There was unbroken silence for some minutes; then Lillian bent over her sister, and said:
"Tell me all, darling; perhaps I can help you."
"I promised to be his wife, Lily," continued Beatrice. "I am sure I did not mean it. I was but a child. I did not realize all that the words meant. He kissed my face, and said he should come to claim me. Believe me, Lily, I never thought of marriage. Brilliant pictures of foreign lands filled my mind; I looked upon Hugh Fernely only as a means of escape from a life I detested. He promised to take me to places the names of which filled me with wonder. I never thought of leaving you or mamma—I never thought of the man himself as of a lover."
"You did not care for him, then, as you do for Lord Airlie?" interposed Lillian.
"Do not pain me!" begged Beatrice. "I love Hubert with the love that comes but once in life; that man was nothing to me except that his flattery, and the excitement of contriving to meet him, made my life more endurable. He gave me a ring, and said in two years' time he should return to claim me. He was going on a long voyage. Lily, I felt relieved when he was gone—the novelty was over—I had grown tired. Besides, when the glamour fell from my eyes, I was ashamed of what I had done. I tried to forget all about him; every time the remembrance of him came to my mind I drove it from me. I did not think it possible he would ever return. It was but a summer's pastime. That summer has darkened my life. Looking back, I own I did very wrong. There is great blame attaching to me, but surely they who shut me out from the living world were blameworthy also.
"Remember all through my story, darling, that I am not so good, not so patient and gentle as you. I was restless at the Elms, like a bird in a cage; you were content. I was vain, foolish, and willful; but, looking back at the impetuous, imperious child, full of romance, untrained, longing for the strife of life, longing for change, for excitement, for gayety, chafing under restraint, I think there was some little excuse for me. There was no excuse for what followed. When papa spoke to us—you remember it, Lily—and asked so gently if we had either of us a secret in our lives—when he promised to pardon anything, provided we kept nothing from him—I ought to have told him then. There is no excuse for that error. I was ashamed. Looking round upon the noble faces hanging on the wall, looking at him, so proud, so dignified, I could not tell him what his child had done. Oh, Lily, if I had told him, I should not be kneeling here at your feet now."
Lillian made no reply, but pressed the proud, drooping figure more closely to her side.
"I can hardly tell the rest," said Beatrice; "the words frighten me as I utter them. This man, who has been the bane of my life, was going away for two years. He was to claim me when he returned. I never thought he would return; I was so happy, I could not believe it." Here sobs choked her utterance.
Presently she continued: "Lily, he is here; he claims me, and also the fulfillment of my promise to be his wife."
A look of unutterable dread came over the listener's fair, pitying face.
"He wrote to me three weeks since; I tried to put him off. He wrote again this morning, and swears he will see me. He will be here tonight at nine o'clock. Oh, Lily, save me, save me, or I shall die!"
Bitter sobs broke from the proud lips.
"I never knelt to any one before," Beatrice said; "I kneel to you, my sister. No one else can help me. You must see him for me, give him a letter from me, and tell him I am very ill. It is no untruth, Lily. I am ill, my brain burns, and my heart is cold with fear. Will you do this for me?"
"I would rather almost give you my life," said Lillian gently.
"Oh, do not say that, Lily! Do you know what there is at stake? Do you remember papa's words—that, if ever he found one of us guilty of any deceit, or involved in any clandestine love affair, even if it broke his heart he would send the guilty one from him and never see her again? Think, darling, what it would be for me to leave Earlescourt—to leave all the magnificence I love so dearly, and drag out a weary life at the Elms. Do you think I could brook Lord Earle's angry scorn and Lady Helena's pained wonder? Knowing our father as you know him, do you believe he would pardon me?"
"I do not," replied Lily, sadly.
"That is not all," continued Beatrice. "I might bear anger, scorn, and privation, but, Lily, if this miserable secret is discovered, Lord Airlie will cease to love me. He might have forgiven me if I had told him at first; he would not know that I had lied to him and deceived him. I can not lose him—I can not give him up. For our mother's sake, for my sake, help me, Lily. Do what I have asked!"
"If I do it," said Lillian, "it will give you but a few days' reprieve; it will avail nothing; he will be here again."
"I shall think of some means of escape in a few days," answered Beatrice wistfully. "Something must happen, Lily, fortune could not be so cruel to me; it could not rob me of my love. If I can not free myself, I shall run away. I would rather suffer anything than face Lord Airlie or my father. Say you will help me for my love's sake! Do not let me lose my love!"
"I will help you," said Lillian; "it is against my better judgment—against my idea of right—but I can not refuse you. I will see the man, and give him your letter. Beatrice, let me persuade you. You can not free yourself. I see no way—running away is all nonsense—but to tell Lord Earle and your lover; anything would be better than to live as you do, a drawn sword hanging over your heart. Tell them, and trust to their kindness; at least you will have peace of mind then. They will prevent him from annoying you."
"I can not," she said, and the breath came gasping from her lips. "Lillian, you do not know what Lord Airlie is to me. I could never meet his anger. If ever you love any one you will understand better. He is everything to me. I would suffer any sorrow, even death, rather than see his face turned coldly from me."
