As time passed on all constraint between Lord Earle and his daughters wore away; Ronald even wondered himself at the force of his own love for them. He had made many improvements since his return. He did wonders upon the estate; model cottages seemed to rise by magic in place of the wretched tenements inhabited by poor tenants; schools, almshouses, churches, all testified to his zeal for improvement. People began to speak with warm admiration of the Earlescourt estate and of their master.
Nor did he neglect social duties; old friends were invited to Earlescourt; neighbors were hospitably entertained. His name was mentioned with respect and esteem; the tide of popularity turned in his favor. As the spring drew near, Lord Earle became anxious for his daughters to make their debut in the great world. They could have no better chaperone than his own mother. Lady Helena was speaking to him one morning of their proposed journey, when Lord Earle suddenly interrupted her.
"Mother," he said, "where are all your jewels? I never see you wearing any."
"I put them all away," said Lady Earle, "when your father died. I shall never wear them again. The Earle jewels are always worn by the wife of the reigning lord, not by the widow of his predecessor. Those jewels are not mine."
"Shall we look them over?" asked Ronald. "Some of them might be reset for Beatrice and Lillian."
Lady Helena rang for her maid, and the heavy cases of jewelry were brought down. Beatrice was in raptures with them, and her sister smiled at her admiration.
The jewels might have sufficed for a king's ransom; the diamonds were of the first water; the rubies flashed crimson; delicate pearls gleamed palely upon their velvet beds; there were emeralds of priceless value. One of the most beautiful and costly jewels was an entire suite of opals intermixed with small diamonds.
"These," said Lord Earle, raising the precious stones in his hands, "are of immense value. Some of the finest opals ever seen are in this necklace; they were taken from the crown of an Indian price and bequeathed to one of our ancestors. So much is said about the unlucky stone—the pierre du malheur, as the French call the opal—that I did not care so much for them."
"Give me the opals, papa," said Beatrice, laughing; "I have no superstitious fears about them. Bright and beautiful jewels always seemed to me one of the necessaries of life. I prefer diamonds, but these opals are magnificent."
She held out her hands, and for the first time Lord Earle saw the opal ring upon her finger. He caught the pretty white hand in his own.
"That is a beautiful ring," he said. "These opals are splendid. Who gave it to you, Beatrice?"
The question came upon her suddenly like a deadly shock; she had forgotten all about the ring, and wore it only from habit.
For a moment her heart seemed to stand still and her senses to desert her. Then with a self-possession worthy of a better cause, Beatrice looked up into her father's face with a smile.
"It was given to me at the Elms," she said, so simply that the same thought crossed the minds of her three listeners—that it had been given by Dora and her daughter did not like to say so.
Lord Earle looked on in proud delight while his beautiful daughters chose the jewels they liked best. The difference in taste struck and amused him. Beatrice chose diamonds, fiery rubies, purple amethysts; Lillian cared for nothing but the pretty pale pearls and bright emeralds.
"Some of those settings are very old-fashioned," said Lord Earle. "We will have new designs from Hunt and Boskell. They must be reset before you go to London."
The first thing Beatrice did was to take off the opal ring and lock it away. She trembled still from the shock of her father's question. The fatal secret vexed her. How foolish she had been to risk so much for a few stolen hours of happiness—for praise and flattery—she could not say for love.
The time so anxiously looked for came at last. Lord Earle took possession of his town mansion, and his daughters prepared for their debut. It was in every respect a successful one. People were in raptures with the beautiful sisters, both so charming yet so unlike. Beatrice, brilliant and glowing, her magnificent face haunted those who saw it like a beautiful dream—Lillian, fair and graceful, as unlike her sister as a lily to a rose.
They soon became the fashion. No ball or soiree, no dance or concert was considered complete without them. Artists sketched them together as "Lily and Rose," "Night and Morning," "Sunlight and Moonlight." Poets indited sonnets to them; friends and admirers thronged around them. As Beatrice said, with a deep-drawn sigh of perfect contentment, "This is life"—and she reveled in it.
That same year the Earl of Airlie attained his majority, and became the center of all fashionable interest. Whether he would marry and whom he would be likely to marry were two questions that interested every mother and daughter in Belgravia. There had not been such an eligible parti for many years. The savings of a long minority alone amounted to a splendid fortune.
The young earl had vast estates in Scotland. Lynnton Hall and Craig Castle, two of the finest seats in England, were his. His mansion in Belgravia was the envy of all who saw it.
Young, almost fabulously wealthy, singularly generous and amiable, the young Earl of Airlie was the center of at least half a hundred of matrimonial plots; but he was not easily managed. Mammas with blooming daughters found him a difficult subject. He laughed, talked, danced, walked, and rode, as society wished him to do; but no one had touched his heart, or even his fancy. Lord Airlie was heart-whole, and there seemed no prospect of his ever being anything else. Lady Constance Tachbrook, the prettiest, daintiest coquette in London, brought all her artillery of fascination into play, but without success. The beautiful brunette, Flora Cranbourne, had laid a wager that, in the course of two waltzes, she would extract three compliments from him, but she failed in the attempt. Lord Airlie was pronounced incorrigible.
