CHAPTER II.

“Poor girl!” murmured Stella. There was silence for a moment. “And
those three live there all alone?” she said.

“Not always,” he replied, musingly. “Sometimes, not often, the son
Leycester comes down. He is Viscount Trevor.”

“The son,” said Stella. “And what is he like?”

The question seemed to set some train of thought in action; the old man
relapsed into silence for a few minutes. Then suddenly but gently he
rose, and going to the other end of the room, fetched a picture from
amongst several standing against the wall, and held it toward her.

“That is Lord Leycester,” he said.

Stella took the canvas in her hand, and held it to the light, and an
exclamation broke involuntarily from her lips.

“How beautiful he is!”

The old man took the picture from her, and resting it on his knees,
gazed at it musingly.

“Yes,” he said, “it is a grand face; one does not see such a face
often.”

Stella leant over the chair and looked at it with a strange feeling of
interest and curiosity, such as no simply beautiful picture would have
aroused.

It was not the regularity of the face, with its clear-cut features
and its rippling chestnut hair, that, had it been worn by a Wyndward
of a hundred years ago, would have fallen in rich curls upon the
square, well-formed shoulders. It was not the beauty of the face, but a
something indefinable in the carriage of the head and the expression of
the full, dark eyes that attracted, almost fascinated, her.

It was in a voice almost hushed by the indescribable effect produced by
the face, that she said:

“And he is like that?”

“It is lifelike,” he answered. “I, who painted it, should not say it,
but it is like him nevertheless–that is Leycester Wyndward. Why did
you ask?”

Stella hesitated.

“Because–I scarcely know. It is such a strange face, uncle. The
eyes–what is it in the eyes that makes me almost unable to look away
from them?”

“The reflection of a man’s soul, Stella,” he said.

It was a strange answer, and the girl looked down at the strange face
interrogatively.

“The reflection of a man’s soul, Stella. The Wyndwards have always
been a wild, reckless, passionate race; here, in this village, they
have innumerable legends of the daring deeds of the lords of Wyndward.
Murder, rapine, and high-handed tyranny in the olden times, wild
license and desperate profligacy in these modern ones; but of all the
race this Leycester Wyndward is the wildest and most heedless. Look
at him, Stella, you see him here in his loose shooting-jacket, built
by Poole; with the diamond pin in his irreproachable scarf, with
his hair cut to the regulation length: I see him in armor with his
sword upraised to watch the passionate fire of his eyes. There is a
picture in the great gallery up yonder of one of the Wyndwards clad
just so, in armor of glittering steel, with one foot on the body of a
prostrate foe, one hand upraised to strike the death-dealing blow of
his battle-ax. Yes, Leycester Wyndward should have lived four centuries
back.”

Stella smiled.

“Has he committed many murders, uncle, burnt down many villages?”

The old man started and looked up at the exquisite face, with its arch
smile beaming in the dark eyes and curving the red, ripe lips, and
smiled in response.

“I was dreaming, Stella; an odd trick of mine. No, men of his stamp
are sadly circumscribed nowadays. We have left them no vent for their
natures now, excepting the gambling-table, the turf, and—-” he roused
suddenly. “Yes, it’s a beautiful face, Stella, but it belongs to a man
who has done more harm in his day than all his forefathers did before
him. It is rather a good thing that Wyndward Hall stands so firmly, or
else Leycester would have melted it at ecarte and baccarat long ago.”

“Is he so bad then?” murmured Stella.

Her uncle smiled.

“Bad is a mild word, Stella; and yet–look at the face again. I have
seen it softened by a smile such as might have been worn by an innocent
child; I have heard those lips laugh as–as women are supposed to laugh
before this world has driven all laughter out of them; and when those
eyes smile there is no resisting them for man or woman.”

He stopped suddenly and looked up.

“I am wandering on like an old mill. Put the picture away, Stella.”

She took it from him and carried it across the room, but stood for
a moment silently regarding it by the lamp light. As she did so, a
strange fancy made her start and set the picture on the table suddenly.
It seemed to her as if the dark eyes had suddenly softened in their
intense fixed gaze and smiled at her.

It was the trick of a warm, imaginative temperament, and it took
possession of her so completely that with a swift gesture she laid her
hand over the dark eyes and so hid them.

Then, with a laugh at her own folly, she put the picture against the
wall and went back to the window and sat beside the old man.

