CHAPTER XXIII.

Lord Leycester was on fire as he strode up the hill to the Hall, and

that notwithstanding he was wet to the skin. He was on fire with love.

He swore to himself, as he climbed up the slope, that there was no

one like his Stella, no one so beautiful, so lovable and sweet as the

dark-eyed girl who had stolen his heart from him that moonlight night

in the lane.

And he also vowed that he would wait no longer for the inestimable

treasure, the exquisite happiness that lay within his grasp.

His great wealth, his time honored title seemed as nothing to him

compared with the thought of possessing the first real love of his life.

He smiled rather seriously as he pictured his father's anger, his

mother's dismay and despair, and Lil's, dear Lilian's, grief; but it

was a smile, though a serious one.

"They will get over it when it has once been done. After all, barring

that she has no title and no money--neither of which are wanted, by the

way--she is as delightful a daughter-in-law as any mother or father

could wish for. Yes; I'll do it!"

But how? that was the question.

"There is no Gretna Green nowadays," he pondered, regretfully. "I wish

there were! A ride to the border, with my darling by my side, nestling

close to me all the way with mingled love and alarm, would be worth

taking. A man can't very well put up the banns in any out-of-the-way

place, because there are few out-of-the-way places where they

haven't heard of us Wyndwards. By Jove!" he muttered, with a little

start--"there is a special license. I was almost forgetting that! That

comes of not being used to being married. A special license!" and

pondering deeply he reached the house.

The party at the hall was very small indeed now, but Lady Lenore and

Lord Charles still remained. Lenore had once or twice declared that she

must go, but Lady Wyndward had entreated her to stay.

"Do not go, Lenore," she had said, with gentle significance. "You

know--you must know that we count upon you."

She did not say for what purpose she counted upon her, but Lenore

had understood, and had smiled with that faint, sweet smile which

constituted one of her charms.

Lord Charles stayed because Leycester was still there.

"Of course I ought to go, Lady Wyndward," he said; "you must be

heartily tired of me, but who is to play billiards with Leycester if

I go, or who is to keep him in order, don't you see?" and so he had

stayed, with one or two others who were only too glad to remain at the

Hall out of the London dust and turmoil.

By all it was quite understood that Lord Leycester should be considered

as quite a free agent, free to come and go as he chose, and never to

be counted on; they were as surprised as they were gratified if he

joined them in a drive or a walk, and were never astonished when he

disappeared without furnishing any clew to his intentions.

Lady Wyndward bore it all very patiently; she knew that what Lady

Longford had said was quite true, that it was useless to attempt to

drive him; but she did say a word to the old countess.

"There is something amiss!" she said, with a sigh, and the old countess

had smiled and shown her teeth.

"Of course there is, my dear Ethel," she retorted; "there always is

where he is concerned. He is about some mischief, I am as convinced as

you are. But it does not matter, it will come all right in time."

"But will it?" asked Lady Wyndward with a sigh.

"Yes, I think so," said the old countess, "and Lenore agrees with me,

or she would not stay."

"It is very good of her to stay," said Lady Wyndward, with a sigh.

"Very!" assented the old lady, with a smile. "It is encouraging. I am

sure she would not stay if she did not see excuse. Yes, Ethel it will

all come right; he will marry Lenore, or rather, she will marry him,

and they will settle down, and--I don't know whether you have asked me

to stand god-mother to the first child."

Lady Wyndward tried to feel encouraged and confident, but she felt

uneasy. She was surprised that Lenore still remained. She knew nothing

of that meeting between the proud beauty and Jasper Adelstone.

And Lenore! A great change had come over her. She herself could

scarcely understand it.

At night--as she sat before her glass while her maid brushed out the

long tresses that fell over the white shoulders like a stream of liquid

gold--she asked herself what it meant? Was it really true that she was

in love with Lord Leycester? She had not been in love with him when she

first came to the Hall--she would have smiled away the suggestion if

anyone had made it; but now--how was it with her now? And as she asked

herself the question, a crimson flush would stain the beautiful face,

and the violet eyes would gleam with mingled shame and self-scorn, so

that the maid would eye her wonderingly under respectfully lowered lids.