The fact was that his lordship had been sensibly brought up. He intended to marry when he could find some one to love him for himself, and not for his fortune. This ideal of all that was beautiful, noble, and true in woman the earl was always searching for, but as yet had not found.
On all sides he had heard of the beauty of Lord Earle's daughters, but it did not interest him. He had been hearing of, seeing, and feeling disappointed in beautiful women for some years. Many people made the point of meeting the "new beauties," but he gave himself no particular trouble. They were like every one else, he supposed.
One morning, having nothing else to do, Lord Airlie went to a fete given in the beautiful grounds of Lady Downham. He went early, intending to remain only a short time. He found but a few guests had arrived. After paying the proper amount of homage to Lady Downham, the young earl wandered off into the grounds.
It was all very pretty and pleasant, but he had seen the same before, and was rather tired of it. The day was more Italian than English, bright and sunny, the sky blue, the air clear and filled with fragrance, the birds singing as they do sing under bright, warm skies.
Flags were flying from numerous tents, bands of music were stationed in different parts of the grounds, the fountains played merrily in the sunlit air. Lord Airlie walked mechanically on, bowing in reply to the salutations he received.
A pretty little bower, a perfect thicket of roses, caught his attention. From it one could see all over the lake, with its gay pleasure boats. Lord Airlie sat down, believing himself to be quite alone; but before he had removed a large bough that interfered with the full perfection of the view he heard voices on the other side of the thick, sheltering rose bower.
He listened involuntarily, for one of the voices was clear and pure, the other more richly musical than any he had ever heard at times sweet as the murmur of the cushat dove, and again ringing joyously and brightly.
"I hope we shall not have to wait here long, Lillian," the blithe voice was saying. "Lady Helena promised to take us on the lake."
"It is very pleasant," was the reply; "but you always like to be in the very center of gayety."
"Yes," said Beatrice; "I have had enough solitude and quiet to last me for life. Ah, Lillian, this is all delightful. You think so, but do not admit it honestly as I do."
There was a faint, musical laugh, and then the sweet voice resumed:
"I am charmed, Lillian, with this London life; this is worth calling life—every moment is a golden one. If there is a drawback, it consists in not being able to speak one's mind."
"What do you mean?" asked Lillian.
"Do you not understand?" was the reply. "Lady Helena is always talking to me about cultivating what she calls 'elegant repose.' Poor, dear grandmamma! Her perfect idea of good manners seems to me to be a simple absence—in society, at least—of all emotion and all feeling. I, for one, do not admire the nil admirari system."
"I am sure Lady Helena admires you, Bee," said her sister.
"Yes," was the careless reply. "Only imagine, Lillian, yesterday, when Lady Cairn told me some story about a favorite young friend of hers the tears came to my eyes. I could not help it, although the drawing room was full. Lady Helena told me I should repress all outward emotion. Soon after, when Lord Dolchester told me a ridiculous story about Lady Everton, I laughed—heartily, I must confess, though not loudly—and she looked at me. I shall never accomplish 'elegant repose.'"
"You would not be half so charming if you did," replied her sister.
"Then it is so tempting to say at times what one really thinks! I can not resist it. When Lady Everton tells me, with that tiresome simper of hers, that she really wonders at herself, I long to tell her other people do the same thing. I should enjoy, for once, the luxury of telling Mrs. St. John that people flatter her, and then laugh at her affectation. It is a luxury to speak the truth at all times, is it not, Lily? I detest everything false, even a false word; therefore I fear Lady Helena will never quite approve of my manner."
"You are so frank and fearless! At the Elms, do you remember how every one seemed to feel that you would say just the right thing at the right time?" asked Lillian.
"Do not mention that place," replied Beatrice; "this life is so different. I like it so much, Lily—all the brightness and gayety. I feel good and contented now. I was always restless and longing for life; now I have all I wish for."
There was a pause then, and Lord Airlie longed to see who the speakers were—who the girl was that spoke such frank, bright words—that loved truth, and hated all things false—what kind of face accompanied that voice. Suddenly the young earl remembered that he was listening, and he started in horror from his seat. He pushed aside the clustering roses. At first he saw nothing but the golden blossoms of a drooping laburnum; then, a little further on, he saw a fair head bending over some fragrant flowers; then a face so beautiful, so perfect, that something like a cry of surprise came from Lord Airlie's lips.
He had seen many beauties, but nothing like this queenly young girl. Her dark, bright eyes were full of fire and light; the long lashes swept her cheek, the proud, beautiful lips, so haughty in repose, so sweet when smiling, were perfect in shape. From the noble brow a waving mass of dark hair rippled over a white neck and shapely shoulders. It was a face to think and dream of, peerless in its vivid, exquisite coloring and charmingly molded features. He hardly noticed the fair-haired girl.