“Tell me about your past life, Stella,” he said, in a low voice.

“It seems to me as if you had always been here. You have a quiet way of
speaking and moving about, child.”

“I learnt that while papa was ill,” she said, simply. “Sometimes he
would sit for hours playing softly, and I did not wish to disturb him.”

“I remember, I remember,” he murmured. “Stella, the world should have
known something of him; he was a born musician.”

“He used to say the same of you, uncle; you should have been a famous
artist.”

The old man looked up with a smile.

“My child, there are many men whom the world knows nothing of–luckily
for them. Your father and I were dreamers, both; the world likes men of
action. Can you play?”

She rose and stood for a moment hesitating. In the corner of the room
there was a small chamber organ–one of those wonderful instruments
which in a small space combine the grand tones of a cathedral organ
with the melodious softness of a flute. It was one of the few luxuries
which the artist had permitted himself, and he was in the habit of
playing snatches of Verdi and Rossini, of Schubert and Mozart, when the
fading light compelled him to lay the brush aside.

Stella went up to it softly and seated herself, and presently began to
play. She attempted no difficult fugue or brilliant march, but played
a simple Florentine vesper hymn, which she had heard floating from the
devout lips of the women kneeling before the altar of the great church
in Florence, and presently began to sing it.

The old man started as the first clear bird-like notes rose softly
upon the evening air, and then covering his face with his hands went
straight to dreamland.

The vesper hymn died softly, slowly out, and she rose, but with a
gesture of his hand he motioned her to remain at the organ.

“You have your father’s voice, Stella; sing again.”

She sang a pleasant ditty this time, with a touch of pathos in the
refrain, and hearing a slight noise as she finished, looked round, and
saw the old man rise, and with quivering lips turn toward the door.

The young girl’s sweet voice had brought back the past and its dead too
plainly, and he had gone out lest she should see his emotion.

Stella rose and went to the window, and stood looking into the night.
The moonlight was glinting the river in the distance, and falling
in great masses upon the lawn at her feet. Half unconsciously she
opened the window, and stepping out, found herself in a small garden,
beautifully kept and fragrant with violets; her love for flowers was
a passion, and she stepped on to the path in search of them. The path
led in zigzag fashion to a little wooden gate, by which the garden was
entered from the lane. Stella found some violets, and looking about in
search of further treasure store, saw a bunch of lilac blossom growing
in the lane side.

To open the gate and run lightly up the side of the bank was the
impulse of the moment, and she obeyed it; there were still deeper
masses of flowers a little further down, and she was walking toward
them when she heard the sound of a horse galloping toward her.

For a moment she was so startled by the unexpected sound that she
stood looking toward the direction whence it came, and in that moment
a horse and rider turned the corner and made full pelt for the spot
where she was standing. Stella glanced back toward the little white
gate to discover that it was not in sight, and that she had gone
further than she intended. It was of no use to attempt to get back
before the horseman reached her, there was only time to get out of the
way. Lightly springing up the bank, she stood under the lilac tree and
waited.

As she did so, the horse and man came out of the shadow into the
moonlight. To Stella, both looked tremendously big and tall in the
deceptive light, but it was not the size, but the attitude of the rider
which struck her and chained her attention.

She could not see his face, but the figure was that of a young man,
tall and stalwart, and full of a strange, masterful grace which
displayed itself in the easy, reckless way in which he sat the great
animal, and in the poise of the head which, slightly thrown back,
seemed in its very attitude eloquent of pride and defiance. There was
something strange and unusual about the whole bearing that struck
Stella, unused as she was to meeting horsemen in an English country
lane.

As he came a little nearer she noticed that he was dressed in evening
dress, excepting his coat, which was of velvet, and sat loosely, yet
gracefully, upon the stalwart frame. In simple truth the rider had
thrown off his dress coat for a smoking jacket, and still wore his
dress boots. Stella saw the moonlight shining upon them and upon a
ruby, which blazed sullenly upon the white hand which held the whip.

As if rider and horse were one, they came up the lane, and were abreast
of her, the man all unconscious of her presence. But not so the horse;
his quick, restless eye had caught sight of the shimmer of Stella’s
dress, and with a toss of the head he swerved aside and stood still.
The rider brought his eyes from the sky, and raising his whip, cut the
horse across the flank, with a gesture of impatient anger; but the
horse–a splendid, huge-boned Irish mare, as fiery and obstinate as a
lion–rose on its hind legs instantly, and the whip came down again.