She loosened her grasp of Lillian's hands and fell upon the floor, weeping bitterly and passionately. Her sister, bending over her, heard the pitiful words—"My love, my love! I can not lose my love!"
The passionate weeping ceased, and the proud, sad face grew calm and still.
"You can not tell what I have suffered, Lily," she said, humbly. "See, my pride is all beaten down, only those who have had a secret, eating heart and life away, can tell what I have endured. A few more days of agony like this, and I shall be free forever from Hugh Fernely."
Her sister tried to soothe her with gentle words, but they brought no comfort.
"He will be here at nine," she said; "it is six now. I will write my letter. He will be at the shrubbery gate. I will manage so that you shall have time. Give him the note I will write, speak to him for me, tell him I am ill and can not see him. Shall you be frightened?"
"Yes," replied Lillian, gently; "but that will not matter. I must think of you, not of myself."
"You need not fear him," said Beatrice. "Poor Hugh, I could pity him if I did not hate him. Lily, I will thank you when my agony is over; I can not now."
She wrote but a few words, saying she was ill and unable to see him; he must be satisfied, and willing to wait yet a little longer.
She gave the letter to her sister. Lillian's heart ached as she noted the trembling hands and quivering lips.
"I have not asked you to keep my secret, Lily," said Beatrice, sorrowfully.
"There is no need," was the simple reply.
Sir Harry and Lady Laurence dined that day at Earlescourt, and it was nearly nine before the gentlemen, who did not sit long over their wine, came into the drawing room. The evening was somewhat chilly; a bright fire burned in the grate, and the lamps were lighted. Sir Harry sat down to his favorite game of chess with Lady Helena; Lord Earle challenged Lady Laurence to a game at ecarte. The young people were left to themselves.
"In twenty years' time," said Lionel to Lillian, "we may seek refuge in cards; at present music and moonlight are preferable, Lily. You never sing to me; come to the piano now."
But she remembered the dreaded hour was drawing near.
"Pray excuse me," she begged; "I will sing for you presently."
He looked surprised; it was the first time she had ever refused him a favor.
"Shall we finish the folio of engravings?" he asked.
Knowing that, when once she was seated by his side, it would be impossible to get away, she again declined; but this time the fair face flushed, and the sweet eyes drooped.
"How guilty you look," he said. "Is there any mystery on hand? Are you tired of me? Or is there to be another important consultation over the wedding dresses?"
"I have something to attend to," she replied, evasively. "Get the folio ready—I shall not be long."
Beatrice, who had listened to the brief dialogue in feverish suspense, now came to the rescue, asking Lionel to give them the benefit of his clear, ringing tenor in a trio of Mendelssohn's.
"My 'clear, ringing tenor' is quite at your service," he said with a smile. "Lily is very unkind to me tonight."
They went to the piano, where Lord Airlie awaited them; and Lillian, looking at her small, jeweled watch—Lord Earle's present—saw that it wanted three minutes to nine.
She at once quitted the room, unobserved, as she thought; but Lionel saw her go.
No words can tell how distasteful and repugnant was the task she had undertaken. She would have suffered anything almost to have evaded it. She, who never had a secret; she, whose every word and action were open as the day; she, who shrank from all deceit and untruth as from a deadly plague, to be mixed up with a wretched clandestine love affair like this! She, to steal out of her father's house at night, to meet a stranger, and plead her sister's cause with him! The thought horrified her; but the beautiful face in its wild sorrow, the sad voice in its passionate anguish, urged her on.
Lillian went hastily to her own room. She took a large black shawl and drew it closely round her, hiding the pretty evening dress and the rich pearls. Then, with the letter in her hand, she went down the staircase that led from her rooms to the garden.
The night was dark; heavy clouds sailed swiftly across the sky, the wind moaned fitfully, bending the tall trees as it were in anger, then whispering round them as though suing for pardon. Lillian had never been out at night alone before, and her first sensation was one of fear. She crossed the gardens where the autumn flowers were fading; the lights shone gayly from the Hall windows; the shrubbery looked dark and mysterious. She was frightened at the silence and darkness, but went bravely on. He was there. By the gate she saw a tall figure wrapped in a traveling cloak; as she crossed the path, he stepped hastily forward, crying with a voice she never forgot:
"Beatrice, at last you have come!"
"It is not Beatrice," she said, shrinking from the outstretched arms. "I am Lillian Earle. My sister is ill, and has sent you this."
Hugh Fernely took the letter from Lillian's hands, and read it with a muttered imprecation of disappointment. The moon, which had been struggling for the last hour with a mass of clouds, shone out faintly; by its light Lillian saw a tall man with a dark, handsome face browned with the sun of warm climes, dark eyes that had in them a wistful sadness, and firm lips. He did not look like the gentlemen she was accustomed to. He was polite and respectful. When he heard her name, he took off his hat, and stood uncovered during the interview.