"Who can she be?" thought Lord Airlie. "I believed that I had seen every beautiful woman in London."
Satisfied with having seen what kind of face accompanied the voice, the young earl left the pretty rose thicket. His friends must have thought him slightly deranged. He went about asking every one, "Who is here today?" Among others, he saluted Lord Dolchester with that question.
"I can scarcely tell you," replied his lordship. "I am somewhat in a puzzle. If you want to know who is the queen of the fete, I can tell you. It is Lord Earle's daughter, Miss Beatrice Earle. She is over there, see with Lady Downham."
Looking in the direction indicated, Lord Airlee saw the face that haunted him.
"Yes," said Lord Dolchester, with a gay laugh; "and if I were young and unfettered, she would not be Miss Earle much longer."
Lord Airlie gazed long and earnestly at the beautiful girl who looked so utterly unconscious of the admiration she excited.
"I must ask Lady Downham to introduce me," he said to himself, wondering whether the proud face would smile upon him, and, if she carried into practice her favorite theory of saying what she thought, what she would say to him.
Lady Downham smiled when the young earl made his request.
"I have been besieged by gentlemen requesting introductions to Miss Earle," she said. "Contrary to your general rule, Lord Airlie, you go with the crowd."
He would have gone anywhere for one word from those perfect lips. Lady Downham led him to the spot where Beatrice stood, and in a few courteous words introduced him to her.
Lord Airlie was celebrated for his amiable, pleasing manner. He always knew what to say and how to say it, but when those magnificent eyes looked into his own, the young earl stood silent and abashed. In vain he tried confusedly to utter a few words; his face flushed, and Beatrice looked at him in wonder.—Could this man gazing so ardently at her be the impenetrable Lord Airlie?
He managed at length to say something about the beauty of the grounds and the brightness of the day. Plainly as eyes could speak, hers asked: Had he nothing to say?
He lingered by her side, charmed and fascinated by her grace; she talked to Lillian and to Lady Helena; she received the homage offered to her so unconscious of his presence and his regard that Lord Airlie was piqued. He was not accustomed to being overlooked.
"Do you never grow tired of flowers and fetes, Miss Earle?" he asked at length.
"No," replied Beatrice, "I could never grow tired of flowers—who could? As for fetes, I have seen few, and have liked each one better than the last."
"Perhaps your life has not been, like mine, spent among them," he said.
"I have lived among flowers," she replied, "but not among fetes; they have all the charm of novelty for me."
"I should like to enjoy them as you do," he said. "I wish you would teach me, Miss Earle."
She laughed gayly, and the sound of that laugh, like a sweet, silvery chime, charmed Lord Airlie still more.
He found out the prettiest pleasure boat, and persuaded Beatrice to let him row her across the lake. He gathered a beautiful water lily for her. When they landed, he found out a seat in the prettiest spot and placed her there.
Her simple, gay manner delighted him. He had never met any one like her. She did not blush, or look conscious, or receive his attentions with the half-fluttered sentimental air common to most young ladies of his acquaintance.
She never appeared to remember that he was Lord Airlie, nor sought by any artifice to keep him near her. The bright, sunny hours seemed to pass rapidly as a dream. Long before the day ended, the young earl said to himself that he had met his fate; that if it took years to win her he would count them well spent that in all the wide world she was the wife for him.
Lord Earle was somewhat amused by the solicitude the young nobleman showed in making his acquaintance and consulting his tastes. After Lady Downham's fete he called regularly at the house. Lady Helena liked him, but could hardly decide which of her grandchildren it was that attracted him.
The fastidious young earl, who had smiled at the idea of love and had disappointed half the fashionable mothers in Belgravia, found himself a victim at last.
He was diffident of his own powers, hardly daring to hope that he should succeed in winning the most beautiful and gifted girl in London. He was timid in her presence, and took refuge with Lillian.
All fashionable London was taken by surprise when Lord Airlie threw open his magnificent house, and, under the gracious auspices of his aunt, Lady Lecomte, issued invitations for a grand ball.
Many were the conjectures, and great was the excitement. Lord Earle smiled as he showed Lady Helena the cards of invitation.
"Of course you will go," he said. "We have no engagement for that day. See that the girls look their best, mother."
He felt very proud of his daughters—Lillian, looking so fair and sweet in her white silk dress and favorite pearls! Beatrice, like a queen, in a cloud of white lace, with coquettish dashes of crimson. The Earle diamonds shone in her dark hair, clasped the fair white throat, and encircled the beautiful arms. A magnificent pomegranate blossom lay in the bodice of her dress, and she carried a bouquet of white lilies mixed with scarlet verbena.
The excitement as to the ball had been great. It seemed like a step in the right direction at last. The great question was, with whom would Lord Airlie open the ball? Every girl was on the qui vive.
The question was soon decided. When Beatrice Earle entered the room, Lord Airlie went straight to meet her and solicited her hand for the first dance. She did not know how much was meant by that one action.
