Only a Girl's Love, Charles Garvice [a book to read .txt] 📗

him and glided swiftly to the couch as if seeking protection.

Lady Lilian looked at her.

"You are tired," she said.

"I think I am," said Stella.

[87]

"Leycester take her away; I will not have her wearied, or she will not come again. You will come again, will you not?"

"Yes," said Stella, "I will come again."

Lord Leycester stood beside the open door, but Lilian still clung to her hand.

"Good-night," she said, and she put up her face.

Stella bent and kissed her.

"Good-night," she answered, and passed out.

They went down the stairs in silence, and reached the fernery; then he stopped short.

"Will you not wait a moment here?" he said.

Stella shook her head.

"It must be late," she said.

"A moment only," he said. "Let me feel that I have you to myself for a moment before you go—you have belonged to others until now."

"No, no," she said—"I must go."

And she moved on; but he put out his hand, and stopped her.

"Stella!"

She turned, and looked at him most piteously; but he saw only her loveliness before him like a flower.

"Stella," he repeated, and he drew her nearer, "I must speak—I must tell you—I love you!"

CHAPTER XII.

"I love you," he said.

Only three words, but only a woman can understand what those three words meant to Stella.

She was a girl—a mere child, as Lady Wyndward had said; never, save from her father's lips, had she heard those words before.

Even now she scarcely realized their full meaning. She only knew that his hand was upon her arm; that his eyes were fixed on hers with a passionate, pleading entreaty, combined with a masterful power which she felt unable to resist.

White and almost breathless she stood, not downcast, for her eyes felt drawn to his, all her maidenly nature roused and excited by this first declaration of a man's love.

"Stella, I love you!" he repeated, and his voice sounded like some low, subtle music, which rang through her ears even after the words had died from his lips.

Pale and trembling she looked at him, and put her hand to gently force his grasp from her arm.

"No, no!" she panted.

"But it is 'yes,'" he said, and he took her other hand and held her a close prisoner, looking into the depths of the dark, wondering, troubled eyes. "I love you, Stella."

"No," she repeated again, almost inaudibly. "It is impossible!"

"Impossible!" he echoed, and a faint smile flitted across the[88] eager face—a smile that seemed to intensify the passion in his eyes. "It seems to me impossible not to love you. Stella, are you angry with me—offended? I have been too sudden, too rude and rough."

At his tender pleading her eyes drooped for the first time.

Too rough, too rude! He, who seemed to her the type of knightly chivalry and courtesy.

"I should have remembered how pure and delicate a flower my beautiful love was," he murmured. "I should have remembered that my love was a star, to be approached with reverence and awe, not taken by storm. I have been too presumptuous; but, oh, Stella, you do not know what such love as mine is! It is like a mountain torrent hard to stem; it sweeps all before it. That is my love for you, Stella. And now, what will you say to me?"

As he spoke he drew her still nearer to him; she could feel his breath stirring her hair, could almost hear the passionate beating of his heart.

What should she say to him? If she allowed her heart to speak she would hide her face upon his breast and whisper—"Take me." But, girl as she was, she had some idea of all that divided them; the very place in which they stood was eloquent of the difference between them; between him, the future lord of Wyndward, and she, the poor painter's niece.

"Will you not speak to me?" he murmured. "Have you not a single word for me? Stella, if you knew how I long to hear those beautiful lips answer me with the words I have spoken. Stella, I would give all I possess in the world to hear you say, 'I love you!'"

"No, no," she said, again, almost pantingly. "Do not ask me—do not say any more. I—I cannot bear it!"

His face flushed hotly for a moment, but he held her tightly, and his eyes searched hers for the truth.

"Does it pain you to hear that I love you?" he whispered. "Are you angry, sorry? Can you not love me, Stella? Oh, my darling!—let me call you my darling, mine, if only for once, for one short minute! See, you are mine, I hold you in both hands! Be mine for a short minute at least, while you answer me. Are you sorry? Can you not give me a little love in return for all the love I bear you? Cannot you, Stella?"

Panting now, and with the rich color coming and going on her face, she looks this way and that like some wild, timid animal seeking to escape.

"Do not press me, do not force me to speak," she almost moans. "Let me go now."

"No, by Heaven!" he says, almost fiercely. "You shall not, must not go, until you have answered me. Tell me, Stella, is it because I am nothing to you, and you do not like to tell me so? Ah! better the truth at once, hard as it may be to bear, than suspense. Tell me, Stella."

"It—it—is not that," she says, with drooping head.

"What is it, then?" he whispers, and he bends his head to catch[89] her faintly whispered words, so that his lips almost touch her face.

From the drawing-room comes the sound of some one playing; it recalls all the grandeur of the scene, all the high mightiness of the house to which he belongs—of which he is so nearly the head, and it gives her strength.

Slowly she raises her head and looks at him.

There is infinite tenderness, infinite yearning, and suppressed maidenly passion in her eyes.

"It is not that," she says. "But—do you forget?"

"Forget!" he asks, patiently, gently, though his eyes are burning with impetuous eagerness.

"Do you forget who I am—who you are?" she says, faintly.