"Wait!" he cried. "Ah, must I wait yet longer? Tell your sister I have waited until my yearning wish to see her is wearing my life away."
"She is really ill," returned Lillian. "I am alarmed for her. Do not be angry with me if I say she is ill through anxiety and fear."
"Has she sent you to excuse her?" he asked, gloomily. "It is of no use. Your sister is my promised wife, Miss Lillian, and see her I will."
"You must wait at least until she is willing," said Lillian, and her calm, dignified manner influenced him even more than her words, as she looked earnestly into Hugh Fernely's face.
It was not a bad face, she thought; there was no cruelty or meanness there. She read love so fierce and violent in it that it startled her. He did not look like one who would wantonly and willfully make her sister wretched for life. Hope grew in her heart as she gazed. She resolved to plead with him for Beatrice, to ask him to forget a childish, foolish promise—a childish error.
"My sister is very unhappy," she said, bravely; "so unhappy that I do not think she can bear much more; it will kill her or drive her mad."
"It is killing me," he interrupted.
"You do not look cruel, Mr. Fernely," continued Lillian. "Your face is good and true—I would trust you. Release my sister. She was but a foolish, impetuous child when she made you that promise. If she keeps it, all her life will be wretched. Be generous and release her."
"Did she bid you ask me?" he interrogated.
"No," she replied; "but do you know what the keeping of the promise will cost her? Lord Earle will never forgive her. She will have to leave home, sister, friends—all she loves and values most. Judge whether she could ever care for you, if you brought this upon her."
"I can not help it," he said gloomily. "She promised to be my wife, Miss Lillian—Heaven knows I am speaking truthfully—and I have lived on her words. You do not know what the strong love of a true man is. I love her so that if she chose to place her little foot upon me, and trample the life out of me, I would not say her nay. I must see her—the hungry, yearning love that fills my heart must be satisfied." Great tears shone in his eyes, and deep sobs shook his strong frame.
"I will not harm her," he said, "but I must see her. Once, and once only, her beautiful face lay on my breast—that beautiful, proud face! No mother ever yearned to see her child again more than I long to see her. Let her come to me, Miss Lillian; let me kneel at her feet as I did before,—If she sends me from her, there will be pity in death; but she can not. There is not a woman in the world who could send such love as mine away! You can not understand," he continued. "It is more than two years since I left her; night and day her face has been before me. I have lived upon my love; it is my life—my everything. I could no more drive it from my breast than I could tear my heart from my body and still live on."
"Even if my sister cared for you," said Lillian, gently—for his passionate words touched her—"you must know that Lord Earle would never allow her to keep such a promise as she made."
"She knew nothing of Lord Earle when it was made," he replied, "nor did I. She was a beautiful child, pining away like a bright bird shut up in a cage. I promised her freedom and liberty; she promised me her love. Where was Lord Earle then? She was safe with me. I loved her. I was kinder to her than her own father; I took care of her—he did not."
"It is all changed now," said Lillian.
"But I can not change," he answered. "If fortune had made me a king, should I have loved your sister less! Is a man's heart a plaything? Can I call back my love? It has caused me woe enough."
Lillian knew not what to say in the presence of this mighty love; her gentle efforts at mediation were bootless. She pitied him she pitied Beatrice.
"I am sure you can be generous," she said, after a short silence. "Great, true, noble love is never selfish. My sister can never be happy with you; then release her. If you force her, or rather try to force her, to keep this rash promise, think how she will dislike you. If you are generous, and release her, think how she will esteem you."
"Does she not love me?" he asked; and his voice was hoarse with pain.
"No," replied Lillian, gently; "it is better for you to know the truth. She does not love you—she never will."
"I do not believe it," he cried. "I will never believe it from any lips but her own! Not love me! Great Heaven! Do you know you are speaking of the woman who promised to be my wife? If she tells me so, I will believe her."
"She will tell you," said Lillian, "and you must not blame her. Come again when she is well."
"No," returned Hugh Fernely; "I have waited long enough. I am here to see her, and I swear I will not leave until she has spoken to me."
He drew a pencil case from his pocket, and wrote a few lines on the envelope which Beatrice had sent.
"Give that to your sister," he said, softly; "and, Miss Lillian, I thank you for coming to me. You have been very kind and gentle. You have a fair, true face. Never break a man's heart for pastime, or because the long sunny hours hang heavy upon your hands."
"I wish I could say something to comfort you," she said. He held out his hand and she could not refuse hers.
"Goodbye, Miss Lillian! Heaven bless you for your sympathy."
"Goodbye," she returned, looking at the dark, passionate face she was never more to see.
The moon was hidden behind a dense mass of thick clouds. Hugh Fernely walked quickly down the path. Lillian, taking the folded paper, hastened across the gardens. But neither of them saw a tall, erect figure, or a pale, stricken face; neither of them heard Lionel Dacre utter a low cry as the shawl fell from Lillian's golden head.
He had tried over the trio, but it did not please him; he did not want music—he wanted Lillian. Beatrice played badly, too, as though she did not know what she was doing. Plainly enough Lord Airlie wanted him out of the way.
