CHAPTER XXXIV
I have carefully avoided describing Lord Leycester Wyndward as a "good" man. If to be generous, single-minded, impatient of wrong and pitiful of the wronged; if to be blessed, cursed with the capacity for loving madly and passionately; if to be without fear, either moral or physical, be heroic, then he was a hero; but I am afraid it cannot be said that he was "good."
Before many weeks had elapsed since his parting with Stella, the world had decided that he was indeed very bad. It is scarcely too much to say that his name was the red rag which was flourished in the eyes of those righteous, indignant bulls whose mission in life it is to talk over their fellow-creatures' ill deeds and worry them.
One mad exploit after another was connected with his name, and it soon came to pass that no desperate thing was done within the circle of the higher class, but he was credited with being the ringleader, or at least with having a hand in it.
It was said that at that select and notorious club, "The Rookery," Lord Leycester was the most desperate of gamblers and persistent of losers. Rumor went so far as to declare that even the Wyndward estates could not stand the inroads which his losses at the gaming table were making. It was rumored, and not contradicted, that he had "plunged" on the turf, and that his stud was one of the largest and most expensive in England.
The society papers were full of insinuating paragraphs hinting at the wildness of his career, and prophesying its speedy and disastrous termination. He was compared with the lost characters of past generations – likened to Lord Norbury, the Marquis of Waterford, and similar dissipated individuals. His handsome face and tall, thin, but still stalwart figure, had become famous, and people nudged each other and pointed him out when he passed along the fashionably-frequented thoroughfares.
His rare appearance in the haunts of society occasioned the deepest interest and curiosity.
One enterprising photographer had managed, by the exercise of vast ingenuity, to procure his likeness, and displayed copies in his window; but they were speedily and promptly withdrawn.
There was no reckless hardihood with which he was not credited. Men were proud of possessing a horse that he had ridden, because their capability of riding it proved their courage.
Scandal seized upon his name and made a hearty and never-ending meal of it; and yet, by some strange phenomenal chance, no one heard it connected with that of a woman.
Some said that he drank hard, rode hard, and played hard, and that he was fast rushing headlong to ruin, but no one ever hinted that he was dragging a member of the fair sex with him.
He was seen occasionally in drags bound to Richmond, or at Bohemian parties in St. John's Wood, but no woman could boast that he was her special conquest.
It was even said that he had suddenly acquired a distinct distaste for female society, and that he had been heard to declare that, but for the women, the world would still be worth living in.
It was very sad; society was shocked as well as curious, dismayed as well as intensely interested. Mothers with marriageable daughters openly declared that something ought to be done, that it was impossible that such a man, the heir to such a title and estates should be allowed to throw himself away. The deepest pity was expressed for Lady Wyndward, and one or two of the aforesaid mammas had ventured, with some tremors, to mention his case to that august lady. But they got little for their pains, save a calm, dignified, and haughty rebuff. Never, by word, look, or sign did the countess display the sorrow which was imbittering her life.
The stories of his ill-doings could not fail to reach her ears, seeing that they were common talk, but she never flushed or even winced. She knew when she entered a crowded room, and a sudden silence fell, to be followed by a spasmodic attempt at conversation, that those assembled were speaking of her son, but by no look or word did she confess to that knowledge.
Only in the secrecy of her own chamber did she let loose the floodgates of her sorrow and admit her despair. The time had come when she felt almost tempted to regret that he had not married "the little girl – the painter's niece," and settled down in his own way.
She knew that it was broken off; she knew, or divined that some plot had brought about the separation, but she had asked no questions, not even of Lenore, who was now her constant companion and chosen friend.
Between them Leycester's name was rarely mentioned. Not even from her husband would she hear aught of accusation against the boy who had ever been the one darling of her life.
Once old Lady Longford had pronounced his name, had spoken a couple of words or so, but even she could not get the mother to unburden her heart.
"What is to be done?" the old lady had asked, one morning when the papers had appeared with an account of a mad exploit in which the well-known initials Lord Y – W – had clearly indicated his complicity.
"I do not know," she had replied. "I do not think there is anything to be done."
"Do you mean that he is to be allowed to go on like this, to drift to ruin without a hand to stay him?" demanded the old lady almost wrathfully; and the countess had turned on her angrily.
