It was a beautiful night, bright with moonlight and starlight, and sweet with balmy air and the breath of fragrant flowers. Leonora sat at the window and silently drank in the sweet influences of the balmy night. She would have liked to go out, but she did not suggest it, for fear of shocking her aunt.
"Are there any old ruins about here, Aunt West, and any pretty scenery?" she inquired, presently.
"Oh, yes; there are the old Abbey ruins, about two miles from here. They are very pretty and picturesque. Artists go there to sketch, and picnic parties to frolic. Devonshire is a very pretty place, anyhow. A great many people come here to make pictures."
"So I have heard," said Leonora. "May I go there some day—to the Abbey, I mean—and make a picture, Aunt West?"
"You, child? Can you sketch?"
"A little," demurely. "Indeed I have some talent for it. I have drawn some little things good enough to sell."
"Can you, really?" cried the housekeeper, in surprise.
"Yes, indeed," said Leonora, smiling. "To-morrow I will unpack my trunks and show you some pictures I did last year—some in California, some in New York State, some in Virginia, and some in West Virginia."
"All those places?" said Mrs. West. "Why, my dear, you must have traveled a great deal."
"I have," Leonora answered, carelessly.
"But could poor Dick—could your papa afford it?" inquired Mrs. West, bewildered.
"Sometimes—whenever he found a large gold nugget—he could," said Leonora. "We always had a little trip somewhere then. Papa was very fond of traveling."
"It must have cost a great deal of money, and—weren't you afraid, my dear? I have heard—at least I have read—that there are many Indians in Virginia."
"Oh, my dear aunt!" cried Leonora, amazed at such lamentable ignorance; then, in a moment, she added, kindly: "That was a great many years ago, aunt—when Christopher Columbus discovered America. There are not any Indians there now."
"Oh!" said Mrs. West, relieved, and with a sudden overwhelming feeling of dense ignorance, which Leonora saw so plainly that she turned the conversation kindly back to its first channel.
"But you haven't told me yet, aunt, if I may go and sketch the Abbey ruins. I suppose they are out of Lady Lancaster's jurisdiction," disdainfully.
"They are not, child, for they belong to Lord Lancaster; but I don't think there can be any objection. She never goes there herself," said Mrs. West.
"Then I shall go there some day and get a picture. Perhaps it may be good enough to sell. I'm going to try to help support myself, Aunt West."
"You need not, my dear, for I have savings enough for us both, and you are welcome to your share," said the good soul, kindly.
"I shall not touch a penny. I shall sell pictures enough to buy my dresses," said Leonora, with a confident air.
"They will have to be very good ones, dear," dubiously.
"I shall try to make them so," laughing.
At that moment a burst of music swelled upon the air—one of Strauss's most intoxicating waltzes. Leonora's heart thrilled to the sound.
"How delicious!" she cried.
"It is the band. The dance has begun," cried Mrs. West. "Come, Leonora, you shall have a peep at it."
"Not from the shelter of another hot china-closet, I hope," said the girl, laughing. "I am afraid of the cobwebs and the spiders."
"We will find a better place this time. Put something over your head, Leonora; we shall have to go out-doors, and the dew is heavy."
Leonora wound a dark veil turban fashion about her head.
"Now?" she said.
"Yes, that will do; come on," Mrs. West replied.
They went on a little balcony shrouded in vines, from which they could peep unobserved through an undraped window into the brightly lighted ball-room.
"Perhaps this will not do any better than the china-closet, after all," said Mrs. West, dubiously. "These vines are so thick, there may be bugs and spiders in them, too."
Leonora, shuddering, exclaimed, "Ugh! I can feel them creeping now!" and then declared that she would stay ten minutes, anyhow.
"Isn't it a pretty sight? Did you ever see anything so pretty, my love?" exclaimed Mrs. West, proudly.
It was a pretty scene. The long ball-room was draped in roseate colors and decorated with flowers. The walls were exquisitely painted in appropriate figures, and the waxed oaken floor shone so bright that it reflected the flying figures of the men and women who whirled around it in the sensuous measures of the gay waltz.
"Did you ever see anything so pretty?" repeated Mrs. West, with a certain pride in this grand old family whom she served; and her niece answered, unperturbably:
"Yes."
"You have? Where?" whispered the good soul, incredulously.
"In New York," replied the girl. "I was at a ball there last winter. It was very grand—much grander than this."
Nevertheless, she continued to gaze with a great deal of interest at the animated scene. There were more than a dozen couples upon the floor, the beautiful, richly dressed women and black-coated men showing to their greatest advantage in the gay dance. Leonora saw Lord Lancaster's tall, splendid figure among them. He had Lady Adela Eastwood for a partner. His arm was clasped lightly about her tall, slender form; her dark, brilliant face drooped toward his shoulder with rather a languishing air.
