“Has she any avowed admirer then?” he inquired, in would-be careless tones.
“Dear me, no! Beyond her French and German masters, and the old vicar of Grayling, and myself, she has hardly had any acquaintance with the other sex. A more absolutely fancy-free young lady, I should say, never existed. But she has so much charm and individuality, as well as beauty, that when once she enters into social life in London, under the judicious guardianship of her grandmother, the Duchess of Lanark, there is not much doubt that suitors will not long be lacking. Although I understand that the Chase is in strict entail to the heirs male of the Cranstoun family, as well as the Scotch property, Sir Philip’s daughter will no doubt be some day possessed of a very comfortable little income, which in these extravagant, money-loving days,” added the doctor, smiling, as he took a cup of coffee which a servant brought into the room at that moment on a silver salver, “is a thing which is supposed to enhance any young lady’s attraction.”
Lord Carthew said nothing, and remained for a short time plunged in thought. Not only had he fallen in love at first sight, but his instinct had happily guided his affections to exactly the right object. In spite of his thin veneer of almost revolutionary theories, Lord Northborough’s heir was at heart a Tory and an aristocrat, and Sir Philip’s daughter was a thousand times the more desirable in his eyes because she was a Cranstoun on her father’s side, and granddaughter to the Duke of Lanark. Had he experienced the same overmastering feeling of instantaneous love for a lowly-born girl, he would certainly have regretted it, and would possibly have done his best to conquer it. But in this case no such self-restraint was necessary. If only he could gain her affection, above all in the homely guise of Mr. Pritchard, son to a Yorkshire yeoman, perfect married happiness awaited him.
Dr. Morland Graham, leaning back in his chair, smoking, and enjoying an after-dinner mood of benevolent calm, watched his companion with some amusement, and wondered for what freak Lord Northborough’s son and heir, bearing a strong resemblance to his father and sporting on his finger a signet-ring upon which his family crest was plainly discernible as he held his cigar to his lips, was wandering about the county under the alias of Pritchard. Dr. Morland Graham liked to be on good terms with his aristocratic patients; he liked to know their little secrets, and they, being only mortal, were usually ready enough to confide them to “that dear kind, sympathetic Dr. Graham.” He knew quite well that the Earl and his wife were extremely anxious to see their only son, the “mad viscount,” married and settled, and it occurred to the worthy doctor that this might be an excellent opportunity for ameliorating the lot of Stella Cranstoun, who, once under the protecting care of a husband of wealth and position, would be free forever from the petty tyranny of her absolutely detestable father.
Lord Carthew knew nothing of the doctor’s musings. One thought alone possessed him. To see Stella as soon as possible, to talk to her, to draw her out of her reserve and gradually get her to confide in him. As if divining his wishes, Dr. Graham suggested an adjournment to the drawing-room, and proposed to Lady Cranstoun, who was reclining on a sofa, a game of chess.
The drawing-room was extremely large, and furnished in a chilly, old-fashioned style. The faded carpet belonged to the first years of Queen Victoria’s reign and was covered by day with a drugget, for Sir Philip Cranstoun was economical to stinginess in the appointment of his household. The walls were painted in white and gold, the furniture was of old-fashioned shape, covered by day with chintz, and resplendent at night in amber satin. A grand piano and a harp seemed lost in the distant and ill-lighted recesses of the room, which curtained four long windows opening on to a stone terrace at the back of the house. Near a tall standard lamp Lady Cranstoun’s sofa was standing, and close by, on a cushion on the hearthrug, her slender arms clasping her knees, and her eyes fixed on the fire, Stella Cranstoun was seated, with the head of a handsome collie dog resting on her knee.
As the two gentlemen entered the room, she looked up quickly, but did not speak, and it was only after the doctor had suggested the game of chess that Miss Cranstoun inquired eagerly:
“How is he now? Is he better?”
Lord Carthew flushed guiltily. In his desire to see Stella again he had forgotten his friend completely. But the doctor’s conscience was not so sensitive, and he answered, in his blandest professional tones, that Lord Carthew had been given a sedative before dinner, and that it was not advisable to disturb him at present.
“You haven’t been up then?” Stella murmured reproachfully to Claud, while Lady Cranstoun rang for the footman to remove her coffee-cup and to draw the chess-table up to her sofa.