"'I know you're proud to bear your name,Your pride is yet no mate for mine,Too proud to care from whence I came.'"
"'I know you're proud to bear your name,Your pride is yet no mate for mine,Too proud to care from whence I came.'"
He knew the verse by heart. Some impulse stronger than his will or reason prompted him to repeat the last two lines, meaningly, gazing straight into the sparkling, dark-gray eyes with his proud, blue ones:
"'A simple maiden in her flowerIs worth a hundred coats of arms.'"
"'A simple maiden in her flowerIs worth a hundred coats of arms.'"
The gray eyes, brave as they were, could not bear the meaning gaze of the blue ones. They wavered and fell. The long lashes drooped against the cheeks that flushed rosy red. She shut up the book with an impatient sigh, and said, with an effort at self-possession:
"You shall see that I will bring my aunt home to America with me, Captain Lancaster."
"Perhaps so; and yet I think she loves England—as much, I dare say, as you do America."
"I hope not, for what should we do in that case? I have only her, she has only me, and why should we live apart?"
"Do you mean to tell me that you have left behind you no relatives?" he said.
"I told you I had no one but Aunt West," she said, almost curtly.
"And she can scarcely be called your relative. I believe she was only your father's sister-in-law," he said.
"That is true," she replied.
"Then why go to her at all, since the kinship is but in name, and you would be happier in America?" he asked, with something of curiosity.
"Papa wished it," she replied, simply.
Then there was a brief silence. Leonora's lashes drooped, with the dew of unshed tears on them. The young face looked very sad in the soft evening light.
"She is almost alone in the world—poor child!" he thought.
"I want to ask you something," he said, impulsively.
"Yes," she said, listlessly.
"Was it because of those things we talked of just now—those aristocratic prejudices—that you have so severely ignored De Vere and me?"
"Not exactly," she replied, hesitatingly.
"Then, why?" he asked, gravely.
She looked up into the handsome blue eyes. They were regarding her very kindly. Something like a sob swelled her throat, but she said, as calmly as she could:
"I'll tell you the reason, Captain Lancaster. Do you remember the day we sailed, and what you and Lieutenant De Vere talked of that night over your cigars?"
"I remember," he replied, with an embarrassment it was impossible to hide.
The clear eyes looked up straight into his face.
"Well, then," she said, "I heard every word you said to each other there in the moonlight."
For the second time since he had met Leonora West, Captain Lancaster devoutly wished that the earth would open and hide him from the sight of those gray-blue eyes.
"I heard every word," she repeated, and his memory flew back anxiously to that night.
"Oh, impossible!" he cried. "You had retired. We were alone."
The fair cheek flushed warmly.
"I shall have to confess," she said. "But you must not judge me too hardly, Captain Lancaster."
He looked at her expectantly.
"I will tell you the truth," she said. "I went early to my state-room, because I was tired of Lieutenant De Vere. I wanted to be alone. But it was so warm and close in my room, I could not breathe freely. So I threw a dark shawl over me and went out on deck again. There was no one there. I slipped around in the shadow of the wheel-house and sat down."
"And then we came—De Vere and I," said Lancaster.
"Yes," she replied. "I was frightened at first, and shrank closer into the darkness. I did not want to be found out. I thought you would smoke your cigars and go away in a little while."
There was a minute's silence.
"I wish I had been a thousand miles away!" the captain thought, ruefully, to himself.
"So then you commenced to talk about me," continued Leonora. "I ought not to have listened, I know, but I could not make up my mind to interrupt you; it would have been so embarrassing, you know. So I kept still, hoping you would stop every minute, and thus I heard all."
"You heard nothing but kindness—you must grant that, at least," he said.
The red lips curled at the corners, whether with anger or feeling he could not tell.
"You were very condescending," she said, in a quiet, very demure little voice.
"Now, you wrong us—you do, indeed, Miss West," he cried, hotly. "We said the kindest things of you. You must own that Lieutenant De Vere paid you the highest compliment man can pay to woman."
A beautiful blush rose into the fair face, and her eyes drooped a moment.
"While we are upon the subject," he continued, hastily, "let me speak a word for my friend, Miss West. He is quite in earnest in his love for you, and you would do well to listen to his suit. He is in every way an unexceptionable suitor. There is everything in favor of him, personally, and he is of good birth, is the heir to a title, and last, but not least, has ten thousand a year of his own."
"Enough to buy him a more fitting bride than Mrs. West's niece," she said, with some bitterness, but more mirth, in her voice.
"Who could be more fitting than the one he has chosen?" asked Lancaster.
"It would be amésalliance," she said, with her eyes full on his face as she quoted his words.
"In the world's eyes—yes," he answered, quietly. "But if you love him and he loves you, you need not care for the world," he said; and he felt the whole force of the words as he spoke them. He said to himself that any man who could afford to snap his fingers at fortune and marry Leonora West would be blessed.
She listened to his words calmly, and with an air of thoughtfulness, as if she were weighing them in her mind.
"And so," she said, when he had ceased speaking, "you advise me, Captain Lancaster, to follow up the good impression I have made on your friend, and to—to fall into his arms as soon as he asks me?"
He gave a gasp as if she had thrown cold water over him.
"Pray do not understand me as advising anything!" he cried, hastily. "I merely showed you the advantages of such a marriage; but, of course, I have no personal interest in the matter. I am no match-maker."
"No, of course not," curtly; then, with a sudden total change of the subject, she said: "Aren't we very near the end of our trip, Captain Lancaster?"
"You are tired?" he asked.
"Yes. It grows monotonous after the first day or two out," she replied.
"You might have had a better time if you had let De Vere and me amuse you," he said.
"Oh, I have been amused," she replied, frankly; and he wondered within himself what had amused her, but did not ask. She had a trick of saying things that chagrined him, because he did not understand them, and had a lingering suspicion that she was laughing at him.
"We shall see the end of our journey to-morrow, if we have good luck," he said, and she uttered an exclamation of pleasure.
"So soon? Ah, how glad I am! I wonder," reflectively, "what my aunt will think about me."
"She will be astonished, for one thing," he replied.
