“Now, tell me,” he said, kindly but firmly, “all that has happened since you and I were parted by your father at the Cranstoun Arms.”
Willingly enough she obeyed, beginning with Lady Cranstoun’s death, and her own subsequent close imprisonment and supervision, and the pressure which was brought to bear upon her to induce her to marry Lord Carthew. She left out nothing, and dwelt particularly over the gypsy Sarah Carewe’s offer of help “on her wedding-eve,” in the note conveyed to her by means of Stephen Lee.
Hilary’s brows darkened as she uttered the gamekeeper’s name, and he recalled what Lord Carthew had said of Stella’s extraordinary conduct toward him on her wedding journey.
“Are you on such close and confidential terms with this Lee, then, may I ask, that you entrust letters and messages to him?”
Stella’s dark-blue eyes opened wide in what looked like innocent surprise.
“Close and confidential terms?” she repeated. “Why, he is the gamekeeper! I hardly ever see him, and I shall never forgive him for hurting you. Surely, Hilary, you are not going to be jealous of the servants?”
He noticed that she dwelt affectionately upon his name, not in the least as if she realized that she was now another man’s wife.
“Go on,” he said. “When did you see this man Lee last?”
“Not since I dropped him the signal from the window,” she answered, promptly. “Old Sarah told me to employ him, so I suppose he must be a gypsy, too. But let me get on with my story. I can’t tell you how ill I got by being kept shut in my room all those days, and half-starved; but that was my fault, since I was too unhappy to eat. By the wedding-eve, the date on which I was promised help from the gypsies, I was half-desperate, and the strangest fancies began to crowd into my head. I wanted to tear down the bars in my room and jump from the window. I had an idea that if once I could get away to the forest, I might join the gypsies and escape. That afternoon and evening I was not so closely watched; for the first time for weeks I was able to creep out of my room, and down the stairs to the front door. When once I stood in the open air again, I felt intoxicated with joy, and I ran as fast as my feet could carry me into the wood. An idea came into my mind that if the gypsies could not help me, rather than marry any one but you I would drown myself in a tarn I know of, where no one would think of looking for me for weeks, perhaps for months. But before I had run more than a few yards, the old gypsy, Sarah Carewe, who is really, I believe, my great-grandmother, suddenly appeared before me among the trees, like some witch in a fairy-tale. She took my hand, and made me walk very fast beside her into the woods; then she suddenly stopped, and drawing down my face to hers in the gathering darkness, she peered into my eyes with her wonderful bright stare, and stroked my face down with both hands, murmuring soothing words in some language I did not understand. Just as I felt myself growing strangely weak and sleepy, she took a small bottle from her pocket, drew the cork out, and commanded me to drink out of it. I obeyed her without hesitation. I seemed to have no power of resistance. From that moment I can remember nothing at all until two days ago, when I found myself in small, shabby rooms which I had never seen before, with an elderly woman, who slept in another bed in the same room with me. She told me that she was a nurse, that her name was Julia Tait; that she had held me in her arm as a tiny baby, and had seen my mother die. Further, that I had been put in her care for a few days by friends, and that I must not ask questions, or leave the house except in her company. She got me these clothes, and treated me kindly enough, taking me out twice. But she would not talk, and this morning, while she was still asleep, I dressed and slipped out. I was mad to be in the open air after living so long shut up at the Chase. Then, too, I knew you had come to London, and you had told me you always stayed somewhere near Charing Cross and the Strand. So I made my way here, and just as though you had dropped from the clouds, I found you. Why, Hilary, you haven’t yet said you are glad to see me.”
She had evidently again forgotten the tie which bound her to his friend. With an effort, he resolved to recall it to her.