctions
in inducing Hilary to comply. Zephyr snorted and fidgeted. The
difference between seven stone twelve and thirteen stone twelve was an
appreciable one; but Stephen’s strong hand was on the bridle, and
Zephyr’s mistress walked alongside, patting and caressing the animal,
and reducing his nervous excitement into comparative quiet by the
magic of her touch.
Lord Carthew followed in silence until, the short cut between the
trees becoming narrow, Miss Cranstoun stepped back, and he found
himself beside her.
It had grown too dark for him to see more than the outline of her
slight figure and delicate profile as she walked behind the horse,
lifting her riding-habit from the ground with the hand in which she
carried her workmanlike-looking hunting-crop.
“I cannot tell you how sorry I am about this accident,” she said,
addressing Lord Carthew suddenly. “I am sure your friend meant to be
kind. But I thought there was no one about, and I screamed in that
silly way from sheer enjoyment. It isn’t riding that I care for, but
_flying_. And I did not guess that any one would be in the woods so
late, so I was just having a gallop before dinner. I have never been
thrown in my life. I am never so happy or so comfortable as when I am
on horseback, and unless Zephyr is going as fast as he can, neither he
nor I enjoy ourselves. But I can understand that to strangers it might
look dangerous. And I am dreadfully sorry about the accident to your
friend. Will you tell me his name?”
In this young girl’s whole manner there was something so simple,
innocent, and frank that Claud was more than ever enchanted with her.
That feeling of fate which had haunted him all through his recent tour
was upon him now. Here were all the conditions of Kyro’s prophecy
fulfilled. The lady whom he was to meet on a journey, and with whom he
was to fall madly in love, was walking by his side, and speaking to
him in a voice which went straight to his heart, awakening hitherto
unknown chords of sweetness there. All the romance, the sentiment, and
the poetry, dormant in the nature of this singular young man, started
into life at the proximity of this charming creature, at once so
daring as a rider, so maidenly and gentle as a woman. Here was an
opportunity of applying his test. He remembered it, and said
unhesitatingly, in answer to Miss Cranstoun’s question:
“My friend is Lord Carthew.”
“Oh!”
It must have been fancy, he told himself, but her ejaculation seemed
to express disappointment; and he noticed that she did not, when they
struck into a wider path, walk as before by the side of the horse, but
remained in the rear, much to his own secret satisfaction.
“I am afraid we shall be disturbing your parents,” he said, after a
few moments’ silence.
“My father is in London,” she answered; “and mamma is an invalid.
Lately she has been more delicate than usual, and an old friend and
doctor of hers is happily staying with us, Dr. Morland Graham. I hope
he will be able to set your friend right again. I shall never forgive
myself if the wound proves to be a serious one.”
“I can’t see where you are to blame. It was my stupid blundering into
private property in the course of an evening stroll with my friend
that was the origin of the mischief, and our officious interference
during your ride. But your man was certainly too free with his powder
and shot. Have you had him in your service long?”
“Four or five years. He is very clever with dogs and horses. My father
has a special dislike against tramps, and Stephen, in his over-zeal
just now, was only obeying orders. The men are all told to frighten
away intruders from the grounds by any means in their power.”
“Still it’s rather drastic to shoot any chance stranger,” he
suggested; “especially as I have heard that the Chase is a very
interesting old historical mansion, and likely to attract
antiquarians.”
“People say that,” she answered, thoughtfully. “But I can never see
anything to admire in it myself. It is called mediæval, which makes
me feel sorry for the Middle Ages.”
“You have the most wonderful legends in your family--have you
not?--connected with your motto, ‘Cranstoun, Remember!’ I am greatly
interested in antiquarian researches, and my family--I mean Lord
Carthew’s family--being connected by marriage with your mother’s, has
made the hunting out of these tales of interest to me.”
“Is Lord Carthew related to my mother?” she asked, with interest. “She
will be very glad to welcome him and you also. You have not told me
your name?”
“Oh! it is so entirely undistinguished as to be hardly worth
mentioning. Claud Pritchard, farmer, from Yorkshire, on a short and
last tour with my old college friend before leaving England to try and
make my fortune in Canada.”
“Indeed!” she said. “You don’t look in the least like a farmer. But
here is the Chase.”
The great, gloomy pile stood before them, occupying a considerable
space of land, but hemmed in so closely with trees that its full
dimensions were somewhat lost on the spectator. Lights burned here and
there in the windows, but the whole impression given by the ivy-hung,
gray stone building was one of prison-like silence and solitude.
Stephen Lee’s sturdy ringing of the deep-toned bell brought a man
servant in sombre livery to the door, who, after exchanging a few
words with the young gamekeeper, descended the broad, shallow steps
between the grim-visaged stone wolves that guarded the entrance, and
offered to assist Hilary into the house. Miss Cranstoun meanwhile had
disappeared into the house. As Lord Carthew and his friend entered it,
she returned to greet them on the threshold, accompanied by a portly,
gray-haired man of between fifty and sixty, to whom she was rapidly
explaining the situation.
The great bare hall, with its timbered roof, and four motionless
figures in full armor ranged between the worn and faded tapestry on
the walls, surmounted by trophies of arms and implements of the chase,
which glittered as the firelight played on them, struck Lord Carthew
as a perfectly fitting background for Miss Cranstoun’s slender figure
and the strange ethereal beauty of her face. Amid petty or
conspicuously modern surroundings she would have seemed, so he told
himself, wholly out of place.
Other impressions crowded upon him. For one thing, the servants all
looked bewildered and alarmed, and even in the fashionable London
doctor’s manner there was a touch of constraint, as though he was not
quite certain of his ground. As for Hilary the hall and every one in
it seemed rocking round him. The pain in his shoulder was acute, and
the action of riding had caused the blood to burst through the
temporary bandages over the severe gunshot wound which Stephen Lee’s
weapon had inflicted. He had hardly heard what was being said about
him as they led him to a room, the library, as he afterwards learned,
and laid him on a sofa, at which point he very quietly fainted.
When he came to, he was lying on an old-fashioned four-poster bedstead
in a great, ghost-like apartment, hung with tapestry--as he afterwards
learned, a guest-chamber of the Chase. A woman was on her knees trying
to persuade a fire to burn in a seldom-used chimney, and another
servant, elderly and dark-complexioned, stood near his bedside,
attending to the instructions of Dr. Morland Graham, while Lord
Carthew watched him from the foot of the bed.
“You place the bandage so,” the doctor was saying, “and as soon as he
recovers consciousness, give him a dose of this. Your friend has had a
nasty accident, Mr. Pritchard, but a man of his superb physique will
soon get over a trifle of this kind, provided that fever does not
intervene. What a magnificently made young man Lord Carthew is, to be
sure! Quite unlike his father the Earl. I was dining with Lord
Northborough a few weeks ago. I suppose you will let him know of his
son’s accident?”
“Leave that to me,” returned Claud, promptly.
A voice from the bed attracted their attention at this point:
“What on earth are you two talking about? And where am I?”
“Hush, hush! my dear Lord Carthew! You really must not excite
yourself. You are in very good hands indeed. I informed Lady Cranstoun
that you must not be moved to-night, and she instantly insisted that
you and Mr. Pritchard should be her guests until you have completely
recovered. She is greatly distressed at your accident, I assure you.
I must leave you now and join the ladies at dinner, which has been
postponed for over an hour. You will soon be about again, believe me.”
“But why do you call me Lord Carthew?” Hilary inquired, trying to sit
up.
The doctor exchanged a sympathetic glance with Claud.
“Poor fellow!” he murmured. “Loss of blood--consequent weakness. He is
wandering in his mind.”