"Why?"
"Because I think she is expecting a child. She will be surprised to see a young lady."
"Poor papa!" a sigh; "he always called me his little girl. That is how the mistake has been made. Ah, Captain Lancaster, I can not tell you how much I miss my father!"
There was a tremor in the young voice. His heart thrilled with pity for her loneliness.
"I hope your aunt will be so kind to you that she will make up to you for his loss," he said.
"Tell me something about her," said Leonora.
"I am afraid I can not tell you much," he answered, with some embarrassment. "She is a good woman. I have heard Lady Lancaster say that much."
"Of course, you can not be expected to know much about a mere housekeeper," with a distinct inflection of bitterness in her voice. "Well, then, tell me about Lady Lancaster. Who is she?"
"She is the mistress of Lancaster Park."
"Is she nice?"
"She is old and ugly and cross and very rich. Is all that nice, as you define it?"
"No; only the last. It is nice to be rich, of course. That goes without saying. Well, then, is there a master?"
"A master?" vaguely.
"Of Lancaster Park, I mean."
"Oh, yes."
"And is he old and ugly and cross and rich?" pursued Miss West, curiously.
"He is all but the last," declared Lancaster, unblushingly. "He is as poor as Job's turkey. That is not nice, is it?"
"I know some people who are poor, but very, very nice," said the girl, with a decided air.
"I am glad to hear you say so. I am very poor myself. I have been thinking that the reason you have snubbed me so unmercifully of late is because I so foolishly gave myself away when I first met you."
"Gave yourself away?" uncomprehendingly.
"I mean I told you I was poor. I beg your pardon for the slang phrase I used just now. One falls unconsciously into such habits in the army. But tell me, did you?"
"Did I do what?"
"Did you snub me because I am poor?"
"I have not snubbed you at all," indignantly.
"You have ignored me. That is even worse," he said.
"Indeed I have not ignored you at all," she protested.
"Well, then, you forgot me. That is the unkindestcut of all. I could bear to be snubbed, but I hate to be totally annihilated," said he, with a grieved air.
She pursed her pretty lips and remained silent.
"Now you want me to go away, I see," he remarked. "This is the first time you have let me talk to you since we came aboard, and already you are weary."
"Yes, I am already weary," she echoed.
She put her little hand over her lips and yawned daintily but deliberately.
Burning with chagrin, he lifted his hat to her and walked away.
"I can never speak to her but she makes me repent," he said to himself, and went and leaned moodily against the side, while he continued to himself: "What a little thorn she is, and how sharply she can wound."
Leonora watched the retreating figure a moment, then leisurely opened her book again and settled herself to read. But she was not very deeply interested, it seemed, for now and then she glanced up under her long lashes at the tall, moveless figure of the soldier. At length she put down the book and went across to him.
Gazing intently out to sea, he started when a hand soft and white as a snow-flake fluttered down upon his coat-sleeve. He glanced quickly around.
"Miss West!" he exclaimed, in surprise.
She glanced up deprecatingly into his face.
"I—I was rude to you just now," she stammered. "I beg your pardon for it. I—I really don't know why I was so. I don't dislike you, indeed, and I think you are very nice. I have enjoyed the chair and the books, and I havebeen sorry ever since that day when I came down to the steamer and did not wait for you. But—somehow—it was very hard to tell you so."
She had spoken every word with a delightful shyness, and after a pause, she went on, with a catch in her breath:
"As for your being poor, I never thought of that—never. I think poor men are the nicest—always. They are handsomer than the rich ones. I—"
She caught her breath with a gasp. He had turned around quickly and caught her hand.
"Miss West—" he was beginning to say, when a sudden step sounded beside them.
Lieutenant De Vere had come up to them. There was a sudden glitter in his brown eyes—a jealous gleam.
"I beg your pardon. Are you and Miss West rehearsing for private theatricals?" he asked, with a slight sarcastic inflection.
Lancaster looked intensely annoyed; Leonora only laughed.
"Yes," she said. "Do you not think that I should make a good actress, Lieutenant De Vere?"
"Yes," he replied, "and Lancaster would make a good actor. 'One man in his time plays many parts.'"
Lancaster looked at him with a lightning gleam in his blue eyes. There was a superb scorn in them.
"Thank you," he replied. "And to carry out your idea, I will now make my exit."
He bowed royally and walked away. De Vere laughed uneasily; Leonora had coolly gone back to her book. His eyes flashed.
"If anyone had told me this, I should not have believed it," he muttered. "Ah! it was well to lecture me and get the game into his own hands. Beggar! what could he give her, even if she bestowed her matchless self upon him—what but a barren honor, an empty title? Ah, well! false friend, I know all now," he hissed angrily to himself.
Leonora, apparently absorbed in her book, watched her exasperated admirer curiously under her long, shady lashes. She divined intuitively that he was bitterly jealous of his handsome friend.
"Have I stirred up strife between them?" she asked herself, uneasily. "That will never do. I must carry the olive branch to the distrustful friend."
She glanced around, and seeing that Lancaster was not in sight, called gently:
"Lieutenant De Vere!"
He hurried toward her, and stood in grim silence awaiting her pleasure.
"I—want to speak to you," she said.
There was a vacant chair near at hand. He brought it and sat down by her side.
"I am at your service, Miss West," he said, stiffly.
He thought he had never seen anything half so enchanting as the face she raised to his. The big black hat was a most becoming foil to her fresh young beauty. There was a smile on the rosy lips—half arch, half wistful. The full light of the sunny day shone on her, but her beauty was soflawless that the severe test only enhanced its perfection. His heart gave a fierce throb, half pain, half pleasure.
"You are vexed with me?" said Leonora, in a soft, inquiring voice.
"Oh, no, no," he replied, quickly.
"No?" she said. "But, then, you certainly are vexed with some one. If it is not with me, then it must be with Captain Lancaster."
To this proposition, that was made with an air of conviction, he remained gravely silent.
"Silence gives consent," said the girl, after waiting vainly for him to speak, and then he bowed coldly.
"Then it is he," she said. "Ah, dear me! what has Captain Lancaster done?"