He wondered, as he looked upon her, the queen of the most brilliant ball of the season, whether she would ever love him if it was within the bounds of possibility that she should ever care for him. That evening, for the first time, he touched the proud heart of Beatrice Earle. On all sides she had heard nothing but praises of Lord Airlie his wealth, his talents, his handsome person and chivalrous manner. The ladies were eloquent in praise of their young host. She looked at him, and for the first time remarked the noble, dignified carriage, the tall, erect figure, the clear-cut patrician face—not handsome according to the rules of beauty, but from the truth and honor written there in nature's plainest hand.
Then she saw—and it struck her with surprise how Lord Airlie, so courted and run after, sought her out. She saw smiles on friendly faces, and heard her name mingled with his.
"My dear Miss Earle," said Lady Everton, "you have accomplished wonders—conquered the unconquerable. I believe every eligible young lady in London has smiled upon Lord Airlie, and all in vain. What charm have you used to bring him to your feet?"
"I did not know that he was at my feet," replied Beatrice. "You like figurative language, Lady Everton."
"You will find I am right," returned lady Everton. "Remember I was the first to congratulate you."
Beatrice wondered, in a sweet, vague way, if there could be anything in it. She looked again at Lord Airlie. Surely any one might be proud of the love of such a man. He caught her glance, and her face flushed. In a moment he was by her side.
"Miss Earle," he said, eagerly, "you told me the other day you liked flowers. If you have not been in the conservatory, may I escort you there?"
She silently accepted his arm, and they went through the magnificent suite of rooms into the cool, fragrant conservatory.
The pretty fountain in the midst rippled musically, and the lamps gleamed like pale stars among masses of gorgeous color.
Beatrice was almost bewildered by the profusion of beautiful plants. Tier upon tier of superb flowers rose until the eye was dazzled by the varied hues and brightness—delicate white heaths of rare perfection, flaming azaleas, fuchsias that looked like showers of purple-red wine. The plant that charmed Beatrice most was one from far-off Indian climes—delicate, perfumed blossoms, hanging like golden bells from thick, sheltering green leaves. Miss Earle stood before it, silent in sheer admiration.
"You like that flower?" said Lord Airlie.
"It is one of the prettiest I ever saw," she replied.
In a moment he gathered the fairest sprays from the precious tree. She cried out in dismay at the destruction.
"Nay," said Lord Airlie, "if every flower here could be compressed into one blossom, it would hardly be a fitting offering to you."
She smiled at the very French compliment, and he continued—"I shall always have a great affection for that tree."
"Why?" she asked, unconsciously.
"Because it has pleased you," he replied.
They stood by the pretty plant, Beatrice touching the golden bells softly with her fingers. Something of the magic of the scene touched her. She did not know why the fountain rippled so musically, why the flowers seemed doubly fair as her young lover talked to her. She had been loved. She had heard much of love, but she herself had never known what it really meant. She did not know why, after a time, her proud, bright eyes drooped, and had never met Lord Airlie's gaze, why her face flushed and grew pale, why his words woke a new, strange, beautiful music in her heart—music that never died until—
"I ask for one spray—only one—to keep in memory of this pleasant hour," said Lord Airlie, after a pause.
She gave him a spray of the delicate golden bells.
"I should like to be curious and rude," he said, "and ask if you ever gave any one a flower before?"
"No," she replied.
"Then I shall prize this doubly," he assured her.
That evening Lord Airlie placed the golden blossom carefully away. The time came when he would have parted with any treasure on earth rather than that.
But his question had suddenly disturbed Beatrice. For a moment her thoughts flew to the sea shore at Knutsford. The present faded from her; she saw Hugh Fernely's face as it looked when he offered her the beautiful lily. The very remembrance of it made her shudder as though seized with deathly cold—and Lord Airlie saw it.
"You are cold," he said; "how careless I am to keep you standing here!" He helped her to draw the costly lace shawl around her shoulders, and Beatrice was quickly herself again, and they returned to the ball room; but Lord Airlie lingered by Miss Earle.
"You have enjoyed the ball, Beatrice," said Lord Earle, as he bade his daughters good night.
"I have, indeed, papa," she replied. "This has been the happiest evening of my life."
"I can guess why," thought Lord Earle, as he kissed the bright face upraised to him; "there will be no wretched underhand love business there."
He was not much surprised on the day following when Lord Airlie was the first morning caller, and the last to leave, not going until Lady Helena told him that they should all be at the opera that evening and should perhaps see him there. He regretted that he had promised Lady Morton his box for the night, when Lady Earle felt herself bound to ask him to join them in theirs.
All night Beatrice had dreamed of the true, noble face which began to haunt her. She, usually so regardless of all flattery, remembered every word Lord Airlie had spoken. Could it be true, as Lady Everton had said, that he cared for her?
Her lover would have been spared many anxious hours could he have seen how the golden blossoms were tended and cared for. Long afterward they were found with the little treasures which young girls guard so carefully.
When Lord Airlie had taken his departure and Lord Earle found himself alone with his mother, he turned to her with the happiest look she had ever seen upon his face.