"Who can do anything to stay him? Have you yourself not said that it is impossible, that he must be left alone?"
"I did, yes, I did," admitted the old countess, "but things were not so bad then, not nearly. All this is different. There is a woman in the case, Ethel!"
"Yes," said the countess, bitterly, "there is," and she felt tempted to echo the assertion which Leycester had been reputed to utter, "that if there had been no women the world would have been worth living in."
Then Lady Longford had attempted to "get at" Leycester through his companion Lord Charles, but Lord Charles had plainly intimated his helplessness.
"Going wrong," he said, shaking his head. "If Leycester's going wrong, so am I, because, don't you see, I'm bound to go with him. Always did, you know, and can't leave him now; too late in the day."
"And so you'll let your bosom friend go to the dogs" – the old lady had almost used a stronger word – "rather than say a word to stop him?"
"Say a word!" retorted Lord Charles, ruefully. "I've said twenty. Only yesterday I told him the pace couldn't last; but he only laughed and told me that was his business, and that it would last long enough for him."
"Lord Charles, you are a fool!" exclaimed the old lady.
And Lord Charles had shook his head.
"I daresay I am," he said, not a whit offended. "I always was where Leycester was concerned."
The one creature in the world – excepting Stella – who could have influenced him, knew nothing of what was going on.
The excitement of her visit to Stella, and her terrible interview during it, had utterly prostrated the delicate girl, and Lilian lay in her room in the mansion in Grosvenor Square, looking more like the flower namesake than ever.
The doctor had insisted that no excitement of any kind was to be permitted to approach her, and they had kept the rumors and stories of Leycester's doings from her knowledge.
He came to see her sometimes, and even in the darkened room she could see the ravages which the last few months had made with him; but he was always gentle and considerate toward her, and in response to her loving inquiries always declared that he was well – quite well. Stella's name, by mutual consent, was never mentioned between them. It was understood that that page of his life was closed for ever; but after every visit, when he had left her, she lay and wept over the knowledge that he had not forgotten her. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. As Stella had said, Leycester was not one to love and unlove in a day – in a week – in a month!
So the Summer had crept on to the Autumn. Not one word has he heard of Stella. Though she was in his thoughts day and night, alike in the hour of the wildest dissipation, and in the silent watches of the night, he had heard no word of her. All his efforts were directed towards forgetting her. And yet if he picked up a paper or a book and chanced to come upon her name – Stella! – a pang shot through his heart, and the blood fled from his face.
The Autumn had come, and London was almost deserted, but there were some who clung on still. There are some to whom the shady side of Pall Mall and their clubs are the only Paradise; and the card-rooms of the Rookery are by no means empty.
In the middle of September, when half "the town" was in the country popping at the birds, Leycester and Lord Charles were still haunting Pall Mall.
"Better go down and look at the birds," said Lord Charles one night, morning rather, for it was in the small hours. "What do you say to running down to my place, Ley?"
"My place" was Vernon Grange, a noble Elizabethan mansion, standing right in the center of one of the finest shooting districts. The grange was at present shut up, the birds running wild, the keepers in despair, all because Lord Leycester could not forget Stella, and his friend would not desert him!
"Suppose we start to-morrow morning," went on Lord Charles, struggling into his light over-coat and yawning. "We can take some fellows down! – plenty of birds, you know. Had a letter from the head keeper yesterday; fellow quite broken-hearted, give you my word! Come on, Ley! I'm sick of this, I am, indeed. I hate the place," and he glanced sleepily at the dimly lit hall of the Rookery. "What's the use of playing ecarte and baccarat night after night; it doesn't amuse you even if you win!"
Leycester was striding on, scarcely appearing to hear, but the word "amuse" roused him.
"Nothing 'amuses,' Charles," he said, quietly. "Nothing. Everything is a bore. The only thing is to forget, and the cards help me to do that, for a little while, at least – a little while."
Lord Charles nearly groaned.
"They'll make you forget you've anything to lose shortly," he said. "We've been going it like the very deuce, lately, Ley!"
Leycester stopped and looked at him, wearily, absently.
"I suppose we have, Charles," he said; "why don't you cut it? I don't mind it; it is a matter of indifference to me. But you! you can cut it. You shall go down to-morrow morning, and I'll stay."
