Her father’s statements had affected her to the full as much as he intended, but in a totally different direction from that which he had expected. So far from the knowledge of her mother’s humble origin inclining her to gratefully accept Lord Carthew’s offer, it seemed to her to place an insuperable and not unwelcome barrier between them.
“Hilary thought I was his superior in position,” she said to herself; “and oh, how glad I am that that is altered now! He was so humble, he begged my pardon so earnestly for having taken me into his arms; and I am only a poor gypsy’s daughter after all—beneath him, not above him! He must know that. I must tell him, and as soon as possible, before he has time to leave the neighborhood.
“And my mother—what became of her? Is she dead? Can any one tell me of her? Would Margaret know? She has been in the house many years, but she would not tell, I think. But there was the little doctor, who knew I was Miss Cranstoun because I was so like my mother. He must have known her, then. Did not the hostler tell me that when Dr. Netherbridge sent him here last night he told him that he knew the Chase, and knew Sir Philip, and had been here years ago? I must see this doctor privately, and at once must find out who and what my mother was. If she ever loved my father—and could any one love him, I wonder?—she must have been very, very miserable.”
Until the day broke, Stella remained lost in excited thought, wide-awake, and either walking restlessly up and down the room, or rocking herself backward and forward in a rocking-chair. Her desire to see Hilary immediately grew stronger every moment. She fully believed that when he knew her to be of humble birth, he would no longer avoid her, but would give his love as frankly as he would accept hers. Yet she felt that she must first of all see Dr. Netherbridge, and learn from him the truth about her mother. Her cheeks grew hot with shame at the thought that she had perhaps no right to bear the name of Cranstoun. The idea was so inexpressibly painful that she tried to banish it from her mind; but it returned again and again with a persistency not to be denied. Could she once ascertain that to be a fact, she decided, in an outburst of grief and humiliation, that she would escape from the Chase, and hide herself as far away as possible, unknown to any one. If she was indeed without either legal father or mother, she would no longer live upon grudgingly doled-out charity, but would go into the world and earn a living for herself, as many other poor and friendless girls were doing daily, banishing from her mind forever all thoughts of love and marriage.
She was fully resolved of one thing: that no man but Hilary Pritchard should be her husband; but she would never come to him with a stain upon her name.
Then, again, her reflections were disturbed by the memory of the gentle lady who believed her to be her daughter. How could she possibly desert her under any circumstances? Whatever the amount of her obligation toward Sir Philip, Stella realized that the love and duty she owed to Lady Gwendolen were none the less, but rather the more, urgent, should there, indeed, be no blood relationship between them. The more she pondered, the more troubled her mind became, and she longed above all things for the daybreak in order that she might put into action some of the plans which were formulating in her brain.
Meantime, she was locked in, and could only be let out at Sir Philip’s pleasure. This reflection filled her with a deep annoyance, and she set about evolving methods of escape.
There were two windows in her room, both tall and wide, divided by woodwork into squares about a foot high. She was only on the first floor, and the ivy which clung about every part of the walls would appear to offer a tolerably easy means of descent to one as light and agile as she. By half-past five o’clock she could endure her attitude of waiting and thinking no longer. Performing her toilet hastily, she changed her white silk evening gown into her serge morning costume, donned her hat and jacket, and pushing up the heavy sash of one of the windows, looked down on the terrace below and across at the trees to see whether her movements were observed.
No one was astir yet. A faint morning haze lay upon the fresh spring foliage about the treetops, and the morning sun, as it tried to burst through the vapor which rose from the damp earth, turned the dewdrops on the grass to shimmering diamonds. Catching her skirts close to her, she ventured one slender foot over the ledge of the window, testing the strength of the support accorded by the ivy. Luckily for her, the roots of a great ivy tree started at a point exactly between the windows of her room, and the branches were strong enough to support a far heavier burden than her light frame. A few scrambling steps, a prodigious rustling of ivy leaves, some tiny stones displaced, and then, with a flushed face, a dusty dress, and the palms of her soft hands a little cut and scratched, Stella found herself standing on the terrace, free.
A few moments later, she was running like a startled hare in the direction of a weak point in the wall which surrounded the Chase enclosure, as she particularly wished to avoid awaking the lodge-keepers from their slumbers. By a quarter past six she had reached the inn where Hilary was staying. The window-blinds were all drawn down, and no one was stirring but her friend the hostler, who, whistling an air popular in London some months before, was pottering about the stable-yard.