She turned her dark eyes on him with a smile of incredulity.
"What can you possibly have to long for?" she said.
He looked at her with a strange smile; then suddenly his face grew grave and wistful – almost sad, as it seemed to her.
"You cannot guess, and I cannot tell you; but believe me that, as I stand here, there is an aching void in my heart, and I do long for something very earnestly."
The voice was like music, deep and thrilling; she listened and wondered.
"And you should be so happy," she said, almost unconsciously.
"Happy!" he echoed, and his dark eyes rested on hers with a strange expression that was half-mocking, half-sad. "Do you know what the poets say?"
"'Count no man happy till he dies,' do you mean?" said Stella.
"Yes," he said. "I do not think I know what happiness means. I have been pursuing it all my life; sometimes have been within reach of it but it has always evaded me – always slipped from my grasp. Sometimes I have resolved to let it go – to pursue it no longer; but fate has decreed that man shall always be seeking for the unattainable – that he who once looks upon happiness with the eyes of desire, who stretches out his hands toward her, shall pursue her to the end."
"And – but surely some get their desire."
"Some," he said, "to find that the prize is not worth the race they have run for it; to find that they have wearied of it when it is gained; to find that it is no prize at all, but a delusive blank; all dead sea fruit that turns to dust upon the lips."
"Not all; surely not all!" she murmured, strangely moved by his words.
"No; not all," he said, with a hidden light in his eyes that she did not see. "To some there comes a moment when they know that happiness – real true happiness – lies just beyond their grasp. And the case of rich men is more to be pitied than all others. What would you say if I told you that it was mine?"
She looked up at him with a gentle smile, not on her lips but in her eyes.
"I should say that I was very sorry," she murmured. "I should say that you deserved – " she stopped short, smitten by sudden remembrance of all she had heard of him.
He filled up the pause with a laugh: a laugh such as she had not heard upon his lips till now.
"You were right to stop," he said. "If I get all the happiness I deserve – well, no man will envy me."
"Let us go down now," said Stella, gently; "my uncle – "
He leapt down, and held up his hand.
CHAPTER VIII
Stella put hers into it, but reluctantly, and tried to spring, but her dress caught and she slipped forward.
She would have fallen but that he was on the alert to save her. Quite simply and naturally he put his arms round her and lifted her down.
Only for a moment he held her in his embrace, her panting form close to his, her face almost resting on his shoulders, but that moment roused the blood in his fiery heart, and her face went pale.
"Are you hurt?" he murmured.
"No, no!" she said, and she slipped out of his arms and stood a little away from him, the color coming and going in her face; it was the first time that any man's arms, save her father's, had ever encircled her.
"Are you quite sure?" he repeated.
"Quite," she said, then she laughed. "What would have happened if I had slipped?"
"You would have sprained your ankle," he said.
"Sprained my ankle, really?" she repeated, with open eyes.
"Yes, and I should have had to carry you down to the boat," he said, slowly.
She looked away from him.
"I am glad I did not slip."
"And I," he said, "am – glad also."
She stooped and picked up the primroses and ran down the slope, her cheeks aflame, a feeling that was something like shame, and yet too full of a strange, indefinable joy to be sullen shame, took possession of her.
With light feet, her hat swinging in her hand, she threaded her way between the trees and sprang on to the grassy road beside the river bank.
He did not follow so quickly, but stood for a moment looking at her, his face pale, his eyes full of a strange, wistful restlessness.
Then Stella heard his step, firm and masterful, behind her. A sudden impulse tempted her sorely to jump into the boat and push off – she could pull a pair of sculls – and her hand was on the edge of the boat, when she heard the sound of bells, and paused with astonishment. Looking up she saw a tiny phæton drawn by a pair of cream-white ponies coming along the road; it was the bells on their harness that she had heard.
They came along at a fair pace, and Stella saw that the phæton was being driven by a coachman in dark-brown livery, but the next moment all her attention was absorbed by the young girl who sat beside him.
She was so fair, so lovely, so ethereal looking, that Stella was spellbound.
A book was in her hand – ungloved and small and white as a child's – but she was not reading. She held it so loosely that as the phæton came along the top of the bank which hid Stella, the book dropped from the lax grasp of the white fingers.
The girl uttered an exclamation, and Stella, obeying one of her sudden impulses, sprang lightly up the bank, and picking up the book, held it toward her.
