THE WEDDING EVE.
Housekeeper Margaret was a quiet, reserved, and cautious woman with
the caution bred of extreme nervousness and dread of being bullied.
Her fear of Sir Philip was extreme. She was a woman of limited
intelligence, and much addicted in the privacy of her own room, when
there was no one to observe her, to the consumption of cheap
sensational literature. Ever since the night of Clare Lady Cranstoun’s
disappearance Margaret had cherished the conviction that Sir Philip
had secretly murdered her; luckily she kept this belief to herself,
but it naturally did not lessen her fear of him.
She was not at all popular with her fellow-servants, and, strange to
say, they were somewhat afraid of her. The fact that she was the only
female servant who had been retained at the Chase more than a few
years, together with her silent, reserved manners, really born of
nervousness, made the others restrained and uncomfortable before her;
even Dakin, the spy, did not know how far Margaret might be in her
master’s confidence, and invariably treated her with elaborate
respect, an example which was followed by all the other servants, the
more willingly as Sir Philip doled out the housekeeping money both
before and after his second wife’s death into Margaret’s hands.
In her secret heart Margaret was far from preserving the adamantine
character with which she was credited. So far from it, indeed, she
took an intense interest in Stella’s love affair, and considered
Hilary Pritchard an ideal hero of romance, his splendid figure,
handsome face, and genial, grateful manners having made a strong
impression upon her during the short period while he remained under
her care.
When, therefore, Stephen Lee handed her the note for Stella, under
pretence of assisting her to pick up the plate she had purposely
dropped from the kitchen table, Margaret instantly jumped to the
conclusion that it must be another communication from Stella’s
handsome sweetheart, Hilary, which the latter had contrived to
transmit to the young gamekeeper.
It was very desirable, so Margaret decided, that Stella should receive
the note that same night. “It will comfort the poor dear,” she said to
herself, “and, maybe, make her sleep better to know that her young
gentleman is thinking of her.”
But since her lady’s death, Margaret had had no opportunity of seeing
Stella, and it would have provoked comment and inquiry had she tried
to do so now. Presently, however, when Ellen, the lady’s maid, gave
vent to a grumbling remark that she “supposed some supper would have
to be taken up to Miss Stella, since she hadn’t touched anything that
day, and she must be kept alive somehow until she was married and done
for,” it occurred to Margaret that her chance had come. Miss
Cranstoun’s supper consisted of a wing of a bird, some Camembert
cheese and salad, and some Burgundy in a decanter, the doctor having
ordered her that wine. Margaret decided intuitively that even if
Stella ate nothing, long fasting would have made her so faint that she
would probably sip a glass of wine. Risking detection, therefore, she
contrived to slip the piece of folded paper she had received from
Stephen under the decanter under pretence of smoothing the cloth under
the tray in passing. Only Stephen Lee saw her do it; not much escaped
his keen gypsy eyes. But in order to complete her work it was
necessary that Ellen’s attention should be turned in some other
direction than the tray she was about to carry up to her mistress, and
towards that end he suddenly made a remark in an awkward shamefaced
manner, all the more effective because it appeared spontaneous and
genuine.
“If I was Lord Carthew,” he said, “it’s not the missus I’d be after,
but the maid.”
The lie almost choked him as he mentally contrasted the limp, round
back, colorless eyes, and retreating chin of Ellen with the willowy,
supple form, delicate features, and luminous eyes of his adorable
cousin. But the lady’s maid herself saw no inappropriateness in the
compliment, which was the more valuable as the young gamekeeper seldom
joined the kitchen circle and had never before paid the least
attention to any of the women. Ellen therefore bridled with pride and
satisfaction as she caught up the supper-tray and made her way to Miss
Cranstoun’s room in the turret, the door of which was opened to her by
Dakin.
“What a time you’ve been!” exclaimed the latter. “I’ve been just
longing to get down to my supper.”
“Young Stephen Lee’s been in the servants’ hall,” said Ellen, in a
loud whisper, and Stella, hearing the words, listened with all her
ears.