“Confound you! what is the matter?” exclaimed its master. “Go on, you
idiot!”

The horse pricked its ears at the sound of the familiar voice, but
stood stock still, quivering in every limb.

Stella saw the whip raised again, and instinctively, before she was
aware of it, her womanly protest sprang from her lips.

“No! no!”

At the sound of the eager, imploring voice, the rider kept his whip
poised in the air, then let his arm fall, and dragging rather than
guiding the horse, forced it near the hedge.

“Who is it? Who are you?” he demanded, angrily. “What the—-“

Then he stopped suddenly, and stared speechlessly, motionless, and
transfixed–horse and rider, as it were, turned to stone.

Tall and graceful, with that grace which belongs to the girlhood which
stands on the threshold of womanhood, with her exquisite face fixed in
an expression of mingled fear and pity, and a shyness struggling with
maidenly pride, she made a picture which was lovely enough to satisfy
the requirements of the most critical and artistic mind–a picture
which he who looked upon it carried with him till the day he died.

For a moment he sat motionless, and as he sat the moon fell full upon
his face, and Stella saw the face of the portrait whose eyes she had
but a few minutes since hidden from her sight.

A lifetime of emotion may pass in a minute; a life’s fate hangs upon
the balance of a stroke of time. It was only for a moment that they
looked into each other’s eyes in silence, but that moment meant so much
to each of them! It was the horse that broke the spell by attempting
to rise again. With a slight movement of the hand Leycester Wyndward
forced him down, and then slid from the saddle and stood at Stella’s
feet, hat in hand.

Even then he paused as if afraid, lest a word should cause the vision
to vanish into thin air; but at last he opened his lips.

“I beg your pardon.”

That was all. Four words only, and words that one hears daily; words
that have almost lost their import from too familiar commonplace,
and yet, as he said them, they sounded so entirely, so earnestly, so
intensely significant and full of meaning that all the commonplace
drifted from them, and they conveyed to the listener’s ear a real and
eager prayer for forgiveness; so real and earnest that to have passed
them by with the conventional smile and bow would have been an insult,
and impossible.

But it was not only the words and the tone, but the voice that thrilled
through Stella’s soul, and seemed to wake an echoing chord. The picture
which had so awed her had been dumb and voiceless; but now it seemed
as if it had spoken even as it had smiled, and for a moment she felt a
woman’s desire to shut out the sound, as she had shut out the smiling
eyes.

It was the maidenly impulse of self-protection, against what evil she
did not know or dream.

“I beg your pardon,” he said again, his voice deep and musical, his
eyes raised to hers. “I am afraid I frightened you. I thought I was
alone here. Will you forgive me?”

Stella looked down at him, and a faint color stole into her cheeks.

“It is I who should beg pardon; I am not frightened, but your horse
was–and by me?”

He half glanced at the horse standing quiet enough now, with its bridle
over his arm.

“He is an idiot!” he said, quickly; “an obstinate idiot, and incapable
of fear. It was mere pretense.”

“For which you punished him,” said Stella, with a quick smile.

He looked up at her, and slowly there came into his eyes and his lips
that smile of which Mr. Etheridge had spoken, and which Stella had
foreseen.

“You are afraid I am going to whip him again?”

“Yes,” she said, with simple directness.

He looked at her with a curious smile.

“You are right,” he said; “I was. There are times when he requires a
little correction; to-night is one of them. We have not seen each other
for some little time, and he has forgotten who is master. But I shall
not forget your ‘No,’ and will spare the whip; are you satisfied?”

It was a strange speech, closing with a strangely abrupt question. It
was characteristic of the speaker, who never in all his life probably
had known for a moment what nervousness or embarrassment meant. Judging
by his tone, the easy flow of the musical voice, the frank, open
manner, one would have imagined that this meeting with a strange and
beautiful girl was the most matter-of-fact affair.

“Are you satisfied?” he repeated, as Stella remained silent, trying
to fight against the charm of his simple and direct manner. “If not,
perhaps that will do it?” and taking the whip, a strong hunter’s crop,
in both his white hands, he broke it in two as easily as if it were a
reed, and flung it over his shoulder.

Stella flushed, but she laughed, and her dark eyes beamed down upon him
with serious archness.

“Does not that look as if you were afraid you should not keep your
promise?”

He smiled up at her.