"Where are you going?" asked Beatrice, as he placed the music on the piano.
"To look for a good cigar," he replied. "Neither Airlie nor you need pretend to be polite, Bee, and say you hope I will not leave you." He quitted the drawing room, and went to his own room, where a box of cigars awaited him. He selected one, and went out into the garden to enjoy it. Was it chance that led him to the path by the shrubbery? The wind swayed the tall branches, but there came a lull, and then he heard a murmur of voices. Looking over the hedge, he saw the tall figure of a man, and the slight figure of a young girl shrouded in a black shawl.
"A maid and her sweetheart," said Lionel to himself. "Now that is not precisely the kind of thing Lord Earle would like; still, it is no business of mine."
But the man's voice struck him—it was full of the dignity of true passion. He wondered who he was. He saw the young girl place her hand in his for a moment, and then hasten rapidly away.
He thought himself stricken mad when the black shawl fall and showed in the faint moonlight the fair face and golden hair of Lillian Earle.
When Lillian re-entered the drawing room, the pretty ormulu clock was chiming half past nine. The chess and card tables were just as she had left them. Beatrice and Lord Airlie were still at the piano. Lionel was nowhere to be seen. She went up to Beatrice and smilingly asked Lord Airlie if he could spare her sister for five minutes.
"Ten, if you wish it," he replied, "but no longer;" and the two sisters walked through the long drawing room into the little boudoir.
"Quick, Lillian," cried Beatrice, "have you seen him? What does he say?"
"I have seen him," she replied; "there is no time now to tell all he said. He sent this note," and Lillian gave the folded paper into her sister's hand, and then clasped both hands in her own.
"Let me tell you, Beatrice darling, before you read it," she said, "that I tried to soften his heart; and I think, if you will see him yourself, and ask for your freedom, you will not ask in vain."
A light that was dazzling as sunshine came into the beautiful face.
"Oh, Lily," she cried, "can it be true? Do not mock me with false hopes; my life seems to tremble in the balance."
"He is not cruel," said Lillian. "I am sorry for him. If you see him I feel sure he will release you. See what he says."
Beatrice opened the letter; it contained but a few penciled lines. She did not give them to Lillian to read.
"Beatrice," wrote Hugh Fernely, "you must tell me with your own lips that you do not love me. You must tell me yourself that every sweet hope you gave me was a false lie. I will not leave Earlescourt again without seeing you. On Thursday night, at ten o'clock, I will be at the same place—meet me, and tell me if you want your freedom. Hugh."
"I shall win!" she cried. "Lily, hold my hands—they tremble with happiness. See, I can not hold the paper. He will release me, and I shall not lose my love—my love, who is all the world to me. How must I thank you? This is Tuesday; how shall I live until Thursday? I feel as though a load, a burden, the weight of which no words can tell, were taken from me. Lily, I shall be Lord Airlie's wife, and you will have saved me."
"Beatrice," said Lord Earle, as the sisters, in returning, passed by the chess table, "our game is finished, will you give us a song?"
Never had the magnificent voice rung out so joyously, never had the beautiful face looked so bright. She sang something that was like an air of triumph—no under current of sadness marred its passionate sweetness. Lord Airlie bent over her chair enraptured.
"You sing like one inspired, Beatrice," he said.
"I was thinking of you," she replied; and he saw by the dreamy, rapt expression of her face that she meant what she had said.
Presently Lord Airlie was summoned to Lady Helena's assistance in some little argument over cards, and Beatrice, while her fingers strayed mechanically over the keys, arrived at her decision. She would see Hugh. She could not avert that; and she must meet him as bravely as she could. After all, as Lillian had said, he was not cruel, and he did love her. The proud lip curled in scornful triumph as she thought how dearly he loved her. She would appeal to his love, and beseech him to release her.
She would beseech him with such urgency that he could not refuse. Who ever refused her? Could she not move men's hearts as the wind moves the leaves? He would be angry at first, perhaps fierce and passionate, but in the end she would prevail. As she sat there, dreamy, tender melodies stealing, as it were, from her fingers, she went in fancy through the whole scene. She knew how silent the sleeping woods would be—how dark and still the night. She could imagine Hugh's face, browned by the sun and travel. Poor Hugh! In the overflow of her happiness she felt more kindly toward him.
She wished him well. He might marry some nice girl in his own station of life, and be a prosperous, happy man, and she would be a good friend to him if he would let her. No one would ever know her secret. Lillian would keep it faithfully, and down the fair vista of years she saw herself Lord Airlie's beloved wife, the error of her youth repaired and forgotten.
The picture was so pleasant that it was no wonder her songs grew more triumphant. Those who listened to the music that night never forgot it.
Lionel Dacre stood for some minutes stunned with the shock and surprise. He could not be mistaken; unless his senses played him false, it was Lillian Earle whom he had mistaken for a maid meeting her lover. It was Lillian he had believed so pure and guileless who had stolen from her father's home under the cover of night's darkness and silence—who had met in her father's grounds one whom she dared not meet in the light of day.