"Thanks," said the constant friend. "I'm in the same boat, Ley, and I'll pull while you do. When you are tired of this foolery, we'll come to shore and be sensible human beings again. I shan't leave the boat till you do."
"You'll wait till it goes down?"
"Yes, I suppose I shall," was the quiet response, "if down it must go."
Leycester walked on in silence for a minute.
"What a mockery it all is!" he said, with a half smile.
"Yes," assented Lord Charles, slowly; "some people would call it by a stronger name, I suppose. I don't see the use of it. The use – why it's the very ruination. Ley, you are killing yourself."
"And you."
"No," said Lord Charles, coolly, "I'm all right – I've got nothing on my mind. I'm bored and used-up while it lasts, but when it's over I can turn in and get to sleep. You can't – or you don't."
Leycester thrust his hands in his pockets in silence, he could not deny it.
"I don't believe you sleep one night out of three," said Lord Charles. "You've got the mad fever, Ley. I wish it could be altered."
Leycester walked on still more quickly.
"You shall go down to-morrow, Charles," he said. "I don't think I'll come."
"Why not?"
Leycester stopped and put his hand on his arm, and looked at him with a feverish smile on his face.
"Simply because I cannot – I cannot. I hate the sight of a green field. I hate the country. Heaven! go down there! Charlie, you know dogs can't bear the sight of water when they are queer. You've got a river down there, haven't you? Well, the sight of that river, the sound of that stream, would drive me mad! I cannot go, but you shall."
Lord Charles shook his head.
"Very well. Where now! Let us go home."
Leycester stopped short.
"Good-night," he said. "Go home. Don't be foolish, Charlie – go home."
"And you!"
Leycester put his hand on his arm slowly, and looked round.
"Not home," he said – "not yet. I'm wakeful to-night."
And he smiled grimly.
"The thought of the meadow and the river has set me thinking. I'll go back to the 'Rookery.'"
Lord Charles turned without a word, and they went back.
The tables were still occupied, and the entrance of the two men was noticed and greeted with a word here and there. Lord Charles dropped on to a chair and called for some coffee – a great deal of coffee was drank at the "Rookery" – but Leycester wandered about from table to table.
Presently he paused beside some men who were playing baccarat.
They had been playing since midnight, and piles of notes, and gold, and I O U's told pretty plainly of the size of the stakes.
Leycester stood leaning on the back of a chair, absently watching the play, but his thoughts were wandering back to the meadows of Wyndward, and he stood once more beside the weir stream, with the lovely face upon his breast.
But suddenly a movement of one of the players opposite him attracted his attention, and he came back to the present with a start.
A young fellow – a mere boy – the heir to a marquisate, Lord Bellamy – the reader will not have forgotten him – had dropped suddenly across the table, his outstretched hands still clutching the cards. There was an instant stir, the men started to their feet, the servants crowded up; all stood aghast.
Leycester was the first to recover presence of mind, and, hurrying round the table, picked the boy up in his strong arms.
"What's the matter, Bell?" he said; then, as he glanced at the white face, with the dark lines round the eyes, he said in his quiet, composed voice: "He has fainted; fetch a doctor, some of you."
And lifting him easily in his arms, he carried him in to an adjoining room.
Lord Charles followed with a glass of water, but Leycester put it aside with the one word —
"Brandy."
Lord Charles brought some brandy and closed the door, the others standing outside aghast and frightened. Leycester poured some of the spirit through his closed teeth, and the boy came back to life – to what was left for him of life – and smiled up at him.
"The room was hot, Bell," said Leycester, in his gentle way; he could be gentle even now. "I wanted you to go home two – three – hours ago! Why didn't you go?"
"You – stayed – " gasped the boy.
Leicester's lips twitched.
"I!" he said. "That is a different matter."
The boy's head drooped, and fell back on Leycester's arm.
"Tell them not to stop the game," he said; "let somebody play for me!" then he went off again.
The doctor came, a fashionable, hardworked man, a friend both of Leycester's and Guildford's, and bent over the lad as he lay.
"It's a faint," said Lord Charles, nervously; "nothing else, eh, doctor?"
The doctor looked up.
"My brougham is outside," he said. "I will take him home."
Leycester nodded, and carried the slight frame through the hall and placed it in the brougham. The doctor followed. The cool air revived the boy, and he made an effort to sit up, looking round as if in search of something; at last his wandering sight fell on Leycester's, and he smiled.
