“But they want to marry me off at once,” she cried, desperately, “even before I am presented at Court!”
“Well, well!” returned the doctor, soothingly, “I shouldn’t think your fate such a very hard one, after all. The Earl of Northborough is one of the most distinguished statesmen in England, in high favor at Court, with a wife who brought him about a million, and Lord Carthew is the only son. All the beautiful and well-bred girls in London have been setting their caps at him for the past two years.”
“You don’t understand!” she cried. “These things are nothing, less than nothing, to me. So far from coveting wealth and rank, I would avoid them. My ideal of marriage is quite—quite different.”
She stopped short and blushed deeply.
“I cannot make you understand,” she said again, and turned away.
“I can understand two things, Miss Stella,” he answered, gravely; “caprice on the one hand, and duty on the other.”
She turned sharply round and faced him.
“Duty!” she repeated, coldly. “I don’t understand you.”
“The daughter of Sir Philip Cranstoun and granddaughter of the Duke of Lanark is not in a position to marry for mere caprice any person she may happen to take a fancy to,” he said. “Noblesse oblige. You must keep up the traditions of your family and marry some one in your own rank of life. It is a duty which you owe to your family, your training, and your parents. In your case, the duty is all the more clearly marked out for you, as Lady Cranstoun’s health depends entirely upon your fulfilment of her clearly expressed wishes; if you disappoint her in her very natural and loving wish to see you happily married to so intellectual and high-minded a nobleman as Lord Carthew, her death may lie at your door.”
Stella rose from her chair and walked away from him toward the window. She felt that a net was being drawn about her feet, and her former liking for Lord Carthew turned to a resentful dislike. With her heart throbbing in her bosom at the very thought of another man, with every fibre of her being tingling with passionate love for him, how could she tamely endure the suggestions that, even for her mother’s sake, she must marry Lord Carthew? It was useless to reason with her. The gypsy Carewe blood in her veins was burning with unreasoning passion. She loved Hilary Pritchard, loved him with such unquestioning ardor that she would only too gladly have left her home that night to follow him, penniless and barefooted, throughout the world. Arguments were wasted upon such a nature. There was no trace of the cold and proud Douglas element in her temperament; eccentric, strong-willed Cranstoun, and wild, lawless Carewe had united to produce this strange, half-tamed creature, with only a coating of education and repressive training over the primeval passions, the wandering instincts, and the marked rebellion against all constituted authority which characterize her race.