If his dearest friend had sworn this to Lionel he would not have believed it. His own senses he could not doubt. The faint, feeble moonlight had as surely fallen on the fair face and golden hair of Lillian Earle as the sun shone by day in the sky.
He threw away his cigar, and ground his teeth with rage. Had the skies fallen at his feet he could not have been more startled and amazed. Then, after all, all women were alike. There was in them no truth; no goodness; the whole world was alike. Yet he had believed in her so implicitly—in her guileless purity, her truth, her freedom from every taint of the world. That fair, spirituelle form had seemed to him only as a beautiful casket hiding a precious gem. Nay, still more, though knowing and loving her, he had begun to care for everything good and pure that interested her. Now all was false and hateful.
There was no truth in the world, he said to himself. This girl, whom he had believed to be the fairest and sweetest among women, was but a more skillful deceiver than the rest. His mother's little deceptions, hiding narrow means and straitened circumstances, were as nothing compared with Lillian's deceit.
And he had loved her so! Looking into those tender eyes, he had believed love and truth shone there; the dear face that had blushed and smiled for him had looked so pure and guileless.
How long was it since he had held her little hands clasped within his own, and, abashed before her sweet innocence, had not dared to touch her lips, even when she had promised to love him? How he had been duped and deceived! How she must have laughed at his blind folly!
Who was the man? Some one she must have known years before. There was no gentleman in Lord Earle's circle who would have stolen into his grounds like a thief by night. Why had he not followed him, and thrashed him within an inch of his life? Why had he let him escape?
The strong hands were clinched tightly. It was well for Hugh Fernely that he was not at that moment in Lionel's power. Then the fierce, hot anger died away, and a passion of despair seized him. A long, low cry came from his lips, a bitter sob shook his frame. He had lost his fair, sweet love. The ideal he had worshiped lay stricken; falsehood and deceit marked its fair form.
While the first smart of pain was upon him, he would not return to the house; he would wait until he was calm and cool. Then he would see how she dared to meet him.
His hands ceased to tremble; the strong, angry pulsating of his heart grew calmer. He went back to the drawing room; and, except that the handsome face was pale even to the lips, and that a strange, angry light gleamed in the frank, kindly eyes, there was little difference in Lionel Dacre.
She was there, bending over the large folio he had asked her to show him; the golden hair fell upon the leaves. She looked up as he entered; her face was calm and serene; there was a faint pink flush on the cheeks, and a bright smile trembled on her features.
"Here are the drawings," she said; "will you look over them?"
He remembered how he had asked her to sing to him, and she refused, looking confused and uneasy the while. He understood now the reason why.
He took a chair by her side; the folio lay upon a table placed in a large room, lighted by a silver lamp. They were as much alone there as though they had been in another room. She took out a drawing, and laid it before him. He neither saw it nor heard what she remarked.
"Lillian," he said, suddenly, "if you were asked what was the most deadly sin a woman could commit, what should you reply?"
"That is a strange question," she answered. "I do not know, Lionel. I think I hate all sin alike."
"Then I will tell you," he said bitterly; "it is false, foul deceit—black, heartless treachery."
She looked up in amazement at his angry tone; then there was for some moments unbroken silence.
"I can not see the drawings," he said; "take them away. Lillian Earle, raise your eyes to mine; look me straight in the face. How long is it since I asked you to be my wife?"
Her gentle eyes never wavered, they were fixed half in wonder on his, but at his question the faint flush on her cheeks grew deeper.
"Not very long," she replied; "a few days."
"You said you loved me," he continued.
"I do," she said.
"Now, answer me again. Have you ever loved or cared for any one else, as you say you do for me?"
"Never," was the quiet reply.
"Pray pardon the question—have you received the attentions of any lover before receiving mine?"
"Certainly not," she said, wondering still more.
"I have all your affection, your confidence, your trust; you have never duped or deceived me; you have been open, truthful, and honest with me?"
"You forget yourself, Lionel," she said, with gentle dignity; "you should not use such words to me."
"Answer!" he returned. "You have to do with a desperate man. Have you deceived me?"
"Never," she replied, "In thought, word, or deed."
"Merciful Heaven!" he cried. "That one can be so fair and so false!"
There was nothing but wonder in the face that was raised to his.
"Lillian," he said, "I have loved you as the ideal of all that was pure and noble in woman. In you I saw everything good and holy. May Heaven pardon you that my faith has died a violent death."
"I can not understand you," she said, slowly. "Why do you speak to me so?"
"I will use plainer words," he replied—"so plain that you can not mistake them. I, your betrothed husband, the man you love and trust, ask you, Lillian Earle, who was it you met tonight in your father's grounds?"
He saw the question strike her as lightning sometimes strikes a fair tree. The color faded from her lips; a cloud came over the clear, dove-like eyes; she tried to answer, but the words died away in a faint murmur.
"Do you deny that you were there?" he asked. "Remember, I saw you, and I saw him. Do you deny it?"
"No," she replied.