Yes, she was forced to admit that she did love him--love him with a

passion which was a torture rather than a joy. She had not known the

full extent of that passion until the hour when she had stood concealed

between the trees at the river, and heard Leycester's voice murmuring

words of love to another.

And that other! An unknown, miserable, painter's niece! Often, at

night, when the great Hall was hushed and still, she lay tossing to and

fro with miserable longing and intolerable shame, as she recalled that

hour when she had been discovered by Jasper Adelstone and forced to

become his confederate.

She, the great beauty--before whom princes had bent in homage--to be

love-smitten by a man whose heart was given to another--she to be the

confederate and accomplice of a scheming, under-bred lawyer.

It was intolerable, unbearable, but it was true--it was true; and in

the very keenest paroxysm of her shame she would confess that she would

do all that she had done, would conspire with even a baser one than

Jasper Adelstone to gain her end.

"She!" she would murmur in the still watches of the night--"she to

marry the man to whom I have given my love! It is impossible--it shall

not be! Though I have to move heaven and earth, it shall not be."

And then, after a sleepless night, she would come down to

breakfast--fair, and sweet, and smiling--a little pale, perhaps, but

looking all the lovelier for such paleness, without the shadow of a

care in the deep violet eyes.

Toward Leycester her bearing was simply perfection. She did not wish to

alarm him; she knew that a hint of what she felt would put him on his

guard, and she held herself in severe restraint.

Her manner to him was simply what it was to anyone else--exquisitely

refined and charming. If anything, she adopted a lighter tone, and

sought to and succeeded in calling forth his rare laughter.

She deceived him completely.

"Lenore in love with me!" he said to himself more than once; "the idea

is ridiculous! What could have made the mother imagine such a thing?"

And so they met freely and frankly, and he talked and laughed with her

at his ease, little dreaming that she was watching him as a cat watches

a mouse, and that not a thing he said or did escaped her.

She knew by instinct where he spent the times in which he was missing

from the Hall, and pictured to herself the meetings between him and the

girl who had robbed her of his love. And as the jealousy increased, so

did the love which created it. Day by day she realized still more fully

that he had won her heart--that it was gone to him forever--that her

whole future happiness depended upon him.

The very tone of his voice, so deep and musical--his rare laugh--the

smile that made his face so gay and bright--yes, even the bursts of the

passionate temper which lit up the dark eyes with sudden fire, were

precious to her.

"Yes, I love him," she murmured to herself--"it is all summed up in

that. I love him."

And Leycester, still smiling to himself over his mother's "amusing

mistake," was all unsuspecting. All his thoughts were of Stella.

Now as he came toward the terrace, she stood with Lady Longford and

Lord Charles looking down at him.

She watched him, her cheek resting on her white hand, her face hidden

from the rest by the sunshade, whose lining of hearty blue harmonized

with the golden hair, and "her heart hungered," as Victor Hugo says.

"Here's Leycester," said Lord Charles.

Lady Longford looked over the balustrade.

"What has he been doing? Rowing--fishing?"

"He went out with a fishing rod," said Lord Charles, with a grin, "but

the fish appear to have devoured it; at any rate Leycester hasn't got

it now. Hullo, old man, where have you been? Come up here!"

Leycester sprang up the steps and stood beside Lenore. It was the first

time she had seen him that morning, and she inclined her head and held

out her hand with a smile.

He took her hand; it was warm and soft, his own was still cold from his

bath, and she opened her eyes widely.

"Your hand is quite cold," she said, then she touched his sleeve, "and

you are wet. Where have you been?"

Leycester laughed carelessly.

"I have met with a slight accident, and gained a pleasant bath."

"An accident?" she repeated, not curiously, but with calm, serene

interest.