"I forget everything except that you are to me the most lovely and precious of creatures on God's earth," he says, passionately. Then, with a touch of his characteristic pride, "What need have I to remember anything else, Stella?"

"But I have," she said. "Oh yes, it is for me to remember. I cannot—I ought not to forget. It is for me to remember. I am only Stella Etheridge, an artist's niece, a nobody—an insignificant girl, and you—oh, Lord Leycester!"

"And I?" he says, as if ready to meet her fairly at every point.

"And you!"—she looks around—"you are a nobleman; will be the lord of all this beautiful place—of all that you were showing me the other day. You should not, ought not to tell me that—that—what you have told me."

He bent over her, and his hand closed on her arm with a masterful caressing touch.

"You mean that because I am what I am—that because I am rich I am to be made poor; because I have so much—too much, that the one thing on earth which would make the rest worth having is to be denied me."

He laughed almost fiercely.

"Better to be the poorest son of the soil than lord of many acres, if that were true, Stella. But it is not. I do not care whether I am rich or poor, noble or nameless—yes, I do! I am glad for your sake. I have never cared before. I have never realized it before, but I do now. I am glad now. Do you know why?"

She shook her head, her eyes downcast.

"Because I can lay them all at your feet," and as he speaks he bends on one knee beside her and draws her hand with trembling hands to his heart.

"See, Stella, I lay them at your feet. I say take them, if you think them worth—take them, and make them worth having; no, I say rather, share them with me? Set against your love, my darling, title, lands, wealth—are all worthless dross to me. Give me your love, Stella; I must, I will have it!" and he presses a passionate clinging kiss on her hand.

Frightened by his vehemence, Stella draws her hand away and shrinks back.

[90]

He rises and draws her to a seat, standing beside her calm and penitent.

"Forgive me, Stella! I frighten you! See, I will be quite gentle and quiet—only listen to me!"

"No, no," she murmurs, trembling, "I must not. Think—if—if—I said what you wish me to say, how could I meet the countess? What would they say to me? They would blame me for stealing your love."

"You have not stolen; no nun from a convent could have been more free from artifice than you, Stella. You have stolen nothing; it is I who have given—GIVEN you all."

She shook her head.

"It is the same," she murmured. "They would be so displeased. Oh, it cannot be."

"It cannot be?" he repeated, with a smile. "But it has already come to pass. Am I one to love and unlove in a breath, Stella? Look at me!"

She raises her eyes, and meets his eager, passionate gaze.

"Do I look like one to be swayed as a reed by any passing wind, gentle or rough? No, Stella, such love as I feel for you is not to be turned aside. Even if you were to tell me that you do not, cannot love me, my love would not die; it has taken root in my heart—it has become part of myself. There is not one hour since I saw you that I have not thought about you. Stella, you have come to me even in my sleep; I have dreamed that you whispered to me, 'I love you.' Let the dream be a true one. Oh, my life, my darling, let your heart speak, if it is to say that it loves me. See, Stella, you are all the world to me—do not rob me of happiness. You do not doubt my love?"

Doubt his love! That was not possible for her to do, since every word, every look, bore the impress of truth.

But still she would not yield. Even as he spoke, she fancied she could see the stern face of the earl looking at her with hard condemnation—could see the beautiful eyes of the countess looking down at her with cold displeasure and wondering, amazed scorn.

Footsteps were approaching, and she rose hurriedly, to fly from him if need be. But Lord Leycester was not a man to be turned aside. As she rose he took her arm gently, tenderly, with loving persuasion, and drew her near to him.

"Come with me," he said. "Do not leave me for a moment. See, the door is open—it is quite warm. We shall be alone here. Oh, my darling, do not leave me in suspense."

She was powerless to resist, and he led her on to the terrace outside.

Out into the dusky night, odorous with the breath of the flowers, and mystical in the dim light of the stars. A gentle summer, zephyr-like air stirred the trees; the sound of the water falling over the weir came like music up the hillside. A nightingale sang in the woods below them; all the night seemed full of slumberous passion and unspoken love.

"We are alone here, Stella," he murmured. "Now answer[91] me. Listen once more, darling! I am not tired of telling you; I shall never tire of it. Listen! I love you—I love you!"

The stars grew dull and misty before her eyes, the charm of his voice, of his presence, was stealing over her; the passionate love which burnt in her heart for him was finding its way through cool prudence, her lips were tremulous. A sigh, long and deep, broke from them.

"I love you!" he replied, as if the words were a spell, as indeed they were—a spell not to be resisted. "Give me your answer, Stella. Come close to me. Whisper it! whisper 'I love you,' or send me away. But you will not do that; no, you shall not do that!" and forgetful of his vow to be gentle with her, he put his arm round her, drew her to him and—kissed her.

It was the first kiss. A thrill ran through her, the sky seemed to sink, the whole night to pause as if it were waiting. With a little shudder of exquisite pleasure, mingled with that subtle pain which ecstasy always brings in its train, she laid her head upon his breast, and hiding her eyes, murmured—

"I love you!"

If the words meant much to him—to him the man of the world before whom many a beautiful woman had been