"That's right, Bell!" said Leycester; "you will be well to-morrow; but mind, no more of this!" and he took the small white hand.
The heir to a marquisate clung to the hand, and smiled again.
"No, there will be no more of it, Leycester," he breathed, painfully. "There will be no more of anything for me; I have seen the last of the Rookery – and of you all. Leycester, I am dying!"
Leycester forced a smile to his white face.
"Nonsense, Bell," he said.
The boy raised a weak, trembling finger, and pointed to the doctor's face.
"Look at him," he said. "He never told a lie in his – life. Ask him."
"Tell them to drive on, my lord," said the doctor.
The boy laughed, an awful laugh; then his face changed, and even as the brougham moved on, he clung to Leycester's hand, and bending forward, panted:
"Leycester – good-bye!"
Leycester stood, white and motionless as a statue, for the space of a minute; then he turned to Lord Charles, who stood biting his pale lips and looking after the brougham.
"I will go with you to-morrow," he said, hoarsely.
CHAPTER XXXV
Time – which Lord Leycester had been so recklessly wasting in "riotous living" – passed very quiet indeed in the Thames valley, beneath the white walls of Wyndward Hall.
During the months which elapsed since that fearful parting between the two lovers, life had gone on at the cottage just as before, with the one great exception that Jasper Adelstone had become almost a daily visitor, and that Stella was engaged to him.
That was all the difference, but what a difference it was!
Lord Leycester gone – her tried, her first lover, the man who had won her maiden heart – and in his place this man whom she – hated.
But yet she fought the battle womanfully. She had made a bargain – she had sacrificed herself for her two loved ones, had given herself freely and unreservedly, and she strove to carry out her part of the compact.
She looked a little pale, a little graver than of old, but there was no querulous tone of complaint about her; if she did not laugh the frank, light-hearted laugh that her uncle used to declare was like the "voice of sunlight," she smiled sometimes; and if the smile was rather sad than mirthful, it was very sweet.
The old man noticed nothing amiss; he thought she had grown quieter, but set the change down to her betrothal; he went on painting, absorbed in his work, scarcely heeding the world that ran by him so merrily, so sadly, and was quite content. Jasper's quiet, low-toned voice did not disturb him, and he would go on painting while they were talking near him, dead to their presence. Since that last blow his boy's crime had struck him, he had lived more entirely and completely in his art than ever.
Of the two, Frank and Stella, perhaps it was Frank who seemed the most changed. He had grown thinner and paler, and more girlish and delicate-looking than ever.
It had been arranged that he should go up to the university for the next term, but Mr. Hamilton, the old doctor, who had been called in to see to a slight cough which the boy had started, had hummed and hawed, and advised that the 'varsity should be shelved for the present.
"Was he ill?" Stella had asked, anxiously – very anxiously, for, woman-like, she had grown to love with a passionate devotion the boy for whom she had sacrificed herself.
"N – o; not ill," the old doctor had said. "Certainly not ill," and he went on to explain that Frank was delicate – that all boys with fair hair and fair complexions were more or less delicate.
"But he has such a beautiful color," said Stella, nervously.
"Y – es; a nice color," said the old man, and that was all she could get out of him.
But the cough did not go; and as the Autumn mists stole up from the river and covered the meadows with a filmy veil, beautiful to behold, the cough got worse; but the beautiful color did not go either, and so Stella was not very anxious.
As for Frank himself, he treated his ailments with supreme indifference.
"Do I take any medicine?" he said, in answer to Stella's questioning. "Yes, I take all the old woman – I beg his pardon! – the doctor sends. It isn't very unpleasant, and though it doesn't do me much good apparently, it seems to afford you and the aforesaid old woman some satisfaction, and so we are pleased all round."
"You don't seem to take any interest in things, Frank," said Stella, one morning, when she had come into the garden to look at the trees that drew a long line of gold and brown and yellow along the river bank, and had found him leaning on the gate, his hands clasped before him, his eyes fixed on the Hall, very much as she had first seen him, the night he had come home.
He looked round at her and smiled faintly.
"Why don't you go and try the fish?" she said. "Or – or – go for a ride? You only wander about the gardens or in the meadows."
He looked at her curiously.