“It does,” he said–“you are right; I may have been tempted beyond my
strength. He is a bad-tempered beast, and I am another. Why do you
laugh—-?”

He broke off, his voice changing as subtly as some musical instrument.

Stella hesitated a moment.

“I beg you will tell me–I shall not be offended.”

She laughed, and clung with one hand to the lilac, looking down on him.

“I was thinking how fortunate it was that he could not whip you. It is
not fair, as you are both so bad-tempered, that one only should get
punished.”

He did not laugh, as another man would have done; but there came into
the dark eyes a flash of surprised amusement, such as might have shone
in those of the giant Gulliver when some Liliputian struck him with a
pin-sized stick; and his lips parted with a smile.

“It was a natural reflection,” he said, after a pause. “Will you let me
help you down?”

Stella shook her head. Somehow she felt safe up there above him, where
but the dark eyes could reach her.

“Thank you, no; I am gathering some lilac. Do not trouble.”

And she turned slightly from him, and stretched up her hand for a
branch above her head. The next moment he sprang up the bank lightly,
and stood beside her.

“Permit me,” he said. And with one sweep he drew the fragrant branch
within her reach.

“And now will you come down?” he asked, as if she were some willful
child. Stella smiled, and he held out his hand. She put hers into it,
and his fingers closed over it with a grasp firm as steel, but as
smooth as a woman’s. As the warm fingers closed over hers, which were
cold with her long grasp of the branch above her head, a thrill ran
through her and caused her to shudder slightly.

“You are cold,” he said, instantly. “The Spring evenings are
treacherous. Have you far to go?”

“I am not cold, thanks,” she said, with quick alarm, for there was
a look in his eyes and a movement of his hand which seemed to give
warning that he was about to take his coat off.

“I am not at all cold!”

“Have you far to go?” he repeated, with the air, gentle as it was, of a
man who was accustomed to have his questions answered.

“Not far; to the little white gate there,” she answered.

“The little white gate–to Etheridge’s, the artist’s?” he said gently,
with a tone of surprise.

Stella bent her head; his eyes scanned her face.

“You live there–are staying there?”

“Yes.”

“I never saw you in Wyndward before.”

“No, I was never here till to-night.”

“Till to-night?” he echoed. “I knew that I had not seen you before.”

There was something in the tone, wholly unlike commonplace flattery,
that brought the color to Stella’s face.

They had reached the gate by this time, he walking by her side, the
bridle thrown over his arm, the great horse pacing quiet and lamb-like,
and Stella stopped.

“Good-night,” she said.

He stopped short and looked at her, his head thrown back, as she had
seen it as he rode toward her, his eyes fixed intently on her face, and
seeming to sink through her downcast eyes into her soul.

“Good-night,” he replied. “Wait.”

It was a word of command, for all its musical gentleness, and Stella,
woman-like, stopped.

“I am going away,” he said, not abruptly, but with calm directness. “If
you have only come to-night I shall not be able to learn your name;
before I go, will you tell it me?”

Stella smiled.

“Why not?” he said, as she hesitated.

“My name is Stella Etheridge, I am Mr. Etheridge’s niece.”

“Stella!” he repeated. “Stella! Thank you. I shall not forget. My
name,” and he raised his hat with a simple gesture of proud humility,
“is Wyndward–Leycester Wyndward.”

“I know it,” said Stella, and the next moment she could have called the
impulsive words back again.

“You know it!” he said; “and came here only to-night! How is that?”

Stella’s brows contracted, dark and full they met across her brow in
true southern fashion, and lent a significant eloquence to her face;
she would have given much to avoid answering.

“How is that?” he asked, his eyes fixed on hers.

“It is very simple,” she said, as if vexed at her hesitation. “I saw
your portrait and–knew you.”

He smiled a curious smile.

“Knew me before we met! I wonder—-” he paused and his eyes seemed to
read her thoughts. “I wonder whether you were prejudiced by what you
saw by that forshadowing of me? Is that a fair question?”

“It is a strange one,” said Stella.

“Is it? I will not press it. Good-night!” and he raised his hat.

“Good-night, and good-bye,” she said, and impulsively again she held
out her hand.

His eyes showed no surprise, whatever he may have felt, as he took her
hand and held it.

“No,” he said, as he let her draw it away. “Not good-bye. I have
changed my mind. I shall not go. It is only good-night,” and with a
smile flashing out of his eyes, he leapt upon his horse and was gone.