Her appearance was so sudden that Lady Lilian was startled and for a moment the pale face was dyed with a faint color; even after the moment had passed she sat speechless, and the surprise in her eyes gave place to a frank, generous admiration.
"Oh, thank you – thank you!" she said. "How kind of you. It was so stupid of me to drop it. But where did you come from – the clouds?" And there was a delicious hint of flattery in the look that accompanied the words.
"Quite the reverse," said Stella, with her open smile. "I was standing below there, by the boat."
And she pointed.
"Oh?" said Lady Lilian. "I did not see you."
"You were looking the other way," said Stella, drawing back to allow the carriage to proceed; but Lady Lilian seemed reluctant to go, and made no sign to the coachman, who sat holding the reins like an image of stone, apparently deaf and dumb.
For a few strokes of Time's scythe the two girls looked at each other – the one with the pale face and the blue eyes regarding the fresh, healthful beauty of the other with sad, wistful gaze. Then Lady Lilian spoke.
"What beautiful primroses! You have been gathering them on the slopes?" with a suggestion of a sigh.
"Yes," said Stella. "Will you take them?"
"Oh, no, no; I could not think of robbing you."
Stella smiled with her characteristic archness.
"It is I who have been the thief. I have been taking what did not belong to me. You will take these?"
Lady Lilian was too well bred to refuse; besides, she thirsted for them.
"If you will give them to me, and will not mind picking some more," she said.
Stella laid the bunch on the costly sables which wrapped the frail figure.
Lady Lilian put them to her face with a caressing gesture. "You are, like me, fond of flowers?" she said.
Stella nodded. "Yes."
Then there was a pause. Above them, unseen by Lilian, forgotten by Stella, stood Lord Leycester.
He was watching and waiting with a strange smile. He could read the meaning in his sister's eyes; she was longing to know more of the beautiful girl who had sprang like a fairy to her side.
With a faint flush, Lady Lilian said:
"You – you are a stranger, are you not? I mean you do not live here?"
"Yes," said Stella; "I live" – and she smiled and pointed to the cottage across the meadow – "there."
Lady Lilian started, and Lord Leycester seized the moment, and coming down, quietly stood by Stella's side.
"Leycester!" exclaimed Lilian, with a start of surprise.
He smiled into her eyes, his strange, masterful, irresistible smile. It was as if he had said, "Did I not tell you? Can you withstand her?"
But aloud he said:
"Let me make the introduction in due form. This is Miss Etheridge, Lilian. Miss Etheridge, this is my sister. As the French philosopher said, 'Know each other.'"
Lady Lilian held out her hand.
"I am very glad," she said.
Stella took the thin, white hand, and held it for a moment; then Lady Lilian looked from one to the other.
Lord Leycester interpreted the glance at once.
"Miss Etheridge has intrusted herself on the watery deep with me," he said. "We came across to gather flowers, leaving Mr. Etheridge to paint there."
And he waved his hand across the river.
Lady Lilian looked.
"I see," she said – "I see. And he is painting. Is he not clever? How proud you must be of him!"
Stella's eyes grew dark. It was the one word wanting to draw them together. She said not a word.
"Your uncle and I are old friends," Lady Lilian continued. "Sometime when – when I am stronger, I am coming to see him – when the weather gets warmer – " Stella glanced at the frail form clad in sables, with a moistened eye – "I am going to spend a long afternoon among the pictures. He is always so kind and patient, and explains them all to me. But, as I am not able to come to you, you will come and see me, will you not?"
There was a moment's silence. Lord Leycester stood looking over the river as if waiting for Stella's reply.
Stella looked up.
"I shall be very glad," she said, and Lord Leycester drew a breath, almost of relief.
"You will, will you not?" said Lady Lilian, with a sweet smile.
"Yes, I will come," said Stella, almost solemnly.
"You will find me poor company," said the daughter of the great earl, with meek humility. "I see so little of the world that I grow dull and ignorant; but I shall be so glad to see you," and she held out her hand.
Stella took it in her warm, soft fingers.
"I will come," she said.
Lady Lilian looked at the coachman, who, though his eyes were fixed in quite another direction, seemed to see the glance, for he touched the horses with the whip.
"Good-bye," she said, "good-bye."
Then, as the phæton moved on, she called out, in her low, musical voice, that was a low echo of her brother's:
"Oh, Leycester, Lenore has come!"
Leycester raised his hat.
"Very well," he said. "Good-bye."