"That is between him and me," said the soldier, with a sulky air.
The red lips dimpled. Leonora rather enjoyed the situation.
"You will not tell me?" she said.
"I beg your pardon—no," he answered, resolutely.
"Then I will tell you," she said: "you think he has treated you unfairly, that he has taken advantage of you."
De Vere stared.
"How can you possibly know, Miss West?" he asked, pulling sulkily at the ends of his dark mustache.
"I am very good at guessing," demurely.
"You did not guess this. He told you, I presume," bitterly.
"He—if you mean Captain Lancaster—told me nothing. I was telling him something. Why should you bevexed at him because I went and stood there and talked to him?" indignantly.
"I was not," rather feebly.
"Do you really deny it?" she asked him, incredulously.
"Well, since you put it so seriously, yes, I was vexed about it; but I don't understand how you could know it," he answered, flushing a dark red.
"I will tell you how I know," she said, coloring crimson also. "I heard all that you and Captain Lancaster said about me that first night we came aboard."
"Oh, by Jove! you didn't, though?" he exclaimed, radiant, and trying to meet the glance of the beautiful eyes.
But with her shy avowal she had let the white lids drop bashfully over them.
De Vere was not one bit disconcerted by what she had told him. He knew that all she had heard that night had been to his advantage.
"And so all this while you knew that I thought—" he began, boldly.
"That you thought me rather pretty—yes," she replied, modestly. "I knew also that I was amésalliancefor you, and that Captain Lancaster's future was 'cut and dried,'" bitterly.
He gazed at her in wonder.
"And you have kept it to yourself all this while, Miss West?"
"Yes, because I was ashamed to confess the truth. I did not want to be thought an eavesdropper, for I did not really wish to hear. It was an accident, but it hasweighed on my mind ever since, and at last I made up my mind to 'fess, as the children say."
He gazed at her with ever-increasing admiration.
"So," she went on, slowly, "this evening I told Captain Lancaster all about it."
She blushed at the remembrance of some other things she had told him—things she had not meant to tell, but which had slipped out, as it were, in her compunction at her rudeness to him.
"And—that was all? Was he not making love to you, really?" cried the lieutenant, still uneasy at the remembrance of that impulsive hand-clasp that had so amazed him.
She flashed her great eyes at him in superb anger.
"Love to me—he would not dare!" breathlessly. "I'm nothing to him, nothing to you—never shall be! Please remember that! Once I reach my aunt, neither of you need ever expect to see me again. I—I—" a strangling sob; she broke down and wept out her anger in a perfumed square of black-bordered cambric.
"Oh, pray, don't cry!" cried he, in distress. "I did not mean to make you angry, Miss West;" and then Leonora hastily dried her eyes and looked up at him.
"I'm not angry—really," she said. "Only—only, I want you to understand that you need not be angry with Captain Lancaster on my account. There's no use in your liking me and having a quarrel over me—no use at all."
"No one has quarreled," he answered, in a tone of chagrin and bitter disappointment.
"Not yet, of course," she replied shaking her head gravely. "But you know you spoke to him very aggravatingly just now."
"I merely used a quotation from Shakespeare," he retorted.
The bright eyes looked him through and through with their clear gaze.
"Yes, but there was a double meaning in it. I am sure he understood all that you meant to convey. I should think that when you meet him again he will knock you down for it."
"You are charmingly frank, but you are right. I do not doubt but that he will—if he can," he replied, bitterly.
Leonora measured the medium-sized figure critically with her eyes.
"I should think there could be no doubt on the subject," she observed. "He is twice as big as you are."
"Why do women all admire big, awkward giants?" asked he, warmly.
"We do not," sharply.
"Oh, Miss West, there's no use denying it. There are a dozen men in the Guards better looking than Lancaster, yet not one so much run after by the women; all because he is a brawny-fisted Hercules," crossly.
"Captain Lancaster is your friend, isn't he?" with a curling lip.
"He was before I saw you. He is not my friend if he is my rival," said De Vere, with frankness equal to her own.
The round cheeks grew crimson again.
"Put me out of the question. I am nothing to eitherof you—never can be," she said. "You have been friends, haven't you?"
"Yes," curtly.
"For a long time?" persisted she.
"Ever since I went into the Guards—that is five years ago," he replied. "The fellows used to call us Damon and Pythias."
"Then don't—don't let me make a quarrel between you!" exclaimed Leonora, pleadingly.
"It is already made, isn't it?" with a half regret in his voice.
"No; only begun—and you mustn't let it go any further."
"No? But what is a fellow to do, I should like to know?"
"You must go and apologize to your friend for your hasty, ill-timed words," she said.
"I'll be hanged if I show the white feather like that!" he cried, violently.
"There is no white feather at all. You made a mistake and spoke unjust words to your friend. Now, when you discover your error, you should be man enough to retract your remarks," she answered, indignantly.
"I can't see why you take up for Lancaster so vehemently," he commented, straying from the main point.
"I'm not taking up for him," warmly. "I only don't want you to make a fool of yourself aboutme!"
"Ah!"—shortly.
"Yes, that is what I mean, exactly; I don't want my aunt to think I've set you two at odds. She will beprejudiced against me in the beginning. Come, now," dropping her vexed tone and falling into a coaxing one, "go and make it up with your injured Pythias."
He regarded her in silence a moment.
"Should you like me any better if I did?" he inquired, after this thoughtful pause.
"Of course I should," she answered, in an animated tone.
"And it would really please you for me to tell Lancaster I was mistaken and am sorry?"
"Yes, I should like that, certainly."
He tried to look into the sparkling eyes, but they had wandered away from him. She was watching the flight of a sea-bird whose glancing wings were almost lost in the illimitable blue of the sky.
"If I do this thing it will be wholly for your sake," he said, meaningly.
"For my sake, then," she answered, carelessly; and then he rose and left her.
Lancaster had been in his state-room reading two hours, perhaps, when De Vere knocked at his door. He tossed back his fair hair carelessly, and without rising from his reclining posture, bade the applicant come in.
