“You are a gypsy’s child,” he answered, hoping to humiliate her.
“Not yours?” she cried, a ray of unmistakable relief flashing into her face. “Not yours! Oh, thank Heaven!”
In an instant he saw his mistake. The thought that she owed him neither reverence nor respect had come as a joyful relief to her.
“You are my daughter,” he said, harshly, “and you have to obey me. Fortunately for you, no one suspects the truth, or you would certainly not have been honored by an offer of marriage from the heir to Lord Northborough.”
He had purposely chosen such words in alluding to her mother that Stella might infer that she had no legal title to the name she bore. The object he had in view was to humble her pride, and whether or not he broke her heart at the same time was a matter of perfect indifference to him.
As he finished speaking, she began to move toward the door. A mist seemed to hang before her eyes, and she was trembling so much that her feet could hardly bear her weight; but she was as proud as he, and fully resolved that he should not see the full effect of his words upon her.
“Understand,” he called after her, “your marriage will take place early in May.”
She turned and faced him at the door.
“Lord Carthew shall hear to-night every word that you have said to me. Then, as you suggest, he will cease from troubling me.”
“I forbid you to exchange one word with him on the subject.”