Stella stood a moment looking after her. Strangely enough the last words rang in her ears with a senseless kind of insistence and emphasis. "Lenore has come!" She found herself repeating them mentally.
Recalling herself she turned swiftly to Lord Leycester.
"How beautiful she is!" she said, almost in a whisper.
He looked at her with gratitude in his eloquent eyes.
"Yes."
"So beautiful and so kind!" Stella murmured, and the tears sprang to her eyes. "I can see her face now. I can hear her voice. I do not wonder that you love her as you do."
"How do you know that I love her?" he said. "Brothers, generally – "
Stella stopped him with a gesture.
"No man with a heart warmer than a stone could help loving her."
"And so you agree that my heart is warmer than a stone. Thank you for that, at least," he said, with a smile that was not at all unselfish.
Stella looked at him.
"Let us go now," she said. "See, uncle is getting his things together."
"Not without the primroses," he said; "Lilian will break her heart if you go without any. Let me get some," and he went up the slope.
Stella stood in thought. The sudden meeting with the fairy-like creatures, had filled her with strange thoughts. She understood now that rank and money are not all that is wanted for earthly happiness.
So lost in thought was she that she did not hear the sound of a horse coming along the mossy road, though the animal was coming at a great pace.
Lord Leycester's ears were freer or quicker however, for he caught the sound and turned round.
Turned round in time to see a huge bay horse ridden by a tall, thin, dark young man, almost upon the slim form, standing with its back to it.
With something like an oath on his lips, he dropped the flowers and with one spring stood between her and the horse, and seizing the bridle with both hands threw the beast, with sheer force, on to its haunches.
The rider had been staring at the river, and was taken by surprise so complete, that, as the horse rose on its legs, he was thrown from the saddle.
Stella, alarmed by the noise, turned and swerved out of the path. And so they were grouped. Lord Leycester, pale with furious passion, still holding the reins and forcing the horse in an iron grip, and the erstwhile rider lying huddled up on the mossy road.
He lay still, only for a moment, however; the next he was on his feet and advancing toward Lord Leycester. It was Jasper Adelstone.
His face was deadly pale, making, by contrast, his small eyes black as coals.
"What do you mean?" he exclaimed, furiously, and half-unconsciously he raised his whip.
It was an unlucky gesture, for it was all that was needed to rouse the devil in Lord Leycester's breast.
With one little irresistible gesture he seized the whip arm and the whip, and flinging the owner to the ground again with one movement, broke the whip, and flung it on the top of him with the other.
It was all done in a second. With all the will in the world, Stella had no time to interpose before the rash act was accomplished; but now she sprang between them.
"Lord Leycester," she cried, pale and horror-stricken, as she gazed into his face, white and working with passion; all its beauty gone, and with the mask of a fury in its place. "Lord Leycester!"
At the sound of her voice – pleading, expostulating, rebuking – a shiver ran through him, his hand fell to his side, and still holding the now plunging and furious horse with a grip of steel, he stood humbly before her.
Not so Jasper Adelstone. With a slow, sinuous movement he rose and shook himself, and glared at him. Speechless from the sheer breathlessness of furious hate he stood and looked at the tall, velvet-clad figure.
Stella was the first to break the silence.
"Oh, my lord!" she said.
At the sound of her reproachful voice, Lord Leycester's face paled.
"Forgive me," he said, humbly. "I beg – I crave your forgiveness; but I thought you were in danger, you were – you were!" Then, at the thought, his fiery passion broke out again, and he turned to the silent, white-faced Jasper. "What the devil do you mean by riding in that fashion?"
Jasper Adelstone's lips moved, and at last speech came.
"You shall answer for this, Lord Leycester."
It was the worst word he could have said.
In an instant all Lord Leycester's repentances fled.
With a smothered oath on his lips, he advanced toward him.
"What! Is that all you have to say? Do you know, you miserable wretch, that you nearly rode over this lady – yes, rode over her? Answer for it! Confound you – " and he raised his arm.
But Stella, all her wits on the qui vive, was in time, and her own arms were wound about his, on which the muscles stood thick and prominent – like iron bands.
With a gesture he became calm again, and there was a mute prayer for pardon in his eyes as he looked at her.
"Do not be afraid," he murmured, between his lips; "I will not hurt him. No, no."
Then he pointed to the horse.
"Mount, sir, and get out of my sight. Stop!" and the fiery passion broke out again. "No, by Heaven, you shall not, until you have begged the lady's pardon."
"No, no!" said Stella.