"Who was it?" he cried; and his eyes flamed so angrily upon her that she was afraid. "Tell me who it was. I will follow him to the world's end. Tell me."
"I can not, Lionel," she whispered; "I can not. For pity's sake, keep my secret!"
"You need not be afraid," he said, haughtily. "I shall not betray you to Lord Earle. Let him find out for himself what you are, as I have done. I could curse myself for my own trust. Who is he?"
"I can not tell you," she stammered, and he saw her little white hands wrung together in agony. "Oh, Lionel, trust me—do not be angry with me."
"You can not expect me," he said, although he was softened by the sight of her sorrow, "to know of such an action and not to speak of it, Lillian. If you can explain it, do so. If the man was an old lover of yours, tell me so; in time I may forget the deceit, if you are frank with me now. If there be any circumstance that extenuates or explains what you did, tell it to me now."
"I can not," she said, and her fair face drooped sadly away from him.
"That I quite believe," he continued, bitterly. "You can not and will not. You know the alternative, I suppose?"
The gentle eyes were raised to his in mute, appealing sorrow, but she spoke not.
"Tell me now," he said, "whom it was you stole out of the house to meet—why you met him? Be frank with me; and, if it was but girlish nonsense, in time I may pardon you. If you refuse to tell me, I shall leave Earlescourt, and never look upon your false, fair face again."
She buried her face in her hands, and he heard a low moan of sorrow come from her white lips.
"Will you tell me, Lillian?" he asked again—and he never forgot the deadly anguish of the face turned toward him.
"I can not," she replied; her voice died away, and he thought she was falling from her chair.
"That is your final decision; you refuse to tell me what, as your accepted lover, I have a right to know?"
"Trust me, Lionel," she implored. "Try, for the love you bear me, to trust me!"
"I will never believe in any one again," he said. "Take back your promise, Lillian Earle; you have broken a true and honest heart, you have blighted a whole life. Heaven knows what I shall become, drifted from you. I care not. You have deceived me. Take back your ring. I will say goodbye to you. I shall not care to look upon your false, fair face again."
"Oh, Lionel, wait!" she cried. "Give me time—do not leave me so!"
"Time will make little difference," he answered; "I shall not leave the Hall until tomorrow morning; you can write to me if you wish me to remain."
He laid the ring upon the table, refusing to notice the trembling, outstretched hand. He could not refrain from looking back at her as he quitted the room. He saw the gentle face, so full of deadly sorrow, with its white quivering lips; and yet he thought to himself, although she looked stricken with anguish, there was no guilt on the clear, fair brow.
He turned back from the door and went straight to Lord Earle.
"I shall leave Earlescourt tomorrow," he said, abruptly. "I must go, Lord Earle; do not press to stay."
"Come and go as you will, Lionel," said Ronald, surprised at the brusqueness of his manner; "we are always pleased to see you and sorry to lose you. You will return soon, perhaps?"
"I will write to you in a few days," he replied. "I must say goodbye to Lady Earle."
She was astounded. Beatrice and Lord Airlie came up to him there was a general expression of surprise and regret. He, unlike himself, was brusque, and almost haughty.
Sir Harry and Lady Laurence had gone home. Beatrice, with a vague fear that something had gone wrong, said she was tired; Lord Airlie said goodnight; and in a few minutes Lady Helena and her son were left alone.
"What has come over Lionel?" asked Ronald. "Why, mother, how mistaken I am! Do you know that I quite believed he was falling in love with Lillian?"
"He did that long ago," replied Lady Helena, with a smile. "Say nothing about it. Lionel is very proud and impetuous. I fancy he and Lillian have had some little dispute. Matters of that kind are best left alone—interference always does harm. He will come back in a few days; and all be right again. Ronald, there is one question I have been wishing to ask you—do not be angry if I pain you, my son. Beatrice will be married soon—do you not intend her mother to be present at the wedding?"
Lord Earle rose from his chair, and began, as he always did in time of anxiety, to pace up and down the room.
"I had forgotten her claim," he said. "I can not tell what to do, mother. It would be a cruel, unmerited slight to pass her over, but I do not wish to see her. I have fought a hard battle with my feelings, but I can not bring myself to see her."
"Yet you loved her very much once," said Lady Helena.
"I did," he replied, gently. "Poor Dora."
"It is an awful thing to live at enmity with any one," said Lady Helena—"but with one's own wife! I can not understand it, Ronald."
"You mistake, mother," he said, eagerly; "I am not at enmity with Dora. She offended me—she hurt my honor—she pained me in a way I can never forget."
"You must forgive her some day," replied Lady Earle; "why not now?"
"No," he said, sadly. "I know myself—I know what I can do and what I can not do. I could take my wife in my arms, and kiss her face—I could not live with her. I shall forgive her, mother, when all that is human is dying away from me. I shall forgive her in the hour of death."
Lillian Earle was no tragedy queen. She never talked about sacrifice or dying, but there was in her calm, gentle nature a depth of endurance rarely equaled. She had never owned, even to herself, how dearly she loved Lionel Dacre—how completely every thought and hope was centered in him. Since she had first learned to care for him, she had never looked her life in the face and imagined what it would be without him.