"Yes," he said, shortly, "a young friend of mine fell into the river,

and I joined company, just for company's sake."

"I understand," she said with a smile, "you went in to save him."

"Well, that's putting rather a fine point to it," he said, smilingly.

"But it's true. May one ask his name?"

Leycester flicked a piece of moss from the stone coping and hesitated

for a moment:

"His name is Frank," he said; "Frank Etheridge."

Lady Lenore nodded.

"A pretty name; I don't remember it. I hope he is grateful."

"I hope so," said Leycester. "I am sure he is more grateful than the

occasion merits."

The old countess looked round at him.

"What is it you say?" she said. "You have been in the river after some

boy, and you stand there lounging about in your wet clothes? Well, the

lad ought to be grateful, for though you will not catch your death,

you will in all probability catch a chronic influenza cold, and that's

worse than death; it's life with a pocket-handkerchief to your nose.

Go and change your things at once."

"I think I had better, after that fearful prognostication," said

Leycester, with a smile, and he sauntered off.

"Etheridge," said Lady Longford, "that is the name of that pretty girl

with the dark eyes who dined here the other night."

"Yes," said Lenore, indifferently, for the old countess looked at her;

she knew that the indifference was assumed.

"If Leycester doesn't take care, he will find himself in danger with

those dark eyes. Girls are apt to be grateful toward men who rescue

their cousins from a watery grave."

Lady Lenore shifted her sunshade and smiled serenely.

"No doubt she is very grateful. Why should she not be? Do you think

Lord Leycester is in danger? I do not." And she strolled away.

The old lady glanced at Lord Charles.

"That is a wonderful girl, Charles," she said, with earnest admiration.

"What, Lenore?" he said. "Rather. Just found it out, Lady Longford?"

"No, Mr. Impertinence. I have known it all along; but she astonishes me

afresh every day. What a great name she would have won on the stage.

But she will do better as Lady Wyndward."

Lord Charles shook his head, and whistled softly.

"Rather premature that, isn't it?" he said. "Leycester doesn't seem

very keen in that quarter, does he?"

Lady Longford smiled at him and showed her teeth.

"What does it matter how he seems?" she said. "It rests with her--with

her. You are a nice boy, Charles, but you are not clever."

"Just exactly what my old schoolmaster used to say before he birched

me," said Lord Charles.

"If you were clever, if you were anything else than unutterably stupid,

you would go and see that Leycester changes his clothes," snapped the

old lady. "I'll be bound he is sitting or lounging about in those wet

things still!"

"A nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse," said Lord Charles,

laughing. "I'll go and do as I am bidden. He will probably tell me to

go and mind my own business, but here goes," and he walked off toward

the house.

He found Leycester in the hands of his valet, being rapidly transferred

from wet flannels to orthodox morning attire, and apparently the valet

was not having a particularly easy time of it.

Lord Charles sank into a chair, and watched the performance with amused

interest.

"What's the matter Ley?" he asked, when the man left the room for a

moment. "You'll drive that poor devil into a lunatic asylum."

"He's so confoundedly slow," answered Leycester, brushing away at his

hair, which the valet had already arranged, and tugging at a refractory

scarf. "I haven't a moment to lose."

"May one ask whence this haste?" said Lord Charles, with a smile.

Leycester colored slightly.

"I've half a mind to tell you, Charlie," he said, "but I can't. I'd

better keep it to myself."

"I'm glad of it," retorted Lord Charles. "I'm sure it's some piece of

madness, and if you told me, you'd want me to take a hand in it."

"But that's just it," said Leycester, with a laugh. "You've got to take

a hand in it, old fellow."

"Oh!"

Leycester nodded and clapped him on the shoulder, with a musical laugh.

"The best of you, Charlie," he said, "is, that one can always rely on

you."

Lord Charles groaned.

"Don't--don't, Ley!" he implored. "I know that phrase so well; you

always were wont to use it when there was some particularly evil

piece of business to be done in the old days. Frankly, I'm a reformed

character, and I decline to aid and abet you in any further madness."