“Lor’, he’s that complimentary,” giggled Ellen. “Says he, ‘If I was
Lord Carthew,’ he says, ‘it’s not the mistress I’d be after, but the
maid.’ I got that hot and uncomfortable at the way he said it and
looked at me that I had to ketch up the tray and run upstairs out of
the way. It never seemed to me he was a marrying sort of man; but
there, perhaps he was only waiting until Miss Right came along.”
Dakin stared, with a striking absence of sympathy. She was wondering
what a fine, handsome young fellow like Stephen could see in the
pallid, watery-eyed, flabby-looking young woman before her. Only
Stella, as she reclined on a sofa in the bedroom, to all appearance
absorbed in listlessly turning over the pages of a novel, could guess
at anything between the lines of Stephen Lee’s compliment. That
Stephen should dare to lift his eyes as high as her, his master’s
daughter, had not entered her mind. But she knew now that he was a
gypsy of the same wild, untamed race as herself, and she guessed that
his motive for entering the servants’ hall that night was to bring
some message from old Sarah, and that his unwonted gallantry toward
the far from comely Ellen was a trick to cover some scheme of his for
the future.
It was therefore not without prescience of what might be in store for
her that Stella watched the tray which was placed on a little table
near her couch. She fully expected, indeed, that a communication of
some kind would be lurking among the articles upon it, and when,
presently, waiting her opportunity until Ellen, under pretence of
rearranging the ornaments on the mantelpiece, became absorbed in the
reflection of her own plain features in the looking-glass, she began
to closely examine the contents of the supper-tray, the result was
that her fingers speedily closed on Sarah’s message. Slipping it into
the open pages of her book, with her heart beating high with
excitement, Stella read the pencilled words with eager eyes. Not for
one moment did she doubt the gypsy’s power to help her. “Your mother’s
friends watch over you, and soon you will be free.” The words came as
light in the darkness to the girl, drooping under the forced
confinement to the house, and the detestable system of _espionage_ by
which she was never for one moment free from Dakin’s or Ellen’s prying
eyes. It was true that when she thought of Lord Carthew, and recalled
his sympathetic talk on the morning when he had compared her to the
“Lady of Shalott,” and the charm of his manner toward the late Lady
Cranstoun, she was not so unjust or so prejudiced as to believe that
he was a party to the system which was depriving her of her liberty
and breaking down her health in order to force her into an uncongenial
marriage. She believed, on the contrary, that could she only obtain an
hour’s uninterrupted talk with the young Viscount, he would be the
first to condemn her father’s drastic treatment and to yield his claim
to her hand when she informed him that she was passionately in love
with another man. She knew all this, but knew, too, that Sir Philip
would never allow a meeting between her and Lord Carthew, whose town
address she did not even know. Grief for Lady Cranstoun’s death,
desperate anxiety as to her own future, a perpetual longing to see
Hilary again and to be assured of his love and faithfulness, the
impossibility of even communicating with him, the misery of her
present situation, bereft of love, hope, sympathy, and even of
seclusion, and above all, the terrible trial of absence of fresh air
and outdoor exercise to a girl of her race and temperament, these
things were seriously affecting her health. But for the hope held out
in Sarah’s message Stella would hardly have lived through the twenty
days that followed.
Her nights were sleepless, and what slumber she enjoyed came to her by
day and by the use of opiates, which her father, who would allow no
doctor to see her, caused to be administered to her in her tea and
coffee; and it was in a deep sleep, brought on by a dose of this kind,
that Lord Carthew saw her, lying fully dressed on the sofa, the
window, which was open to allow the fresh spring air to blow through
the room, letting in a torrent of clear, bright sunlight, which seemed
absolutely to shine through the girl’s attenuated form as she lay
resting among cushions, her cheeks of a marble whiteness under her
long, black eyelashes.
Sir Philip himself brought his future son-in-law to see his daughter,
as the latter, on his third visit, would not be denied.
“If you don’t let me see her, I shall think she is dead,” he said,
half laughing, but half seriously, too.
“My dear Carthew, I have really been afraid of startling you. The poor
child’s grief has been so excessive that she is wasted to a shadow.