It never entered her mind to save herself at the expense of her sister; the secret had been intrusted to her, and she could not conceive the idea of disclosing it. If the choice had been offered her between death and betraying Beatrice, she would have chosen death, with a simple consciousness that she was but doing her duty.
So, when Lionel uttered those terrible words—when she found that he had seen her—she never dreamed of freeing herself from blame, and telling the story of her sister's fault. His words were bitterly cruel; they stung her with sharp pain. She had never seen contempt or scorn before on that kindly, honest face; now, she read both. Yet, what could she do? Her sister's life lay in her hands, and she must guard it.
Therefore, she bore the cruel taunts, and only once when the fear of losing him tortured her, cried out for pity and trust. But he had no trust; he stabbed her gentle heart with his fierce words, he seared her with his hot anger; she might, at the expense of another, have explained all, and stood higher than ever in his esteem, but she would not do it.
She was almost stunned by the sorrow that had fallen upon her. She saw him, with haughty, erect bearing, quit the drawing room, and she knew that unless Beatrice permitted her to tell the truth, she would never see his face again. She went straight to her sister's room and waited for her.
The pale face grew calm and still; her sister could not refuse her request when she had told her all; then she would write to Lionel and explain. He would not leave Earlescourt; he would only love her the better for her steadfast truth.
"Send Suzette away," she whispered to Beatrice, when she entered; "I must see you alone at once."
Beatrice dismissed her maid, and then turned to her sister.
"What is it, Lily?" she asked. "Your face is deathly pale. What has happened?"
"Beatrice," said Lillian, "will you let me tell your secret to Lionel Dacre? It will be quite sacred with him."
"To Lionel Dacre!" she cried. "No, a thousand times over! How can you ask me, Lily? He is Lord Airlie's friend and could not keep it from him. Why do you ask me such an extraordinary question?"
"He saw me tonight," she replied; "he was out in the grounds, and saw me speaking to Hugh Fernely."
"Have you told him anything?" she asked; and for a moment Beatrice looked despairing.
"Not a word," said Lily. "How could I, when you trusted me?"
"That is right," returned her sister, a look of relief coming over her face; "his opinion does not matter much. What did he say?"
"He thought I had been to meet some one I knew," replied Lillian, her face growing crimson with shame.
"And was dreadfully shocked, no doubt," supplemented Beatrice. "Well, never mind, darling. I am very sorry it happened, but it will not matter. I am so near freedom and happiness, I can not grieve over it. He will not surely tell? He is too honorable for that."
"No," said Lillian, dreamily, "he will not tell."
"Then do not look so scared, Lily; nothing else matters."
"You forget what he must think of me," said Lillian. "Knowing his upright, truthful character, what must he think of me?"
That view of the question had not struck Beatrice. She looked grave and anxious. It was not right for her sister to be misjudged.
"Oh, I am so sorry," she began, but Lillian interrupted her, she came close to her, and lowered her pale face over her sister's arm.
"Beatrice," she said, slowly, "you must let me tell him. He cares for me. He loves me; I promised to be his wife, and I love him—just as you do Lord Airlie."
Under the shock of those words Beatrice Earle sat silent and motionless.
"I love him," continued Lillian. "I did not tell you. He said it was not to be mentioned until you were married. I love him so dearly, Beatrice—and when he asked me who it was I had been to meet, I could not answer him. He was very angry; he said sharp, cruel words to me, and I could not tell him how false they were. He will leave Earlescourt; he will never look upon my face again unless I tell him all. He has said so, and he will keep his word. Beatrice, must I lose my love?"
"It would be only for a time," she replied. "I hate myself for being so selfish, but I dare not trust Lionel Dacre. He is so impetuous, so hasty, he would betray me, as surely as he knew it. Do you not remember his saying the other day that it was well for him he had no secrets, for he could not manage to keep them!"
"He would keep this," pleaded Lillian—"for your sake and mine."
"He would not," said Beatrice; "and I am so near freedom, so near happiness. Oh, Lily, you have saved me once—save me again! My darling, keep my secret until I am married; then I swear to you I will tell Lionel every word honorably myself, and he will love you doubly. Could you do this for me?"
"It is not fair to him—he has a right to my confidence—it is not fair to myself, Beatrice."
"One of us must be sacrificed," returned her sister. "If myself, the sacrifice will last my life—will cause my death; if you, it will last, at the most, only three or four weeks. I will write to Lionel on my wedding day."
"Why trust him then and not now?" asked Lillian.
"Because, once married to Lord Airlie, I shall have no fear. Three or four weeks of happiness are not so much to give up for your own sister, Lily. I will say no more. I leave it for you to decide."
"Nay, do not do that," said Lillian, in great distress. "I could not clear myself at your expense"—a fact which Beatrice understood perfectly well.
"Then let the matter rest," said her sister; "some day I shall be able to thank you for all you have done for me—I can not now. On my wedding day I will tell Lionel Dacre that the girl he loves is the truest, the noblest, the dearest in the world."