"Ah, it is you, De Vere?" he said, icily.
"Yes, it is I, Lancaster. What have you been doing? Writing a challenge to me?" laughing. "Well, you may burn it now; I have come to retract my words."
"To retract?" the frown on Lancaster's moody brow began to clear away.
"Yes, I was mistaken, I thought you were my rival in secret, but Miss West has explained all to me. I spoke unjustly. Can you accord me your pardon? I'm downright sorry, old fellow—no mistake."
Lancaster gave him his hand.
"Think before you speak next time," he said, dryly.
"I will. But I was terribly cut up at first, seeing you and her together—like that. How sweet she is! She did not want us to quarrel over her. She confessed everything. It was comical, her hearing everything that night—was it not? But there was no harm done."
"No," Lancaster said, constrainedly.
"I'm glad we are friends again; but I was so stiff I could never have owned myself in the wrong, only that I promised to do it for her sake," added De Vere; and then he went away, and left his friend to resume the interrupted perusal of his novel.
But Lancaster tossed the folio angrily down upon the floor.
"For her sake," he replied. "She is a little coquette, after all, and I thought for an hour that—Pshaw, I am a fool! So she has fooled him to the top of his bent, too! Why did I speak to her at all? Little nettle! I might have known how she would sting! Well, well, I wish the 'small commission' were duly handed over to the housekeeper at Lancaster Park. A good riddance, I should say! So she thought that poor men were the nicest and handsomest, always? Faugh! Lucky for me that De Vere came upon the scene just then! In another minute I should have told her that I thought just the same about poorgirls! So she confessed all to De Vere, and bade him apologize for her sake. Ah, ah, little flirt!" he repeated, bitterly.
Things went on smoothly as usual at Lancaster Park after Mrs. West had given her consent to my lady's clever plan. They put Richard West's child out of their heads for awhile and began their preparations for the guests who were expected to arrive the last of May, to welcome the returning master of Lancaster Park. Mrs. West found time in the hubbub to fit up a tidy little room next her own for the little American niece who was coming to her from so far away. Then she, too, dismissed the matter from her mind, save now and then when in solitary moments she would wonder to herself what Dick West's child would be like, and if she would be old enough to put to school.
"It is lucky that I have a good store of savings," thought the lonely woman to herself. "I will find a good boarding-school for little Leonora, if she is old enough to go, and the child shall be educated for a teacher, that she may have the means of supporting herself genteelly when she grows up. It will take a good deal of money, but I will not begrudge it to poor Dick's child. He was a good-hearted, sunny-tempered lad. I only hope his child may be like him."
So she went on thinking of the child as of a very small girl indeed. Her brother-in-law's letter, with its hurried mention of "my little girl," "my little Leo," had entirelymisled her. The poor dying man had had no intention of deceiving his sister-in-law. To him his darling daughter, although grown to woman's stature, was always "my little girl," and it never occurred to him, when on his dying bed he penned that hurried letter, to explain to Mrs. West that his orphan child was a beautiful young girl of eighteen, already fairly educated, and with a spirit quite brave enough to face the world alone, if need be.
So she went on thinking of Leonora West as a little girl who would be a great deal of trouble to her, and on whom she would have to spend the savings of long years; and, although she felt that she had a formidable task before her in the rearing of this orphan girl, she did not shrink from the undertaking, but made up her mind to go forward bravely in the fulfillment of the precious charge left to her by the dead.
So the day drew near for Leonora's arrival, and the great house was now filled with guests—twenty in all—whom Lady Lancaster had bidden to the feast, prepared in honor of her nephew, the Lord of Lancaster.
So the day was come at last, and Lady Lancaster in the drawing-room awaited her nephew, while the housekeeper in the kitchen awaited her niece.
It was one of the most beautiful of June days. The air was sweet and warm, the sky was clear and blue, all nature seemed to smile on the home-coming of the master.
Mrs. West, having given her orders in the kitchen, repaired to her own special sitting-room, a small apartment on the second floor, with a sunny window looking out upon the rear grounds of the house. She had put a bouquet ofroses in a vase on the mantel, and some small pots of simple, sweet-smelling flowers on the window-sill, to brighten up the place for the child's eyes.
"It will look so cheerful. Children always love flowers," she said.
She pulled forward a pretty little child's rocking-chair that she had brought down from the immense garret. She arranged a pretty little red-and-white tidy over the back.
"In a little while they will be here, for John went to meet them with the carriage a good while ago," she said to herself. "Dear me, how nervous I am getting over that child's coming."
And she settled her lace cap again and looked into the small mirror against the wall, wondering how Dick's child would like her aunt's looks.
"Dear me, Mrs. West, I did not think you were so vain," said a laughing masculine voice.
She turned around quickly.
"Oh, my lord, so you're come home again!" she cried; "and as full of your mischief as ever. Welcome, welcome!"
"Yes, I am home again, Mrs. West, and here is what I have brought you," he said, stepping back that she might see the girl who had followed him into the room—the graceful figure in deep black, that came up to her with both hands outstretched, and said, demurely:
"How do you do, Aunt West?"
For a minute Mrs. West did not touch the pretty white hands held out to her, she was so amazed and surprised. She managed to stammer out faintly:
"Are you Leonora West? I—I was expecting to see a very young child."
The bright face dimpled charmingly.
"That was a mistake," she said. "I hope you will not be vexed because I am so large!"
"But," said Mrs. West, in perplexity, "the letter said a little girl."
"Yes, I know," said Leonora. "Poor papa always called me his little girl, and if he had lived until I was an old woman it would have been the same. And he forgot that you could not possibly know how old I was. I'm sorry you are disappointed, Aunt West, but I am eighteen years old. You see, papa was married one year after he went to America—and—"
Just here Captain Lancaster interposed:
"Aren't you going to kiss your niece, Mrs. West?"
"Oh, dear me, yes; I was so surprised, I quite forgot!" cried the good woman. She went up to Leonora, put her arms around the graceful figure, and kissed the round cheek.
"Welcome to England, my dear child," she said. "I shall love you dearly, I am sure. Sit down, do, in this chair, while I take your things."
