“He’s a brute, that’s what he is, for all his soft sawder,” was Jim’s comment.
More than once during the ride home a mad longing seized Stella to escape from her father’s tyranny. But Sir Philip’s gray would easily have outstripped in speed the sorry hack upon which she was mounted, even if her father’s hand had not held her bridle. Every cruel and bitter taunt which his brain could conceive was hurled at her on their progress between the inn and the Chase. But no words could provoke a response from her. She was trying to remind herself that he was her father, and that even if she could not love him she must at least endeavor not to hate him.
At the doors of the house she sprang from her horse and ran swiftly up the stairs to Lady Cranstoun’s room. Her stepmother was still in bed, sitting up, wrapped in a white woollen shawl, drinking her coffee. She had not quite recovered from the strain of the preceding day, and Dr. Graham had prescribed complete rest and freedom from all excitement.
“I was wondering you had not come to say good-morning to me,” she said, “but Margaret said Sir Philip had locked you in your room. Was that true?”
“Don’t let’s talk of him, dear,” returned the young girl, kissing her affectionately, and kneeling down at the bedside, caressing one of her hands. “Let’s try to think he doesn’t exist.”
“Something has happened!” exclaimed the poor lady, apprehensively. “You are dreadfully pale, and your hands are quivering. There are tears in your eyes, too. Tell me, Stella, quickly, what is the matter?”
“It is nothing,” she answered. “I am overtired after a bad night. That is all.”
“It was not true—what you said last night in fun—about not marrying Lord Carthew, was it, dear?”
“No; it was not true.”
Sir Philip’s voice broke sharply in upon their talk. He had entered the room unperceived, and was standing on the other side of the bed.