"That seems to me a settled affair," he said. "Beatrice will make a grand countess—Lady Airlie of Lynnton. He is the finest young fellow and the best match in England. Ah, mother, my folly might have been punished more severely. There will no mesalliance there."
"No," said Lady Earle, "I have no fears for Beatrice; she is too proud ever to do wrong."
It was a pretty love story, although told in crowded London ball rooms instead of under the shade of green trees. Beatrice Earle began by wondering if Lord Airlie cared for her; she ended by loving him herself.
It was no child's play this time. With Beatrice, to love once was to love forever, with fervor and intensity which cold and worldly natures can not even understand.
The time came when Lord Airlie stood out distinct from all the world, when the sound of his name was like music, when she saw no other face, heard no other voice, thought of nothing else save him. He began to think there might be some hope for him; the proud, beautiful face softened and brightened for him as it did for no other, and the glorious dark eyes never met his own, the frank, bright words died away in his presence. Seeing all these things, Lord Airlie felt some little hope.
For the first time he felt proud and pleased with the noble fortune and high rank that were his by birthright. He had not cared much for them before; now he rejoiced that he could lavish wealth and luxury upon one so fair and worthy as Beatrice Earle.
Lord Airlie was not a confident lover. There were times when he felt uncertain as to whether he should succeed. Perhaps true and reverential love is always timid. Lord Earle had smiled to himself many long weeks at the "pretty play" enacted before him, and Lady Helena had wondered when the young man would "speak out" long before Lord Airlie himself presumed to think that the fairest and proudest girl in London would accept him.
No day ever passed during which he did not manage to see her. He was indefatigable in finding out the balls, soirees, and operas she would attend. He was her constant shadow, never happy out of her sight, thinking of her all day, dreaming of her all night, yet half afraid to risk all and ask her to be his wife, lest he should lose her.
To uninterested speculators Lord Airlie was a handsome, kindly, honorable young man. Intellectual, somewhat fastidious, lavishly generous, a great patron of fine arts; to Beatrice Earle he was the ideal of all that was noble and to be admired. He was a prince among men. The proud heart was conquered. She loved him and said to herself that she would rather love him as a neglected wife than be the worshiped wife of any other man.
She had many admirers; "the beautiful Miss Earle" was the belle of the season. Had she been inclined to coquetry or flirtation she would not have been so eagerly sought after. The gentlemen were quite as much charmed by her utter indifference and haughty acceptance of their homage as by her marvelous beauty.
At times Beatrice felt sure that Lord Airlie loved her; then a sudden fit of timidity would seize her young lover, and again she would doubt it. One thing she never doubted—her own love for him. If her dreams were all false, and he never asked her to be his wife, she said to herself that she would never be the wife of any other man.
The remembrance of Hugh Fernely crossed her mind at times—not very often, and never with any great fear or apprehension. It seemed to her more like a dark, disagreeable dream than a reality. Could it be possible that she, Beatrice Earle, the daughter of that proud, noble father, so sternly truthful, so honorable, could ever have been so mad or so foolish? The very remembrance of it made the beautiful face flush crimson. She could not endure the thought, and always drove it hastily from her.
The fifteenth of July was drawing near; the two years had nearly passed, yet she was not afraid. He might never return, he might forget her, although, remembering his looks and words, that, she feared, could not be.
If he went to Seabay—if he went to the Elms, it was not probable that he would ever discover her whereabouts, or follow her to claim the fulfillment of her absurd promise. At the very worst, if he discovered that she was Lord Earle's daughter, she believed that her rank and position would dazzle and frighten him. Rarely as those thoughts came to her, and speedily as she thrust them from her, she considered them a dear price for the little novelty and excitement that had broken the dead level calm of life at the Elms.
Lord Airlie, debating within himself whether he should risk, during the whirl and turmoil of the London season, the question upon which the happiness of his life depended, decided that he would wait until Lord Earle returned to Earlescourt, and follow him there.
The summer began to grow warm; the hawthorn and apple blossoms had all died away; the corn waved in the fields, ripe and golden; the hay was all gathered in; the orchards were all filled with fruit. The fifteenth of July—the day that in her heart Beatrice Earle had half feared—was past and gone. She had been nervous and half frightened when it came, starting and turning deathly pale at the sound of the bell or of rapid footsteps. She laughed at herself when the day ended. How was it likely he would find her? What was there in common between the beautiful daughter of Lord Earle and Hugh Fernely, the captain of a trading vessel? Nothing, save folly and a foolish promise rashly asked and rashly given.
Three days before Lord Earle left London, he went by appointment to meet some friends at Brookes's. While there, a gentleman entered the room who attracted his attention, most forcibly—a young man of tall and stately figure, with a noble head, magnificently set upon broad shoulders; a fine, manly face, with proud, mobile features—at times all fire and light, the eyes clear and glowing, again, gentle as the face of a smiling woman. Lord Earle looked at him attentively; there seemed to be something familiar in the outline of the head and face, the haughty yet graceful carriage.