And in her flurry she pushed forward the small rocking-chair with elaborate courtesy, whereat Leonora laughed good-naturedly.
"Either the chair is too small, or I am too big," shesaid; "I am afraid to trust myself upon it." She went and sat down on a pretty old-fashioned sofa. Then she glanced around and saw that Captain Lancaster had gone.
"Are you disappointed because I am not a little girl, Aunt West?" she inquired, as she removed her hat and smoothed her rough tresses with her small, white hands.
"I—I don't know—yet," said the good woman; "I am so flustered by the surprise, and—and—I wonder what Lady Lancaster will say?"
"What has Lady Lancaster to do with me?" demanded Miss West, in her pretty, abrupt way, fixing her large eyes wonderingly on her aunt's face.
"Oh, nothing!" answered Mrs. West, rather vaguely.
"I should think not, indeed," said Leonora, in a very decided tone.
"Are you tired, my dear? Should you like to go to your room and rest?" inquired the housekeeper, changing the subject.
"No, I am not tired, thank you, aunt; but I will go to my room if you please," Leonora answered. There was a little disappointment in her tone. The young face looked sober.
"This way, then, my dear," said Mrs. West. She led the girl through her own neat bedroom, into a prettier one, small, but furnished with a white bed, a blue carpet, and some blue chairs—these latter also the spoils of the garret, but looking very well after the furbishing Mrs. West had given them.
Leonora cast a rapid, comprehensive glance around her, then went over to the ewer and bathed her face and hands.
"I hope your room suits you, Leonora," said Mrs. West, lingering, and half-abashed. Something about the fair, self-possessed girl seemed to vaguely suggest better things. Beside her grace and beauty the room looked poor and mean.
"Oh, yes, thank you, aunt," Leonora returned, quietly. She had taken her combs and brushes out of her dressing-bag now, and Mrs. West saw that they were an expensive set, pearl and silver-backed, as elegant as Lady Lancaster's own.
"My dear, could your papa afford handsome things like these?" she said.
Leonora flushed rose red.
"Not always," she said. "But he was very extravagant whenever he had money. He made a great pet of me, and sometimes—when he had good luck—he bought the loveliest things for me. Perhaps, if he had taken more care of his money, you need not have been burdened with the care of his orphan daughter now."
There was a dejected tone in her voice that went straight to the housekeeper's womanly heart.
"Oh, you poor fatherless child!" she cried. "Do you think I could mind dividing my savings with Dick West's child? He was a bonny lad, was Dick! I always loved him, although he was no real kin to me, and only my husband's brother."
Leonora's eyes shone very bright now through the tears that filled them.
"Oh, Aunt West, you will love me too a little, then—forpoor papa's sake!" she cried, and Mrs. West answered, with sudden warmth and tenderness:
"Indeed I will, dear. You shall be like my own daughter to me."
A moment later she added, ruefully:
"I'm sorry I could not have a nicer room for you, Leonora. But, you see, I thought this would do very well for a child."
"Oh, indeed, it does not matter in the least. I shall not stay in it much. I shall be out-of-doors nearly all the time."
Leonora spoke in such a composed, matter-of-fact tone that she was surprised at its effect upon her aunt.
The good lady uttered an exclamation almost amounting to terror, and stood regarding her niece with such a rueful and amazed face that the girl burst into a peal of sweet, high-pitched laughter.
"Oh, my dear aunt," she cried, as she vigorously brushed out her thick plaits of hair into loose, shining ripples over her shoulders, "what have I said to shock you so?"
"I'm not shocked, my dear," said the good soul, recovering herself, with a gasp. "What put such an idea in your head? But what did you say, child," anxiously, "about being out all day?"
"I said it didn't matter about the room, as I didn't expect to stay in it much. I love fresh air, Aunt West, and I shall be out-doors nearly all the time."
"I'm afraid that won't do here, my love," suggested the housekeeper, timidly.
"Why not?" said Leonora, amazed; then she colored, and said, demurely: "Oh, yes, I understand now. You can not spare me. I shall have to help work for my living."
"No, you shall not," indignantly; "I did not mean that at all. I should be mean if I thought of such a thing. But there's Lady Lancaster. She wouldn't like it."
A pretty little frown came between Leonora's straight, dark brows.
"Wouldn't you like me to go out-doors? Is that what you mean?" she asked, and when Mrs. West answered "Yes," she said, angrily and decidedly:
"Lady Lancaster has nothing to do with my movements, and I don't suppose she will grudge me a breath of God's free air and sunshine even if I walk in her grounds to obtain them."
"But I promised her—" said Mrs. West, then paused bashfully.
"I hope you didn't promise her to bury me alive in this musty little chamber, at all events," said the girl, with an irreverent glance around her.
"Yes, I did. At least I promised to keep you out of her sight. She does not like children."
"I'm not a child," said Leonora, looking her tallest.
"Yes. I forgot that. I will ask her if her objections extend to a young lady," Mrs. West said, with a hesitating air. She was a little afraid of a contretemps of some kind.The girl's great eyes were flashing, her pretty red lips curling disdainfully.
"Aunt West, are you going to stay on at Lancaster Park, and am I to stay here with you?" she asked, slowly.
"That was my expectation, dear," the housekeeper answered, mildly.
"And—am I here on Lady Lancaster's sufferance? Am I—hired to her?"
"Why, no, of course not, Leonora, child. She has nothing at all to do with you. My lady was very kind. She did not send me away because I was about to adopt a daughter. She permitted me to have you here, and she made but one condition."
"And that?"
"That I was to keep you limited to my rooms—to keep you out of her sight. She did not want to be pestered by a child."
"Ah!" Leonora drew a long breath, as with her white fingers she patted the soft rings of hair down upon her white forehead.
"Yes, you can not blame her, surely, dear. You see, my lady is an old woman. She is eighty years old, and she has never had any children. So of course she would not like to be bothered with other people's. She is very ill-natured, and very peculiar, but perhaps when she finds out you are a young lady she will not care if you go out into the grounds some."