"It is against my better judgment," returned Lillian.
"It is against my conscience, judgment, love, everything," added Beatrice; "but it will save me from cruel ruin and sorrow; and it shall not hurt you, Lily—it shall bring you good, not harm. Now, try to forget it. He will not know how to atone to you for this. Think of your happiness when he returns."
She drew the golden head down upon her shoulder, and with the charm that never failed, she talked and caressed her sister until she had overcome all objections.
But during the long hours of that night a fair head tossed wearily to and fro on its pillow—a fair face was stained with bitter tears. Lionel Dacre lingered, half hoping that even at the last she would come and bid him stay because she wished to tell him all.
But the last moment came, and no messenger from Lillian brought the longed-for words. He passed out from the Hall. He could not refrain from looking once at the window of her room, but the blind was closely drawn. He little knew or dreamed how and why he would return.
Thursday morning dawned bright and beautiful, as though autumn wished to surpass the glories or summer. Beatrice had not told Lillian when she was going to meet Hugh, partly because she dreaded her sister's anxiety, partly because she did not wish any one to know how long she might be with him; for Beatrice anticipated a painful interview, although she felt sure of triumph in the end.
Lillian was ill and unable to rise; unused to emotion, the strain upon her mind had been too great. When Lady Helena listened to her maid's remarks and went up to see her granddaughter, she forbade her to get up, and Lillian, suffering intensely, was only too pleased to obey.
The breakfast party was a very small one. Lord Earle was absent; he had gone to Holte. Lady Helena hurried away to sit with Lillian. Lord Airlie had been smiling very happily over a mysterious little packet that had come by post. He asked Beatrice if she would go out with him—he had something to show her. They went out into the park, intending to return in time for luncheon.
The morning was bright and calm. Something of the warmth and beauty of the summer lingered still, although the ground was strewn with fallen leaves.
Lord Airlie and Beatrice sat at the foot of the grand old cedar tree whence they would see the distant glimmer of the deep, still lake. The birds sang around them, and the sun shone brightly. On the beautiful face of Beatrice Earle her lover read nothing but happiness and love.
"I have something here for you, Beatrice," said Lord Airlie, showing her a little packet—"a surprise. You must thank me by saying that what it contains will be more precious to you than anything else on earth."
She opened the pretty case; within it there lay a fine gold chain of exquisite fashion and a locket of marvelous beauty.
She uttered a little cry of surprise, and raised the present in her hands.
"Now, thank me," said Lord Airlie, "in the way I asked."
"What it contains is more precious to me than anything on earth," she said. "You know that, Hubert; why do you make me repeat it?"
"Because I like to hear it," he answered. "I like to see my proud love looking humble for a few minutes; I like to know that I have caged a bright, wild bird that no one else could tame."
"I am not caged yet," she objected.
"Beatrice," said Lord Airlie, "make me a promise. Let me fasten this locket around your neck, and tell me that you will not part with it night or day for one moment until our wedding day."
"I can easily promise that," she said. She bent her beautiful head, and Lord Airlie fastened the chain round her throat.
He little knew what he had done. When Lord Airlie fastened the chain round the neck of the girl he loved, he bound her to him in life and in death.
"It looks charming," he said. "How everything beautiful becomes you, Beatrice! You were born to be a queen—who am I that I should have won you? Tell me over again—I never grow tired of hearing it—do you love me?"
She told him again, her face glowing with happiness. He bent over her and kissed the sweet face; he kissed the little white hands and the rings of dark hair the wind blew carelessly near him.
"When the leaves are green, and the fair spring is come," he said, "you will be my wife, Beatrice—Lady Airlie of Lynnton. I love my name and title when I remember that you will share them. And you shall be the happiest Lady Airlie that ever lived—the happiest bride, the happiest wife the sun ever shone upon. You will never part with my locket, Beatrice?"
"No," she replied; "never. I will keep it always."
They sat through the long bright hours under the shade of the old cedar tree, while Lillian lay with head and heart aching, wondering in her gentle way why this sorrow should have fallen upon her.
She did not know, as she lay like a pale broken lily, that years ago her father, in the reckless heyday of youth, had wilfully deceived his father, and married against his wish and commands; she did not know how that unhappy marriage had ended in pride, passion, and sullen, jealous temper—while those who should have foreborne went each their own road—the proud, irritated husband abroad, away from every tie of home and duty, the jealous, angry wife secluding herself in the bitterness of her heart—both neglecting the children intrusted to them. She knew how one of those children had gone wrong; she knew the deceit, the misery, the sorrow that wrong had entailed. She was the chief victim, yet the sin had not been hers.
There were no fierce, rebellious feelings in her gentle heart, no angry warring with the mighty Hand that sends crosses and blessings alike. The flower bent by the wind was not more pliant. Where her sorrow and love had cast her she lay, silently enduring her suffering, while Lionel traveled without intermission, wishing only to find himself far away from the young girl he declared he had ceased to love yet could not forget.