"But I say 'Yes!'" said Lord Leycester, his eyes blazing. "Is every tailor to ride through the Chase and knock down whom he will? Ask for pardon, sir, or – "
Jasper stood looking from one to the other.
"No, no!" said Stella. "It was all an accident. Please, pray do not say another word. Mr. Adelstone, I beg you will go without another word."
Jasper Adelstone hesitated for a moment.
"Miss Stella," he said, hoarsely.
Alas! it was oil on the smoldering fire.
"Miss Stella!" exclaimed Lord Leycester. "Who gave you the right to address this lady by her Christian name, sir?"
Jasper bit his lip.
"Miss Etheridge, you cannot doubt that I am heartily sorry that this unpleasant contretemps should have been caused by my carelessness. I was riding carelessly – "
"Like an idiot!" broke in Lord Leycester.
"And did not see you. No harm would have resulted, however, if this man – if Lord Leycester Wyndward had not, with brutal force, thrown me from the saddle. I should have seen you in time, and, as I say, no harm would have been done. All that has occurred is this man – Lord Leycester Wyndward's – fault. Again I beg your pardon."
And he bent his head before her. But as he did so a malignant gleam shot out of his eyes in the direction of the tall, stalwart figure and white, passionate face.
"No, no, there is no occasion!" said Stella, trembling. "I do not want you to beg my pardon. It was only an accident. You did not expect to see anyone here – I – I – oh, I wish I had not come."
Lord Leycester started.
"Do not say that," he murmured.
Then aloud:
"Here is your horse, sir; mount him and go home, and thank your stars the lady has escaped without a broken limb."
Jasper stood a moment looking at him, then, with another inclination of the head, he slowly mounted the horse.
Lord Leycester, his passion gone, stood calm and motionless for a moment, then raised his hat with an old-world gesture.
"Good-day to you, and remember to ride more carefully in future."
Jasper Adelstone looked down at him with a malignant smile on his thin lips.
"Good-day, my lord. I shall remember. I am not one to forget. No, I am not one to forget," and striking spurs into the horse, he rode off.
CHAPTER IX
"Who is 'Lenore,' uncle?"
It was the evening of the same day – a day never to be forgotten by Stella, a day marked with a white stone in her mental calendar. Never would she be able to look upon a field of primroses, never hear the music of the river running over the weir, without remembering this morning the first she had spent with Lord Leycester.
It was evening now, and the two – the painter and the girl – were sitting by the open window, looking out into the gloaming, he lost in memory, she going over and over again the incidents of the morning, from the visit of Mr. Jasper Adelstone to his encounter with Lord Leycester.
It was strange, it was almost phenomenal – for Stella was frankness and candor itself – that she had said nothing of the encounter to her uncle; once or twice she had opened her lips – once at dinner, and once again as she sat beside him, leaning her arm on his chair while he smoked his pipe – she had opened her lips to tell him of that sudden outburst of fury on the part of Lord Leycester – that passionate rage which proved all that the painter had said of his hot temper to be true, but she had found some difficulty in the recital which had kept her silent.
She had told him of her walk in the woods, had told him of her meeting with Lady Lilian, but of that passionate encounter between the two men she said nothing.
When Jasper had ridden on, pale and livid with suppressed passion, Lord Leycester had stood looking at her in silence. Now, as she sat looking into the gloaming, she saw him in her mind's eye still, his beautiful eyes eloquent with remorse and humility, his clear-cut lip quivering with the sense of his weakness.
"Will you forgive me?" he said, at last, and that was all. Without another word, he had offered to help her into the boat, help which Stella had disregarded, and had rowed her across to her uncle. Without a word, but with the same penitent, imploring look in his eyes, he raised his hat and left her – had gone home to the Hall, to his sister Lady Lilian, and to Lenore.
Ever since she had heard the name drop softly from Lady Lilian's lips it had rung in her ears. There was a subtle kind of charm about it that half fascinated, half annoyed her.
And now, leaning her head on her arm, and with her dark eyes fixed on the stars which glittered merrily in the sky, she put the question:
"Who is Lenore, uncle?"
He stirred in his chair and looked at her absently.
"Lenore, Lenore? I don't know, Stella, and yet the name sounds familiar. Where did you hear it? It's scarcely fair to spring a question like that on me; you might ask me who is Julia, Louisa, Anna Maria – "
Stella laughed softly.
"I heard it this morning, uncle. Lady Lilian told her brother as she left us that 'Lenore had come.'"