She is morbidly fearful lest you may be shocked at the change in her;
but I will myself go and prepare her for your visit, and entreat her
to receive you.”
“Seeing that we are to be married in a week, it would seem very
strange if I could not see her for a few minutes,” observed Lord
Carthew; and Sir Philip recognizing a certain doggedness in his tone,
knew that he had made up his mind. Not for the first time the Baronet
realized that his future son-in-law had a strong will of his own, and
he rejoiced to see it manifested. A husband with a strong will, he
told himself, was imperatively necessary in the case of a girl with
Stella’s erratic and vagrant instincts. It was, indeed, almost pitiful
to consider Sir Philip’s anxiety that the marriage between Lord
Northborough’s heir and his daughter should come off without any
hitch. The chatelain of the Chase was accustomed to be obeyed in fear
and trembling, and he never once questioned the wisdom of his own
decrees. It was of vital importance, so he told himself, that Stella
should marry Lord Carthew, and he was placed in a position of extreme
difficulty by the fact that if Stella and Claud once met before the
ceremony, the girl would undoubtedly blurt out the terrible facts of
her preference for Hilary Pritchard, and of her gypsy descent. The
dread of such a contingency prevented Sir Philip from resting by night
or by day. He did not like the Chase, but he remained in the house
simply and solely to prevent his daughter from running away, as he
felt sure she would do should the least opportunity present itself.
On the day, therefore, when he conducted Lord Carthew into the
presence of his lovely _fiancée_, Sir Philip ascertained first of all
that the latter was under the influence of an opiate which would
prevent her from recognizing and speaking to her future husband. Thus
satisfied that no ill result could ensue, Sir Philip led Lord Carthew
to the couch of his pale lady love, as she lay asleep, with her thin
face on her thinner hand, Dakin, the black-browed and shifty-eyed,
hovering in close attendance.
Stella’s heavy mourning accentuated her unearthly pallor. Even Sir
Philip was startled, so deathlike was her appearance, while Lord
Carthew’s heart was stirred to infinite pity.
“Poor child!” he murmured. “Poor child!”
Kneeling by her side, he very tenderly, very reverently lifted the
hand which hung over the side of the sofa to his lips before he took
from his pocket and slipped on her third finger a superb diamond
engagement-ring.
“I wish she would awaken and speak to me,” he said, wistfully. “I
wanted to ask her about our honeymoon--whether she would like to go at
once in my yacht to the Mediterranean, or, as she is so delicate,
whether a stay of a few days in the Isle of Wight before setting out
on our travels might not be the best thing for her. My father has
placed Northborough Castle at my disposal, and it would not be much of
a journey from here. Has she been asleep long?” he inquired of Dakin.
The woman was primed with her answer.
“No, my lord, not long. Poor young lady, she was awake all night. She
_do_ grieve dreadfully over her mamma’s death; she don’t seem to have
the heart to sleep or eat or go out. But she gets a bit excited about
her trousseau, my lord. That’s the only thing now that seems to
interest her.”
This was a daring flight of fancy on the part of Dakin, for Stella had
not even troubled to look at the patterns for materials, the gloves,
and shoes, and cloaks, and dresses, which every day brought her.
“She looks dreadfully ill,” said the lover, anxiously. “What does the
doctor say?”
“There’s nothing the matter with her but fretting, my lord, and change
of scene is bound to cure her in no time.”
“I have brought down a present from my mother to my bride,” Lord
Carthew next remarked, drawing a large, flat jeweller’s case from his
pocket. “I had hoped to have clasped them round Stella’s neck myself.”
He opened the lid and displayed before Sir Philip’s approving eyes
five rows of superb pearls, caught here and there by diamond clasps.
“My mother would like to have presented the gift in person,” he
explained, “but when I told her of Stella’s extreme delicacy and
nervous depression, she agreed that it would be better not to see her
until the wedding-day. She pleaded so hard, however, to be allowed to
come to the wedding that I could not refuse her. Of course she
perfectly understands how essentially quiet the affair will be, so
soon after Lady Cranstoun’s death. I suppose you have made every
arrangement for the service to be read in the chapel here?”