"Why do not you?" he said, slowly, his large blue eyes fixed on her face, which grew slowly blush-red under his regard. "You do not seem to take much interest in things, Stel. You don't go and fish, or – or – take a drive, or anything. You only wander about the garden, or in the meadows."
The long lashes swept her cheeks, and she struggled with a sigh. His words had told home.
"But – but," she said falteringly, "I am not a boy. Girls should stay at home and attend to their duties."
"And walk and move as if they were in a dream – as if their hearts and souls were divorced from their bodies – and miles, miles away," he said, waving his thin white hand in the air slowly.
Her lips quivered, and she turned her face away, but only for a moment; it was back upon him with a smile again.
"You are a foolish, fanciful boy!" she said, putting her hand on his shoulder and caressing his cheek.
"Perhaps so," he said. "'My fancies are more than all the world to me,' says the poet, you know," he added, bitterly.
Stella's heart ached.
"Are you angry with me, Frank?" she said. "Don't be!"
He shook his head.
"No, not angry," he said, looking out at the mist that was rising.
She smothered a sigh; she understood his reproach; not a moment of the day but he accused her in his heart of betraying Lord Leycester; if he could but have known why she had done it; but that he never would know!
"You are a fanciful boy," she said, with a forced lightness. "What are you dreaming about now, I wonder?"
"I was wondering too," he answered, without looking at her, "I was wondering – shall I tell you – "
She answered "yes," with her hand against his cheek.
"I was wondering where Lord Leycester was, and how – "
Her hand dropped to her side and pressed her heart; the sudden mention of the name had struck her like a blow.
He glanced round.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I forgot; his name was never to be mentioned, was it? I will not sin again – in word. In thought – one can't help one's thoughts, Stel!"
"No," she murmured, almost inaudibly.
"Thoughts are free," he said; "mine are not, however; they are always flying after him – after him, the best and noblest of men, the man who saved my life. You see, though I may not speak of him, it would be ungrateful to forget him!"
"Frank!"
At her tone of piteous supplication and almost reproach, he turned and put his hand on her arm.
"Forgive me, Stel! I didn't mean to hurt you, but – but – well it is so hard to understand, so hard to bear! To feel, to know that he is far away and suffering, while that man, Jasper Adelstone – I beg your pardon, Stel! There! I will say no more!"
"Do not," she murmured, her face white and strained, but resigned – "do not. Besides, you are wrong; he has forgotten by this time."
He turned and looked at her with a sudden anger; then he smiled as the exquisite beauty of her face smote him.
"You wrong him and yourself. No, Stel, men do not forget such a girl as you – "
"No more!" she said, almost in a tone of command.
He shook his head, and the cough came on and silenced him.
She put her arm round his neck.
"That cough," she said. "You must go in, dear! Look at the mist. Come, come in!"
He turned in silence and walked beside her for a few steps. Then he said tremulously:
"Stella, let me ask one question, and then I will be silent – for always."
"Well?" she said.
"Have you heard from him? – do you know where he is?"
She paused a moment to control her voice, then she said:
"I have heard no word; I do not know whether he is alive or dead."
He sighed and his head dropped upon his breast.
"Let us go in," he said, then he started, for his ears, particularly sharp, had caught the sound of a well-known footstep.
"There is – Jasper," he said, with a pause before the name, and he drew his arm away and walked away from her. Stella turned with a strange set smile on her face, the set smile which she had learnt to greet him with.
He came up the path with his quick and peculiar suppressed step, his hand outstretched. He would have taken her in his arms and kissed her – if he had dared. But he could not. With all his determination and resolution he dared not. There was something, some mysterious halo about his victim which kept him almost at arm's length; it was as if she had surrounded herself by a magic circle which he could not pass.
He took her hand and raised it to his lips and kissed it, his eyes drinking in her beauty and grace with a thirsty wistfulness.
"My darling," he murmured, in his soft, low voice, "out so late. Will you not catch cold?"
"No," she said, and like her smile her voice seemed set and tutored. "I shall not catch cold, I never do under any circumstance. But I have just sent Frank in, he has been coughing terribly – he does not seem at all strong."
He frowned with swift impatience.
"Frank is all right," he said, and there was a touch of jealousy in his voice. "Are you not unduly anxious about the boy – you alarm yourself without cause."
"Alarm myself," she repeated, ready to be alarmed at the suggestion. "I – don't think, I hope I am not alarmed. Why should I be?" she said, anxiously.