"And to the house, Aunt West—am not I to go over that? Papa has told me so much about these grand oldEnglish homes. I should like to go over one so much," said the girl.
"I will take you over the house myself, some day. You shall see it, never fear, child, but not for some time yet. You see, the place is full of grand company now."
"Lady Lancaster's company?" asked Leonora.
"Why, yes, of course," said Mrs. West. "She has twenty guests—fine, fashionable people from London, and they are all very gay indeed. You shall see them all at dinner this evening. I will find you a peep-hole. It will be a fine sight for you."
"I dare say," said Leonora, speaking rather indistinctly, because she had two pins in her mouth and was fastening a clean linen collar around her neck.
"How coolly she takes things! I suppose that is the American way," thought Mrs. West. "But then of course she can have no idea what a brave sight it is to see the English nobility dining at a great country-house. She will be quite dazzled by the black coats and shining jewels and beautiful dresses. I don't suppose they have anything like it in her country," mused the good woman, whose ideas of America were so vague that she did not suppose it had advanced very far from the condition in which Columbus discovered it.
"I should not think," said her niece, breaking in upon these silent cogitations, "that Lady Lancaster, being so old—'one foot in the grave and the other on the brink,' as they say—would care about all that gay company around her. Does she lead such a life always?"
"Oh, no. It is only now and then she is so dissipated.But she must keep up the dignity of the Hall, you know, for the sake of Lord Lancaster. All this present gayety is in honor of his return."
"Has Lord Lancaster been abroad, then?" Leonora asked, carelessly.
"Why, my love, what a strange question!" said her aunt, staring.
"What is there strange about it, Aunt West?" asked the girl.
"Why, that you should ask me if Lord Lancaster has been abroad—as if any one should know better than yourself."
"I, Aunt West? Why, what should I know of Lady Lancaster's husband?" exclaimed Leonora, wondering if her aunt's brain were not just a little turned.
"Why, my dear girl, who said anything about her husband? She's a dowager. The old Lord Lancaster has been dead these two years. Of course I meant the young heir."
"The old lady's son?" asked Leonora, irreverently.
"Her nephew, my dear. You know I told you just now that she never had a child."
"Oh, yes, I was very careless to forget that. I beg your pardon. So then it is her nephew who has been abroad?"
"Yes, or rather her husband's nephew," replied Mrs. West.
"Where has he been, aunt?" continued the girl, carelessly.
Mrs. West looked as if she thought Leonora had parted with her senses, if ever she had possessed any.
"Why, he has been to America, of course. Didn't he fetch you to England, Leonora? And hasn't he but just gone out of the room? Are you making fun of your old auntie, dear?"
Leonora stood still, looking at her relative with a pale, startled face.
"Why, that was Captain Lancaster," she said, faintly after a minute.
"Of course," answered Mrs. West. "He's an officer in the army, but he is Lord Lancaster, of Lancaster Park, too. Dear me, dear me, didn't you really know that much, Leonora?"
"N-no; I didn't. I thought he was nothing but a soldier. He—he told me that he was as poor as—as a church-mouse!" faltered Leonora, as red as a rose, and with a lump in her throat. She was just on the point of breaking down and crying with vexation. How had he dared chaff her so?
"Well, so he is poor—not as poor as a church-mouse, of course, for he has Lancaster Park and five thousand acres of woodland; but then he has no money—it was all squandered by the dead-and-gone lords of Lancaster. So Captain Clive Lancaster never left the army when he came into the title. He could not support it properly, and so my lady lives on here, and some day, if he marries to please her, she will give him all her money," said Mrs. West, volubly.
Leonora went over to the window, and stood looking outat the fair, peaceful English landscape in silence. Her readiness of speech seemed to have deserted her. The pretty face was pale with surprise.
"You must be tired, dear. Do lie down and rest yourself," said Mrs. West. "I must leave you now for a little while. Oh, I had almost forgotten—your luggage, Leonora—did you bring any?"
"Yes, there were several trunks," Leonora answered, without turning her head.
"I will have them brought in," said Mrs. West. Then she bustled away and left the girl alone.
She was not tired, probably, for she did not lie down. She only pulled a chair to the window and sat down. Then she clasped her small hands together on the window-sill, rested her round, dimpled chin upon them, and gazed at the sky with a thoughtful, far-off look in her eyes.
Meanwhile Mrs. West's mind teemed with uneasy thoughts.
"She's rather strange, I'm afraid," the good woman said to herself. "I think, perhaps, poor Dick has humored her some—she will not bear restraint well—I can see that! And what will Lady Lancaster say to a grown-up girl instead of a little one, as we expected? I'm afraid I see rocks ahead. And yet how pretty and bright she is—too pretty to belong to the housekeeper's room, I'm afraid. Lady Lancaster will be vexed at her, if ever she sees her. She is too independent in her ways to suit my lady. They must not be allowed to meet as long as I can help it," sighing.
Lady Lancaster was pleased to be very gracious indeed to her returned nephew.
"Ah, you are as big and handsome as ever, Clive!" she said, "and well, of course. I believe you never were sick in your life?"
"Hardly ever," he replied, with a laugh, adding, with veiled anxiety: "I hear that you have killed the fatted calf in my honor, Aunt Lydia. Whom have you staying with you?"
"A few nice people from London, Clive—twenty in all, I think. There are old Lord and Lady Brierly, and their son and daughter, Sir Charles Winton, Colonel Livingston, Mark Dean and his pretty sister, the Earl of Eastwood and his beautiful daughter, Lady Adela, the Cliffords, and some other people. You will meet them all at dinner. I think you know them all?"
"Yes, I suppose so," he answered, rather absently.
"To-night there will be a little informal dance—the young folks were so eager for it, you know. And, Clive, that young friend of yours, Lieutenant De Vere—I hope you brought him down with you?"
"I did not," he replied.
"I am sorry; but I shall send him a note to-morrow. Did you have a fair trip over, Clive?"
"Very fair," he replied, in a peculiar tone.
"I am glad to hear that. Oh, by the way, Clive, did you bring that child to the housekeeper?"
"Yes," he replied, and a slight smile twitched the corners of the mustached lips.