“Certainly. It is a little in disrepair and I have workmen employed at
this moment in putting it right,” answered Sir Philip. “Only my
father-in-law, the Duke of Lanark, will be present besides myself. He
has not seen Stella for some time, but she was always his favorite
grandchild, and he much desires to be present. Stella is fond of him
and glad to have him.”
With much relief Sir Philip saw his future son-in-law depart for town
that same evening. He had been dreading lest Stella should
unexpectedly awaken and spoil all. Everything was going on as well as
could be expected. According to Dakin and Ellen, Stella, although she
took no active interest in her trousseau, consented to stand passive
while hats and gowns were tried upon her, and made no remark even when
she was “fitted” for her wedding-dress. The servants thought that she
must be getting reconciled to the idea of the marriage; but as she
never spoke, it was difficult for them to pronounce on the subject
with certainty. This neutral attitude was at least better than active
opposition, and Sir Philip’s heart was elated by hope that nothing
would occur to mar the ceremony.
It was the more irritating to him, therefore, when on the night before
the wedding eve a strange and ominous dream troubled his repose. He
thought that he was standing within some vast cathedral, in which,
amid much pomp and magnificence, to the strains of a superb organ, and
before the eyes of the highest in the land, the nuptials of his
daughter and Lord Carthew were being celebrated. He thought he was
giving his daughter away, was standing close by her side and placing
her hand within that of her bridegroom, when a cold film seemed to
hang across him, and he perceived the spirit of his dead wife Clare,
with one hand uplifted in warning, and the other stretched
protectingly around her daughter, who seemed unconscious of her
presence.
Suddenly the light in the church flickered and paled; people looked at
each other, whispering and alarmed. Bride and bridegroom sprang apart,
affrighted, and instead of the rich notes of the organ came the
shrill, eldritch laughter of the hag Sarah Carewe, as she croaked again
in his ears the curse which she had uttered on the day when James
Carewe was sentenced for defending his father.
It was a horrible dream, and Sir Philip awoke unnerved and alarmed. At
the same hour of the night visions of help and escape hovered over
Stella, the memory of which kept her in a fever of excitement
throughout the day. Mechanically she let them attire her in her bridal
robes in the afternoon, and Sir Philip was sent for to see her in
them.
She was white as her dress, and her eyes shone strangely. The look of
strain and tension about her face startled her father, suggesting, as
it did, a state of mind bordering on insanity. Had these three weeks
of solitary confinement been too much for her? he wondered.
“I am glad,” he said, speaking more gently than usual, “to see that
you are prepared to accept with pleasure the brilliant fate in store
for you.”
She stared at him for a moment, and then disconcerted him by giving
vent to a low, mirthless laugh as she turned away.
Alarmed by something unexpected and uncanny in her manner, Sir Philip
took Dakin apart, and gave orders that for the rest of the evening
Miss Cranstoun was to be closely watched, but allowed apparent liberty
of action.
“Does she seem to you at all light-headed?” he asked, and Dakin owned
that that idea had occurred to her.
“Let her move about the house,” Sir Philip said, “always, of course,
with one or two persons within call. Fretting and starving in that
foolish way have pulled her down badly.”
All the watching during that evening, however, fell to Dakin’s share,
for handsome Stephen Lee presented himself in the servants’ hall, and
made such open love to Ellen that that young woman forgot everything
in the joy of her supposed conquest.
Finding that she was able to leave her room unmolested, and
remembering well old Sarah’s promise of help on the wedding eve,
Stella took the opportunity while her father was at dinner of running
lightly down the broad oak staircase toward the hall door. Here she
paused a moment, and then suddenly, with trembling fingers and
thumping heart, she drew back the bolt of the door.
Dakin was close behind her, although she knew it not; and Dakin
followed her young mistress out on the terrace, hiding in the shadow
of the doorway, and watched her hesitate a moment, and then speed
across the grass to where the woods began, and lose herself among the
gathering shadows.