"This isn't madness," said Leycester;--"oh, keep outside a moment,

Oliver, I don't want you;--this is not madness, Charlie; it's the

sanest thing I've ever done in my life."

"I dare say."

"It is indeed. Look here! I am going up to London."

"I guessed that. Poor London!"

"Do stop and listen to me--I haven't a moment to spare. I want you to

do a little delicate service for me."

"I decline. What is it?" retorts Lord Charles, inconsistently.

"It is very simple. I want you to deliver a note for me."

"Oh, come, you know! Won't one of the army of servants, who devour the

land like locusts, serve your turn?"

"No; no none will do but yourself. I want this note delivered, at once.

And I don't want anyone but our two selves to know anything about it; I

don't want it to be carried about in one of the servant's pockets for

an hour or two."

Lord Charles stretched his legs and shook his head.

"Look here, Ley, isn't this rather too 'thin?'" he remonstrated. "Of

course it's to someone of the gentler sex!"

Leycester smiled.

"You are wrong," he said, with a smile. "Where's the Bradshaw, Oliver!"

and he opened the door. "Put out the note-paper, and then tell them to

get a dogcart to take me to the station."

"You will want me, my lord?"

"No, I am going alone. Look sharp!"

Oliver put out the writing materials and departed, and Leycester sat

down and stared for a moment at the crested paper.

"Shall I go?" asked Lord Charles, ironically.

"No, I don't mean to lose sight of you, old fellow," replied Leycester.

"Sit where you are."

"Can I help you? I am rather good at amorous epistles, especially other

people's."

"Be quiet."

Then he seized the pen and wrote:--

"MY DEAR FRANK--I have inclosed a note for Stella. Will you give it

to her when she is alone, and with your own hand! She will tell you

that I have asked her to come with you by the eleven o'clock train

to-morrow. Will you bring her to 24 Bruton Street? I shall meet

you there instead of meeting you at the station. You see I put it

quite simply, and am quite confident that you will help us. You know

our secret, and will stand by us, will you not? Of course you will

come without any luggage, and without letting anyone divine your

intentions."

"Yours, my dear Frank,

"LEYCESTER."

This was all very well. It was easy enough to write to the boy, because

he, Leycester, knew that if he had asked Frank to walk through fire,

Frank would do it! But Stella?

A sharp pang of doubt assailed him as he took up the second sheet of

paper. Suppose she should not come!

He got up and strode to and fro the room, his brows knit, the old look

of determination on his face.

"Drop it, Ley," said Lord Charles, quietly.

Leycester stopped, and smiled down at him.

"You don't know what that would mean, Charlie," he said.

"Perhaps I do to--her, whomsoever it should be."

Then Leycester laughed outright.

"You are on the wrong track this time, altogether," he said, "quite

wrong."

And he sat down and plunged into his letter.

Like the first, it was very short.

"MY DARLING,--Do not be frightened when you read what follows, and do

not hesitate. Think, as you read, that our happiness depends upon your

decision. I want you to come, with Frank, by the eleven o'clock train

to London, whither I am going now. I want you to take a cab and go to

24 Bruton Street, where I shall be waiting for you. You know what will

happen, my darling! Before the morrow you and I will have set out on

that long journey through life, hand-in-hand, man and wife. My pen

trembles as I write the words. You will come, Stella? Think! I know

what you will feel--I know as if I were standing beside you, how you

will tremble, and hesitate, and dread the step; but you must take it,

dearest! Once we are married all will go well and pleasantly. I cannot

wait any longer: why should I? I have written to Frank, and confided

him to your care. Trust yourself to him, throw all your doubts and

fears to the winds. Think only of my love, and, may I add, your own?"

"Yours ever,

"LEYCESTER."

He inclosed Stella's letter in a small envelope, and that, with Frank's

letter, in a larger one, which he addressed to Frank.