"Who is that?" he inquired of his friend, Captain Langdon. "I have seen that gentleman before, or have dreamed of him."
"Is it possible that you do not know him?" cried the captain. "That is Lionel Dacre, 'your next of kin,' if I am not mistaken."
Pleasure and pain struggled in Lord Earle's heart. He remembered Lionel many years ago, long before he committed the foolish act that had cost him so much. Lionel had spent some time with him at Earlescourt; he remembered a handsome and high-spirited boy, proud and impetuous, brave to rashness, generous to a fault; a fierce hater of everything mean and underhand; truthful and honorable—his greatest failing, want of cool, calm thought.
Lionel Dacre was poor in those days; now he was heir to Earlescourt, heir to the title that, with all his strange political notions, Ronald Earle ever held in high honor; heir to the grand old mansion and fair domain his father had prized so highly. Pleasure and pain were strangely intermingled in his heart when he remembered that no son of his would every succeed him, that he should never train his successor. The handsome boy that had grown into so fine a man must take his place one day.
Lord Earle crossed the room, and going up to the young man, laid one hand gently upon his shoulder.
"Lionel," he said, "it is many years since we met. Have you no remembrance of me?"
The frank, clear eyes looked straight into his. Lord Earle's heart warmed as he gazed at the honest, handsome face.
"Not the least in the world," replied Mr. Dacre, slowly. "I do not remember ever to have seen you before."
"Then I must have changed," said Lord Earle. "When I saw you last, Lionel, you were not much more than twelve years old, and I gave you a 'tip' the day you went back to Eton. Charlie Villiers was with you."
"Then you are Lord Earle," returned Lionel. "I came to London purposely to see you," and his frank face flushed, and he held out his hand in greeting.
"I have been anxious to see you," said Lord Earle; "but I have not been long in England. We must be better acquainted; you are my heir at law."
"Your what?" said Mr. Dacre, wonderingly.
"My heir," replied Lord Earle. "I have no son; my estates are entailed, and you are my next of kin."
"I thought you had half a dozen heirs and heiresses," said Lionel. "I remember some story of a romantic marriage. Today I hear of nothing but the beautiful Miss Earle."
"I have no son," interrupted Lord Earle, sadly. "I wrote to you last week, asking you to visit me. Have you any settled home?"
"No," replied the young man gayly. "My mother is at Cowes, and I have been staying with her."
"Where are you now?" asked Lord Earle.
"I am with Captain Poyntz, at his chambers; I promised to spend some days with him," replied Lionel, who began to look slightly bewildered.
"I must not ask you to break an engagement," said Lord Earle, "but will you dine with us this evening, and, when you leave Captain Poyntz, come to us?"
"I shall be very pleased," said Lionel, and the two gentlemen left Brookes's together.
"I must introduce you to Lady Earle and my daughters," said Ronald, as they walked along. "I have been so long absent from home and friends that it seems strange to claim relationship with any one."
"I could never understand your fancy for broiling in Africa, when you might have been happier at home," said Lionel.
"Did you not know? Have you not heard why I went abroad?" asked Lord Earle, gravely.
"No," replied Lionel. "Your father never invited me to Earlescourt after you left."
In a few words Lord Earle told his heir that he had married against his father's wish, and in consequence had never been pardoned.
"And you gave up everything," said Lionel Dacre—"home, friends, and position, for the love of a woman. She must have been well worth loving."
Lord Earle grew pale, as with sudden pain. Had Dora been so well worth loving? Had she been worth the heavy price?
"You are my heir," he said gravely—"one of my own race; before you enter our circle, Lionel, and take your place there, I must tell you that my wife and I parted years ago, never to meet again. Do not mention her to me—it pains me."
Lionel looked at the sad face; he could understand the shadows there now.
"I will not," he said. "She must have been—"
"Not one word more," interrupted Lord Earle. "In your thoughts lay no unjust blame on her. She left me of her own free will. My mother lives with me; she will be pleased to see you. Remember—seven sharp."
"I shall not forget," said Lionel, pained at the sad words and the sad voice.
As Lord Earle went home for the first time during the long years, a softer and more gentle thought of Dora came to him. "She must have been—" What—what did Lionel suspect of her? Could it be that, seeing their divided lives, people judged as his young kinsman had judged—that they thought Dora to blame—criminal, perhaps? And she had never in her whole life given one thought to any other than himself; nay, her very errors—the deed he could not pardon—sprung from her great affection for him. Poor Dora! The pretty, blushing face, with its sweet, shy eyes, and rosy lips, came before him—the artless, girlish love, the tender worship. If it had been anything else, any other fault, Ronald must have forgiven her in that hour. But his whole heart recoiled again as the hated scene rose before him.
"No," he said, "I can not forgive it. I can not forget it. Men shall respect Dora; no one must misjudge her; but I can not take her to my heart or my home again. In the hour of death," he murmured, "I will forgive her."