"I hope she wasn't troublesome," said the haughty old lady, carelessly.
"She was troublesome—I suppose all of the female sex are," he answered, lightly.
"Well, it couldn't be helped, or I would not have bothered you. I had to send for the young one, or West would have gone off herself to fetch her. I'm glad you brought her. The trouble is all over now, so I suppose you don't care."
"Oh, no!" said Captain Lancaster, with rather grim pleasantry.
And then she touched him on the arm and said, significantly:
"There's some one here I want very much for you to meet, Clive."
"Ah, is there?" he said, shrinking a little from the look and the tone. "I thought you wanted me to meet them all."
"I do; but there is one in particular. It is a lady, Clive," she said, giving him a significant smile that he thought hideous.
He tried gently to wrench himself away from her.
"Well, I must go and take my siesta and dress before I meet them," he said.
"Wait a minute, Clive. I must speak to you," she said, in a tone that savored of authority.
"Will not some other time do as well?" he inquired, glancing rather ungallantly at his watch.
"No time like the present," she answered, resolutely. "You are trying to put me off again, Clive; but beware how you trifle with me, my Lord Lancaster, or I shall know how to punish you," she said, shaking her skinny, diamond-ringed finger at him.
His handsome face flushed haughtily.
"Go on, madame," he said, with a slight, mocking bow. "I am the slave of your pleasure."
She regarded the handsome, insubordinate face in dead silence a minute.
"You already anticipate what I would say," she said. "Why is the idea so distasteful to you, Clive? Any young man in your position might be transported with joy at the thought of inheriting my fortune."
He bowed silently.
"You know," she went on, coolly, "you can never come home to live on your ancestral acres unless you marry money or inherit it."
"Thanks to the folly of my predecessors," he said, bitterly.
"Never mind your predecessors, Clive. There is a woman here whom I want you to marry. Win her and make her mistress of Lancaster Park, and my fortune is yours."
"Am I to have her for the asking?" he inquired, with a delicate sarcasm.
"It is very likely you may," she answered. "Handsome faces like yours make fools of most women."
"And who is the lady it is to charm in this case?" he inquired, with bitter brevity.
"It is the Lady Adela Eastwood," she replied, concisely.
He gave a low whistle of incredulity.
"The Lady Adela Eastwood—the daughter of a hundred earls!" he cried. "Your ambition soars high, Aunt Lydia."
"Not too high," she replied, shaking her old head proudly, until the great red jewels in her ears flashed like drops of blood.
"Not too high," repeated Lady Lancaster, sagely. "The lords of Lancaster have married earls' daughters before to-day."
"Yes, in their palmy days," said Clive Lancaster; "but not now, when their patrimony is wasted, their lands encumbered with taxes, and their last descendant earning a paltry living in her majesty's service."
"Lady Adela is as poor as you are," said the withered old woman, significantly.
"No?"
"Yes."
"But I thought that the Earl of Eastwood was very rich."
"He was once; but he and his spendthrift sons have made ducks and drakes of the money at the gaming-table. Lady Adela will have no portion at all. She will be compelled to marry a fortune."
"So you have placed yours at her disposal?" he said, with hardly repressed scorn.
"Yes," coolly, "if she takes my nephew with it. But,seriously, Clive, it is the best match for you both. You will have money; she has beauty and exalted station. Married to each other, you two will be a power in the social world; apart, neither of you will count for much. You will have rank, but that will be a mere incumbrance to you without the ability to sustain its dignity properly."
"If you only knew how little I care for social power," he said. "The life of a soldier suits me. I have no great ambition for wealth and power."
"You are no true Lancaster if you are willing to let the old name and the old place run down!" she broke out, indignantly. "Ah, I wish that I might have borne a son to my husband! Then this degenerate scion of a noble race need never have been roused from hisdolce far nienteto sustain its ancient glory."
His lip curled in cold disdain of her wild ranting.
"At least the old name will never be dishonored by me," he said. "I have led a life that no one can cry shame upon. My record is pure."
Glancing at his flushed face and proud eyes, she saw that she had gone too far. She did not want to rouse that defiant mood inherent in all the Lancasters. She was afraid of it.
"I was hasty," she said. "Forgive me, Clive. But I am so anxious to have you fall in with my plans. I have no kin of my own, and I am anxious to leave my money to you, the heir of my late husband's title. If you fall in with my views I shall give you from the day of your marriage ten thousand a year, and after my death the whole income shall be yours. If you cross me, if you decline tomarry as I wish you to do, I shall hunt up other Lancasters—there are distant connections in London, I think—and I shall leave everything to them instead of to you."
Her black eyes glittered with menace, and there was an evil, triumphant smile on her thin, cruel lips. She knew the extent of her power, and was bent on using it to the full.
"Money is a good thing to have, Aunt Lydia. I should like to have yours when you are done with it, I don't deny that," he said. "There may be some things better than money, if," slowly, "one could have them, but—"
"Better than money?" she interrupted, angry and sarcastic, and frightened all at once, for fear that he was about to refuse her. "Pray tell me what those desirable things may be."
"You did not hear me out," he answered, calmly. "I was about to say there might be, but I was not sure. We will not discuss that unknown quantity."
"I think not," she answered, dryly. "It might be more pertinent to discuss Lady Adela now. What do you say, Clive? Shall you pay your court to her?"
A deep red flushed all over his fair, handsome face.
"She might decline the honor," he said.
"Pshaw! she might be a fool, but she isn't," said my lady, sharply. "She will not decline. She has an inkling of what I mean to do. I have talked with the earl. He thinks it would be a pleasant and pertinent arrangement for the house of Lancaster. You know you have to think of your heirs, Clive, and to do the best you can for their future."
"Yes," he said, sarcastically.
"Well, now I have told you all my hopes and plans, Clive, I want to know what you are going to do. There is no use beating about the bush," said my lady, sharply.
"I am going to make Lady Adela's acquaintance before I make up my mind," he answered, undauntedly.
"You will fall in love with her. She is a great beauty," my lady said, confidently, as he bowed himself out.
