Only a Girl's Love. Garvice Charles
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.
CHAPTER III
Stella stood watching until the big chestnut had borne its master out of sight, and down the lane, across the meadow; she caught one more glimpse of them as he rode through the ford, the water dashing up a silver shower of spray as high as the horse's head; then they vanished in the shadow of the woods which engirdled Wyndward Hall.
But she still stood, lost in a dreamy reverie that was not thought, until her uncle's voice came floating down the garden, and with a start she ran up the path and stood breathless before him.
The old man's placid face wore a slight look of anxiety, which faded instantly as he said:
"Where have you been, Stella? I thought you had changed your mind, and flown back to Italy again. Mrs. Penfold is searching the meadows wildly."
Stella laughed, as she put her arm round his neck.
"You will not get rid of me so easily, uncle. No, I have only been down the pretty lane at the end of the garden. See, here are some flowers; are they not sweet? You shall have them for your table, and they shall stand within sight while you are at work." And she filled a vase with water, and arranged them. "But the flowers are not all the fruits of my wandering, uncle," she went on; "I have had an adventure."
He was strolling up and down with his pipe in his mouth, his hands folded behind him.
"An adventure!"
"Yes," she nodded. "I have met – can you guess whom?"
He smiled.
"Mr. Fielding, the clergyman? It is his usual evening stroll."
"No."
"Perhaps an old lady in a lace shawl, with a fat pug by her side. If so, you have made an acquaintance with the great Mrs. Hamilton, the doctor's wife."
"No, it was not anybody's wife, uncle – it was a man. You shan't guess any more; but what do you say to Lord Leycester?"
"Lord Leycester!" said Mr. Etheridge. "I did not even know he was at home. Lord Leycester! And does my picture do him justice?" he asked, turning to her with a smile.
She bent over the flowers, ashamed of the meaningless blush which rose to her face.
"Yes, uncle, it is like him; but I could not see very distinctly you know. It was moonlight. He was riding a great, huge chestnut horse."
"I know," he murmured, "and tearing along like a lost spirit. He flashed past like a meteor, I expect. No, you could not see him, and cannot judge of my portrait."
"But he didn't flash past. He would have done, no doubt, but the chestnut declined. I think it was frightened by me, for I was standing on the bank."
"And he stopped?" asked Mr. Etheridge. "It was a wonder; such a little thing even as the shying of his horse was sufficient to rouse the devil in him! He stopped!"
"Because he was obliged," said Stella, in a low voice, a deep blush of maidenly shame rising to her face, as she remembers that it was she who had really stopped him.
"And