"Ah, yes," he said. "Now I know. So she has come, has she? Who is Lenore?" and he smiled. "There is scarcely another woman in England who would need to ask that question, Stella."
"No?" she said, turning her eyes upon him with surprise. "Why? Is she so famous?"
"Exactly, yes; that is just the word. She is famous."
"For what, uncle? Is she a great actress, painter, musician – what?"
"She is something that the world, nowadays, reckons far above any of the classes you have named, Stella – she is a great beauty."
"Oh, is that all!" said Stella, curtly.
"All!" he echoed, amused.
"Yes," and she nodded. "It seems so easy."
"So easy!" and he laughed.
"Yes," she continued; "so very easy, if you happen to be born so. There is no merit in it. And is that all she is?"
He was staggered by her sang froid for a moment.
"Well, I was scarcely fair, perhaps. As you say, it is very easy to be a great beauty – if you are one – but it is rather difficult if you are not; but Lenore is something more than that – she is an enchantress."
"That's better," remarked Stella. "I like that. And how does she enchant? Does she keep tame snakes, and play music to them, or mesmerize people, or what?"
The painter laughed again with great enjoyment at her naivete.
"You are quite a cynic, Stella. Where did you learn the trick; from your father, or is it a natural gift? No, she does not keep tame snakes, and I don't know that she has acquired the art of mesmerism; but she can charm for all that. First, she is, really and truly, very beautiful – "
"Tell me what she is like?" interrupted Stella, softly.
The old man paused a moment to light his pipe.
"She is very fair," he said.
"I know," said Stella, dreamily, and with a little smile; "with yellow hair and blue eyes, and a pink and white complexion, and blue veins and a tiny mouth."
"All wrong," he said, with, a laugh. "You have, woman-like, pictured a china doll. Lenore is as unlike a china doll as it is possible to imagine. She has golden hair it is true – but golden hair, not yellow; there is a difference. Then her eyes are not blue; they are violet."
"Violet!"
"Violet!" he repeated, gravely. "I have seen them as violet as the flowers that grow on the bank over there. Her mouth is not small; there was never yet a woman worth a fig who had a small mouth. It is rather large than otherwise, but then it is – a mouth."
"Expressive?" said Stella, quietly.
"Eloquent," he corrected. "The sort of mouth that can speak volumes with a curve of the lip. You think I exaggerate? Wait until you see her."
"I don't think," said Stella, slowly, "that I am particularly desirous of seeing her, uncle. It reminds we of what they say of Naples – see Naples and die! See Lenore and die!"
He laughed.
"Well, it is not altogether false; many have seen her – many men, and been ready to die for love of her."
Stella laughed, softly.
"She must be very beautiful for you to talk like this, uncle. She is charming too?"
"Yes, she is charming," he said, low; "with a charm that one is bound to admit at once and unreservedly."
"But what does she do?" asked Stella, with a touch of feminine impatience.
"What does she not?" he answered. "There is scarcely an accomplishment under the sun or moon that she has not at her command. In a word, Stella, Lenore is the outcome of the higher civilization; she is the type of our latest requirement, which demands more than mere beauty, and will not be satisfied with mere cleverness; she rides beautifully and fearlessly; she plays and sings better than one-half the women one hears at concerts; they tell me that no woman in London can dance with greater grace, and I have seen her land a salmon of twenty pounds with all the skill of a Scotch gillie."
Stella was silent a moment.
"You have described a paragon, uncle. How all her women friends must detest her."
He laughed.
"I think you are wrong. I never knew a woman more popular with her sex."
"How proud her husband must be of her," murmured Stella.
"Her husband! What husband? She is not married."
Stella laughed.
"Not married! Such a perfection unmarried! Is it possible that mankind can permit such a paragon to remain single. Uncle, they must be afraid of her!"
"Well, perhaps they are – some of them," he assented, smiling. "No," he continued, musingly; "she is not married. Lenore might have been married long before this: she has had many chances, and some of them great ones. She might have been a duchess by this time if she had chosen."
"And why did she not?" said Stella. "Such a woman should be nothing less than a duchess. It is a duchess whom you have described, uncle."
"I don't know," he said, simply. "I don't think anyone knows; perhaps she does not know herself."
Stella was silent for a moment; her imagination was hard at work.
"Is she rich, poor – what, uncle?"
"I don't know. Rich, I should think," he answered.
"And what is her other name, or has she only one name, like a princess or a church dignitary?"