Lady Earle thought her son looked graver and sadder that day than she had ever seen him. She had not the clew to his reflections; she did not know how he was haunted by the thought of the handsome, gallant young man who must be his heir—how he regretted that no son of his would ever succeed him—how proud he would have been of a son like Lionel. He had but two children, and they must some day leave Earlescourt for homes of their own. The grand old house, the fair domain, must all pass into the hands of strangers unless Lionel married one of the beautiful girls he loved so dearly.
Lady Helena understood a little of what was passing in his mind when he told her that he had met Lionel Dacre, who was coming to dine with him that day.
"I used to hope Beatrice might like him," said Lady Earle; "but that will never be—Lord Airlie has been too quick. I hope he will not fall in love with her; it would only end in disappointment."
"He may like Lillian," said Lord Earle.
"Yes," assented Lady Helena. "Sweet Lily—she seems almost too pure and fair for this dull earth of ours."
"If they both marry, mother," said Ronald, sadly, "we shall be quite alone."
"Yes," she returned, "quite alone," and the words smote her with pain. She looked at the handsome face, with its sad, worn expression. Was life indeed all over for her son—at the age, too, when other men sunned themselves in happiness, when a loving wife should have graced his home, cheered and consoled him, shared his sorrows, crowned his life with love? In the midst of his wealth and prosperity, how lonely he was! Could it be possible that one act of disobedience should have entailed such sad consequences? Ah, if years ago Ronald had listened to reason, to wise and tender counsel—if he had but given up Dora and married Valentine Charteris, how different his life would have been, how replete with blessings and happiness, how free from care!
Lady Earle's eyes grew dim with tears as these thoughts passed through her mind. She went up to him and laid her hand upon his shoulder.
"Ronald," she said, "I will do my best to make home happy after our bonny birds are caged. For your sake, I wish things had been different."
"Hush, mother," he replied gently. "Words are all useless. I must reap as I have sown; the fruits of disobedience and deceit could never beget happiness. I shall always believe that evil deeds bring their own punishment. Do not pity me—it unnerves me. I can bear my fate."
Lady Helena was pleased to see Lionel again. She had always liked him, and rejoiced now in his glorious manhood. He stood before the two sisters, half dazzled by their beauty. The fair faces smiled upon him; pretty, white hands were outstretched to meet his own.
"I am bewildered by my good fortune," he said. "I shall be the envy of every man in London; people will no longer call me Lionel Dacre. I shall be known as the cousin of 'Les Demoiselles Earle.' I have neither brother nor sister of my own. Fancy the happiness of falling into the midst of such a family group."
"And being made welcome there!" interrupted Beatrice. Lionel bowed profoundly. At first he fancied he preferred this brilliant, beautiful girl to her fair, gentle sister. Her frank, fearless talk delighted him. After the general run of young ladies—all fashioned, he thought, after one model—it was refreshing to meet her. Her ideas were so original.
Lord Airlie joined the little dinner party, and then Lionel Dacre read the secret which Beatrice hardly owned even to herself.
"I shall not be shipwrecked on that rock," he said to himself. "When Beatrice Earle speaks to me her eyes meet mine; she smiles, and does not seem afraid of me; but when Lord Airlie speaks she turns from him, and her beautiful eyes droop. She evidently cares more for him than for all the world besides."
But after a time the fair, spirituelle loveliness of Lillian stole into his heart. There was a marked difference between the two sisters. Beatrice took one by storm, so to speak; her magnificent beauty and queenly grace dazzled and charmed one. With Lillian it was different. Eclipsed at first sight by her more brilliant sister, her fair beauty grew upon one by degrees. The sweet face, the thoughtful brow, the deep dreamy eyes, the golden ripples of hair, the ethereal expression on the calm features, seemed gradually to reveal their charm. Many who at first overlooked Lillian, thinking only of her brilliant sister, ended by believing her to be the more beautiful of the two.
They stood together that evening, the two sisters, in the presence of Lord Airlie and Lionel Dacre. Beatrice had been singing, and the air seemed still to vibrate with the music of her passionate voice.
"You sing like a siren," said Mr. Dacre; he felt no diffidence in offering so old a compliment to his kins-woman.
"No," replied Beatrice; "I may sing well—in fact, I believe I do. My heart is full of music, and it overflows on my lips; but I am no siren, Mr. Dacre. No one ever heard of a siren with dusky hair and dark brows like mine."
"I should have said you sing like an enchantress," interposed Lord Airlie, hoping that he was apter in his compliments.
"You have been equally wrong, my lord," she replied, but she did not laugh at him as she had done at Lionel. "If I were an enchantress," she continued, "I should just wave my wand, and that vase of flowers would come to me; as it is, I must go to it. Who can have arranged those flowers? They have been troubling me for the last half hour." She crossed the room, and took from a small side table an exquisite vase filled with blossoms.
"See," she cried, turning to Lionel, "white heath, white roses, white lilies, intermixed with these pale gray flowers! There is no contrast in such an arrangement. Watch the difference which a glowing pomegranate blossom or a scarlet verbena will make."
