“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.