The jealousy grew more pronounced.
"There is no reason whatever," he said, shortly. "The boy is all right. He has been getting his feet wet and caught cold, that is all."
Stella smiled.
"Yes, that is all," she said, "of course. But it is strange Dr. Hamilton doesn't get rid of it for him."
"Perhaps he doesn't help the doctor," he retorted. "Boys always are careless about themselves. But don't let Frank absorb all the conversation," he said. "Let us talk of ourselves," and he kissed her hand again.
"Yes," said Stella, obediently.
He kept her hand in his and pressed it.
"I have come to speak to you to-night, Stella, about ourselves, darling. I want you to be very good to me!"
She looked forward at the lighted room with the same set expression, waiting patiently, obediently, for him to proceed. There was no response in her touch or in her face. He noticed it – he never failed to notice it, and it maddened him. He set his teeth hard.
"Stella, I have been waiting month after month to say what I am going to say now; but I couldn't wait any longer, my darling, my own, I wish the marriage to take place."
She did not start, but she turned and looked at him, and her face shone whitely in the darkness, and he felt a faint shudder in the hand imprisoned in his.
"Will you not speak?" he said, after a moment, almost angry, because of the tempest of passion and breathed tenderness that possessed him. "Have you nothing to say, or will you say 'no?' I almost expect it."
"I will not say no," she said, at last, and her voice was cold and strained. "You have a right – the right I have given you – to demand the fulfillment of our bargain."
"Good Heaven!" he broke in, passionately. "Why do you talk like this? Shall I never, never win you to love me? Will you never forget how we came together?"
"Do not ask me," she said, almost pleaded, and her face quivered. "Indeed – indeed, I try, try – try hard to forget the past, and to please you!"
It was piteous to hear and see her, and his heart ached; but it was for himself as well as for her.
"Do you doubt my love?" he said, hoarsely. "Do you think any man could love you better than I do? Does that count as nothing with you?"
"Yes, yes," she said, slowly, sadly. "It does count. I – I – " then she looked down. "Why will you speak of love between us?" she said. "Ask me – tell me to do anything, and I will do it, but do not speak of love!"
He bit his lip.
"Well," he said, with an effort, "I will not. I see I cannot touch your heart yet. But the time will come. You cannot stand against a love like mine. And you will let our marriage be soon?"
"Yes," she said, simply.
He raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it, hungrily, and she forced back the shudder which threatened to overmaster her.
"By soon," he murmured, as they walked toward the house, "I mean quite soon – before the winter."
Stella did not speak.
"Let it be next month, darling," he murmured. "I shall not feel sure of you until you are my very own. Once you are mine beyond question, I will teach you to love me."
Stella looked at him, and a strange, despairing smile, more bitter and sad than tears, shone on her pale lips. Teach her to love him! As if love could be taught!
"I am not afraid," he said, answering her smile; "no one could withstand it – not even you, though your heart were adamant."
"It is not that," she said, in a low voice, as she thought of the dull aching which was its pittance by day and night.
They went into the house. Mr. Etheridge was wandering about the room, smoking his pipe, his head upon his breast, buried in thought, as usual. Frank was lying back in the old arm-chair; he looked wearily-fragile and delicate, but the beautiful color shone in his face.
He looked up and nodded as Jasper entered, but Jasper was not satisfied with the nod, and went over to him and laid a hand upon his shoulder, at which the boy winced and shrank faintly; he never could bear Jasper to touch him, and always resented it.
"Well, Frank," he said, with his faint smile, "how's the cold to-night?"
Frank murmured something indistinctly, and shifted in his seat.
"Not so well, eh?" said Jasper. "It seems to me that a change would do you good. What do you say to going away for a little while?"
The boy looked up at Stella with a glance of alarm. Leave Stella!
"I don't want to go away," he said, shortly. "I am quite well. I hate a change."
Stella came up to his chair, and knelt beside him.
"It would do you good, dear," she said, in her low, musical voice.
He bent near her.
"Do you mean – alone?" he asked. "I don't want to go alone – I won't, in fact."
"No, not alone, certainly," said Jasper, with his smile. "I think some one else wants a change too."
And he looked at Stella tenderly.
"I'll go if Stella goes," said Frank, curtly.