"You do not like such quiet harmony?" said Lionel, smiling, thinking how characteristic the little incident was.
"No," she replied; "give me striking contrasts. For many years the web of my life was gray-colored, and I longed for a dash of scarlet in its threads."
"You have it now," said Mr. Dacre, quietly.
"Yes," she said, as she turned her beautiful, bright fact to him; "I have it now, never to lose it again."
Lord Airlie, looking on and listening, drinking in every word that fell from her lips, wondered whether love was the scarlet thread interwoven with her life. He sighed deeply as he said to himself that it would not be; this brilliant girl could never care for him. Beatrice heard the sigh and turned to him.
"Does your taste resemble mine, Lord Airlie?"
"I," interrupted Lord Airlie—"I like whatever you like, Miss Earle."
"Yourself best of all," whispered Lionel to Beatrice with a smile.
As Mr. Dacre walked home that evening, he thought long and anxiously about the two young girls, his kins-women. What was the mystery? he asked himself—what skeleton was locked away in the gay mansion? Where was Lord Earle's wife—the lady who ought to have been at the head of his table—the mother of his children? Where was she? Why was her place empty? Why was her husband's face shadowed and lined with care?
"Lillian Earle is the fairest and sweetest girl I have ever met," he said to himself. "I know there is danger for me in those sweet, true eyes, but if there be anything wrong—if the mother is blameworthy—I will fly from the danger. I believe in hereditary virtue and in hereditary vice. Before I fall in love with Lillian, I must know her mother's story."
So he said, and he meant it. There was no means of arriving at the knowledge. The girls spoke at times of their mother, and it was always with deep love and respect. Lady Helena mentioned her, but her name never passed the lips of Lord Earle. Lionel Dacre saw no way of obtaining information in the matter.
There was no concealment as to Dora's abode. Once, by special privilege, he was invited into the pretty room where the ladies sat in the morning—a cozy, cheerful room, into which visitors never penetrated. There, upon the wall, he saw a picture framed a beautiful landscape, a quiet homestead in the midst of rich, green meadows; and Lillian told him, with a smile, that was the Elms, at Knutsford, "where mamma lived."
Lionel was too true a gentleman to ask why she lived there; he praised the painting, and then turned the subject.
As Lady Earle foresaw, the time had arrived when Dora's children partly understood there was a division in the family, a breach never to be healed. "Mamma was quite different from papa," they said to each other; and Lady Helena told them their mother did not like fashion and gayety, that she had been simply brought up, used always to quietness and solitude, so that in all probability she would never come to Earlescourt.
But as time went on, and Beatrice began to understand more of the great world, she had an instinctive idea of the truth. It came to her by slow degrees. Her father had married beneath him, and her mother had no home in the stately hall of Earlescourt. At first violent indignation seized her; then calmer reflection told her she could not judge correctly. She did not know whether Lord Earle had left his wife, or whether her mother had refused to live with him.
It was the first cloud that shadowed the life of Lord Earle's beautiful daughter. The discovery did not diminish her love for the quiet, sad mother, whose youth and beauty had faded so soon. If possible, she loved her more; there was a pitying tenderness in her affection.
"Poor mamma!" thought the young girl—"poor, gentle mamma! I must be doubly kind to her, and love her better than ever."
Dora did not understand how it happened that her beautiful Beatrice wrote so constantly and so fondly to her—how it happened that week after week costly presents found their way to the Elms.
"The child must spend all her pocket money on me," she said to herself. "How well and dearly she loves me—my beautiful Beatrice!"
Lady Helena remembered the depth of her mother's love. She pitied the lonely, unloved wife, deprived of husband and children. She did all in her power to console her. She wrote long letters, telling Dora how greatly her children were admired, and how she would like their mother to witness their triumph. She told how many conquests Beatrice had made; how the proud and exclusive Lord Airlie was always near her, and that Beatrice, of her own fancy, liked him better than any one else.
"Neither Lord Earle nor myself could wish a more brilliant future for Beatrice," wrote Lady Helena. "As Lady Airlie of Lynnton, she will be placed as her birth and beauty deserve."
But even Lady Helena was startled when she read Dora's reply. It was a wild prayer that her child should be saved—spared the deadly perils of love and marriage—left to enjoy her innocent youth.
"There is no happy love," wrote poor Dora, "and never can be. Men can not be patient, gentle, and true. It is ever self they worship—self-reflected in the woman they love. Oh, Lady Helena, let my child be spared! Let no so-called love come near her! Love found me out in my humble home, and wrecked all my life. Do not let my bright, beautiful Beatrice suffer as I have done. I would rather fold my darlings in my arms and lie down with them to die than live to see them pass through the cruel mockery of love and sorrow which I have endured. Lady Helena, do not laugh; your letter distressed me. I dreamed last night, after reading it, that I placed a wedding veil on my darling's head, when, as it fell round her, it changed suddenly into a shroud. A mother's love is true, and mine tells me that Beatrice is in danger."