Only a Girl's Love. Garvice Charles

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ of the pictures which stood with their faces to the wall, and her gaze would wander from it to the painter sitting in the moonlight, his white hair falling on his shoulders, his thin, nervous hands clasped on his knee.

      She, who had spent her life in the most artistic city of the world, knew that he was a great painter, and, child-woman as she was, wondered why the world permitted him to remain unknown and unnoticed. She had yet to learn that he cared as little for fame as he did for wealth, and to be allowed to live for his art and dream in peace was all he asked from the world in which he lived but in which he took no part. Presently she came back to the window, and stood beside him; he started slightly and put out his hand, and she put her thin white one into it. The moon rose higher in the heavens, and the old man raised his other hand and pointed to it in silence.

      As he did so, Stella saw glide into the scene – as it was touched by the moonbeams – a large white building rearing above the trees on the hill-top, and she uttered an exclamation of surprise.

      "What house is that, uncle? I had no idea one was there until this moment!"

      "That is Wyndward Hall, Stella," he replied, dreamily; "it was hidden by the shadow and the clouds."

      "What a grand place!" she murmured. "Who lives there uncle?"

      "The Wyndwards," he answered, in the same musing tone, "the Wyndwards. They have lived there for hundreds of years, Stella. Yes, it is a grand place."

      "We should call it a palace in Italy, uncle."

      "It is a palace in England, but we are more modest. They are contented to call it the Hall. An old place and an old race."

      "Tell me about them," she said, quietly. "Do you know them – are they friends of yours?"

      "I know them. Yes, they are friends, as far as there be any friendship between a poor painter and the Lord of Wyndward. Yes, we are friends; they call them proud, but they are not too proud to ask James Etheridge to dinner occasionally; and they accuse him of pride because he declines to break the stillness of his life by accepting their hospitality. Look to the left there, Stella. As far as you can see stretch the lands of Wyndward – they run for miles between the hills there."

      "They have some reason to be proud," she murmured, with a smile. "But I like them because they are kind to you."

      He nodded.

      "Yes, the earl would be more than kind, I think – "

      "The earl?"

      "Yes, Lord Wyndward, the head of the family; the Lord of Wyndward they call him. They have all been called Lords of Wyndward by the people here, who look up to them as if they were something more than human."

      "And does he live there alone?" she asked, gazing at the gray stone mansion glistening in the moonlight.

      "No, there is a Lady Wyndward, and a daughter – poor girl."

      "Why do you say poor girl?" asked Stella.

      "Because all the wealth of the race would not make her otherwise than an object of tender pity. She is an invalid; you see that window – the one with the light in it?"

      "Yes," Stella said.

      "That is the window of her room; she lies there on a sofa, looking down the valley all the day!"

      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.

СКАЧАТЬ