That evening when "sober-suited twilight" had begun to fall over all things, when the stars began to sparkle in the sky, when the air began to be heavy with odors of rose and mignonette and jasmine and the odorous, heavy-scented honeysuckle, Mrs. West came into the sitting-room, where Leonora was leaning from the window, drinking in the peaceful sweetness of the summer eve.
"Are you lonely here in the dark, my dear? I will bring a lamp," she said.
"Not yet, please, Aunt West," said the girl. "I love this twilight dimness. I love to sit in the darkness and think."
"About your poor papa, dear?" asked the good woman. "Tell me about him, Leonora. What did he die of?"
"It was a fever, Aunt West. Some day I will tell you all about him, but not just yet, please. I—can not bear it yet. It has been so little a while since I lost him—barely two months!" said Leonora, with the sound of tears in her voice.
"Well, well, dear, I did not think. You shall tell me when you please. But that was not what I came for. You know I promised you a peep at the fine folks when they dined. Well, it is time now. In a minute they will assemble. Come with me; I have found a snug place for you."
Leonora rose and followed her aunt. They went along some dark corridors, hand in hand, silently, and then Mrs. West put a key softly into a lock and turned it. A door opened. A close, musty scent of dust and disuse breathed in their faces. Mrs. West drew Leonora in and shut the door.
"Do not be afraid of the dark, dear," she whispered. "It is only a disused china-closet opening on the dining-hall. There is a broken panel. This way, Leonora. Now, look."
There was a broken panel, indeed, that made an aperture as wide as your hand. Through it there streamed a bar of light, making visible the cobwebbed corners of the narrow pantry, with piles of cracked and old-fashioned china arranged upon the shelves, where the dust of years lay thick and dark and musty. Leonora laughed a little at the novelty of her position.
"Auntie, I feel like a naughty little girl who has hid in the closet to steal preserves," she whispered.
Mrs. West laughed softly too.
"You will have something nicer than preserves," she whispered, reassuringly, as if Leonora had indeed been a little girl. "Now, dear, look, look!"
Leonora looked out through the narrow aperture, halfdazzled by the radiant light for a moment, and saw a magnificent dining-hall, long and lofty, with carved oak paneling, and a tiled fire-place, a tapestried wall, and some glorious paintings by the old masters, all lighted by a magnificent chandelier of wax-lights, whose soft, luminous blaze lighted up a table glittering with gold and silver plate, costly crystal, and magnificent flowers. As she gazed upon the brilliant scene there was a rustle, a murmur, the echo of aristocratic laughter, and a gay party entered the room.
Mrs. West, leaning over her niece's shoulder, whispered, softly:
"There is my lady—in front, on that tall gentleman's arm, dear."
Leonora saw a little, wizened figure in a glistening brocade, with rubies pendent from the thin ears, a lace cap on the thin white hair, a locket of diamonds and rubies on the breast, and glittering bracelets that mocked the yellow, bony wrists they encircled, and the sour, wrinkled face, rendered even more ugly and aged by the attempts that had been made to render it youthful.
"That hideous old lady in paint and powder—do you say that she is Lady Lancaster?" Leonora asked; and when Mrs. West answered "Yes," she said, irreverently:
"She looks like a witch, auntie, dear. I shall be expecting every minute to see her gold-headed stick turned into a broom, and herself flying away on it 'into the sky, to sweep the cobwebs from on high.'"
"Oh, fy, my dear!" cried the housekeeper, disappointed that Leonora had not been more impressed with thesplendor of the scene and Lady Lancaster's dignity. "But, look at Lord Lancaster—is he not grand in his black suit?"
"Where?" asked Leonora, carelessly, as if she were not gazing at that moment on the tall, superb figure, looking courtly in its elegant evening-dress. He was walking by the side of a lady whose white-gloved hand rested lightly on his arm. Leonora looked admiringly at the dark, brilliant face and stately figure of this woman, who, clothed in ruby silk and rich black lace, looked queenly as she sunk into her chair behind a beautiful épergne of fragrant flowers.
"Oh, I see him now!" she said, after a minute. "He is with that lady in ruby silk. Aunt West, who is she?"
"The Earl of Eastwood's daughter, Lady Adela. She is a great beauty and a very grand lady."
"She is very handsome, certainly," Leonora said. Her gaze lingered on the dark, brilliant face behind the flowers. The dark eyes and red lips made a pretty picture. She wondered if Captain Lancaster thought so.
"Yes, she is very handsome, and she will be the next mistress of Lancaster Park," Mrs. West said.
"She is engaged to Captain—to Lord Lancaster, then?" said Leonora. She looked at the earl's daughter with a new interest.
"No, but every one knows what is in Lady Lancaster's mind," said Mrs. West, significantly.
"It is dreadfully close here in this closet. One can scarcely breathe," said Leonora. "Oh! Lady Lancaster, you said. What has she to do with Lord Lancaster andthe earl's daughter? It seems to me she is a very meddlesome old lady."
"She wants her nephew to marry Lady Adela. Every one knows it. She invited her here just to throw them together and make the match."
"But perhaps he will not marry her just to please his aunt!" spiritedly.
"He will be apt to do just what my lady tells him," said Mrs. West. "If he does not, she will leave her money away from him. He can not afford that."
"And will he really sell himself for money?" Leonora spoke in a stage whisper.
"Hush, my dear; not quite so loud. As to selling himself, I don't know that you could call it that exactly. Many people here marry for wealth and position. Yet, why shouldn't these two young people fall in love with each other? Lady Adela has everything in the world that is desirable, except money, and so has he. Their fortune is made if they marry each other."
"Happy pair!" said Leonora, in a sarcastic voice, in the darkness. "Isn't it just stifling in this hole, Aunt West? Let us go."
They went back quietly to the little sitting-room again.
"Well, how did you enjoy it, Leonora?" asked her aunt.
"Oh! very much," said the girl.
"I'm glad. Somehow, I thought you didn't," vaguely. "They are going to dance this evening. I can manage for you to see it, if you like to do so. Should you, Leonora?"
"Oh! very much," said the girl again.