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.