"Her name is Beauchamp – Lady Lenore Beauchamp."
"Lady!" repeated Stella, surprised. "She has a title, then; it was all that was wanted."
"Yes, she is the daughter of a peer."
"What a happy woman she must be; – is she a woman or a girl, though. I have imagined her a woman of thirty."
He laughed.
"Lady Lenore is – is" – he thought a moment – "just twenty-three."
"That's a woman," said Stella, decidedly. "And this wonderful creature is at the Hall, within sight of us. Tell me, uncle, do they keep her in a glass case, and only permit her to be seen as a curiosity at so much a head? They ought to do so, you know."
He laughed, and his hand stroked her hair.
"What is it Voltaire says, Stella," he remarked. "'If you want a woman to hate another, praise her to the first one.'"
Stella's face flushed hotly, and she laughed with just a touch of scorn.
"Hate! I don't hate her, uncle – I admire her; I should like to see her, to touch her – to feel for myself the wonderful charm of which you speak. I should like to see how she bears it; it must be strange, you know, to be superior to all one's kind."
"If she feels strange," he said, thoughtfully, "she does not show it. I never saw more perfect grace and ease than hers. I do not think anything in the world would ruffle her. I think if she were on board a ship that was going down inch by inch, and she knew that she was within, say, five minutes of death, she would not flinch, or drop for a moment the smile which usually rests upon her lips. That is her charm, Stella – the perfect ease and perfect grace which spring from a consciousness of her power."
There was silence for a moment. The painter had spoken in his usual dreamy fashion, more like communion with his own thoughts than a direct address to his hearer, and Stella, listening, allowed every word to sink into her mind.
His description impressed her strongly, more than she cared to admit. Already, so it seemed to her, she felt fascinated by this beautiful creature, who appeared as perfect and faultless as one of the heathen goddesses – say Diana.
"Where does she live?" she asked, dreamily.
He smoked in silence for a moment.
"Live? I scarcely know; she is everywhere. In London in the season, visiting in country houses at other times. There is not a house in England where she would not be received with a welcome accorded to princes. It is rather strange that she should be down here just now; the season has commenced, most of the visitors have left the Hall, some of them to be in their places in Parliament. It is rather strange that she should have come down at this time."
Stella colored, and a feeling of vague irritation took possession of her – why, she scarcely knew.
"I should think that everyone would be glad to come to Wyndward Hall at any time – even Lady Lenore Beauchamp," she said, in a low voice.
He nodded.
"Wyndward Hall is a fine place," he said, slowly, "but Lady Lenore is accustomed to – well, to palaces. There is not a ball-room in London where her absence will not be noticed. It is strange. Perhaps" – and he smiled – "Lady Wyndward has some motive."
"Some motive?" repeated Stella, turning her eyes toward him. "What motive can she have?"
"There is Leycester," he said, musingly.
"Leycester?"
The word was out of her lips before she was aware of it, and a vivid crimson dyed her face.
"Lord Leycester, I mean."
"Yes," he answered. "Nothing would please his mother more than to see him marry, and he could not marry a more suitable person than Lenore. Yes, that must be it, of course. Well, he could not do better, and as for her, though she has refused greater chances, there is a charm in being the future Countess of Wyndward, which is not to be despised. I wonder whether he will fall into the trap – if trap it is intended to be."
Stella sat silent, her head thrown back, her eyes fixed on the stars. He saw she was very pale, and there was a strange, intent look in her eyes. There was also a dull aching in her heart which was scarcely distinct enough for pain, but which annoyed and shamed her. What could it matter to her – to her, Stella Etheridge, the niece of a poor painter – whom Lord Leycester, future Earl of Wyndward, married? Nothing, less than nothing. But still the dull aching throbbed in her heart, and his face floated between her and the stars, his voice rang in her ears.
How fortunate, how blessed, some women were! Here, for instance, was this girl of twenty-three, beautiful, famously beautiful, noble, and reigning like a queen in the great world, and yet the gods were not satisfied, but they must give her Leycester Wyndward! For of course it was impossible that he should resist her if she chose to put forth her charm. Had not her uncle just said that she could fascinate? – had she not even evidently fascinated him, the dreamer, the artist, the man who had seen and who knew the world so well?
For a moment she gave herself up to this reflection and to the dull aching, then with a gesture of impatience she rose, so suddenly as to startle the old man.
"What is the matter, Stella?" he asked.