"Lady Adela is Lord Lancaster's partner," whisperedthe housekeeper. "Aren't they a well-matched pair? He is so fair, she is so dark, they go well together."
"Very well," said Leonora. She watched the two figures admiringly, and thought how exquisitely the light of the lamps shone down on Lady Adela's ruby silk and her flashing diamonds. The black hair bound into a braided coronet on the top of the graceful head contrasted well with the fair locks that crowned Lord Lancaster's brow.
"Yes, they go well together," she said to herself. "Will expediency and inclination go hand in hand? Will he marry her?"
"Lady Adela has superb diamonds," said the housekeeper, in her shrill whisper.
"Yes, they are very nice," said Leonora. "But I have—a friend who has much finer ones. Her father gave them to her for a birthday present. They cost fifty thousand dollars."
"What an odd girl! She is not one bit astonished at the splendor of anything she sees. She has seen a great deal of the world, really, and America must be a much finer place than I ever thought it," mused Mrs. West to herself.
"There, the waltz is over, Aunt West," whispered the girl, clinging to her arm. "Hadn't we better go now? Some one may come out here."
"Yes, if you have seen enough—have you?" Mrs. West replied, and Leonora answered:
"Yes, quite enough, thank you. I do not like to look at such gayety, and my dear papa so lately dead. Oh,Aunt West, please let us walk out in the air awhile. It is so warm here, and these vines are full of spiders and cobwebs, just like that china-closet."
When Leonora West said "please" in that coaxing tone there were not many people who could resist her. Mrs. West did not. She said to herself that it would be no harm to walk about the grounds a bit with her niece. She could not refuse her a breath of fresh air, certainly.
She saw Lady Lancaster sitting in a chair in the ball-room, and she did not think it likely that she would stir from her seat for at least an hour.
"So I'll run the risk," said the kind-hearted woman. "Come along, Leonora."
They went down into the beautiful grounds, along the moonlighted paths, past gleaming groups of statuary, ghost-like in the weird light, past beds of rarest flowers, past thickets of roses, walls of honeysuckles, with the white radiance of the moon shining over everything.
"How sweet this is!" the girl whispered. "When we were crossing the ocean, I grew so tired of the water and the sky; I longed for the green grass and the flowers. How soft and fragrant the air is, and how beautiful the moonlight! I think I could stay out here all night."
"You would catch your death of cold," Mrs. West said, aghast. "The dews are very heavy."
"Oh, of course, I don't mean to; but it is so romantic. It is like an Eastern night, so soft and balmy, and—oh, oh! Aunt West, is that the nightingale—the English nightingale papa used to love so dearly?"
She clapped her little hands. It was the nightingale, indeed, hid in some flowery covert, all alone,
"Pouring his full heart,In profuse strains of unpremeditated art."
"Pouring his full heart,In profuse strains of unpremeditated art."
"Yes, it is the nightingale," said Mrs. West, delighted that Leonora had found something at last in England to grow enthusiastic over. "There are so many of them here, and it is down by the Magic Mirror you hear that one singing. It is their favorite resort."
"The Magic Mirror?" echoed Leonora.
"Yes. It is a pretty pond of water a little further on, all fringed with willows and roses. It is as smooth and clear as a mirror, and there is an old tradition that the youth or maiden gazing into the Magic Mirror by moon light, in the month of June, may see there reflected the face of his or her life companion."
"Oh, Aunt West, let us go there!" cried the girl, eagerly.
"What! you don't believe in that silly tradition?" laughed the good woman.
"No, no, but to hear the nightingales," cried Leonora. "Is it far, auntie?"
"No; only a short distance further on, at a little bend where two paths meet. But we have come so far already—"
"And you are tired," said the girl, with generous compunction. "I ought to have remembered that." She pushed Mrs. West gently into a low rustic seat by the path, and said, kindly: "Sit here and rest while I go find it myself. The nightingale's voice shall guide me."
"You will not be long?" said Mrs. West, hesitatingly.
"No, no. May I go, Aunt West? Will you wait for me here?" pleadingly.
"Yes," answered the kind, indulgent soul; and Leonora set off at a quick pace, following the sound of the nightingale's voice, and repeating under her breath those exquisite lines to the nightingale written by Sir Walter Scott.
"Beautiful nightingale, who shall portrayAll the varying turns of thy flowing lay?And where is the lyre whose chords shall replyTo the notes of thy changeful melody?We may linger, indeed, and listen to thee,But the linkéd chain of thy harmonyIs not for mortal hands to unbind,Nor the clew of thy mazy music to find.Thy home is the wood on the echoing hill,Or the verdant banks of the forest rill;And soft as the south wind the branches among,Thy plaintive lament goes floating along."
"Beautiful nightingale, who shall portrayAll the varying turns of thy flowing lay?And where is the lyre whose chords shall replyTo the notes of thy changeful melody?We may linger, indeed, and listen to thee,But the linkéd chain of thy harmonyIs not for mortal hands to unbind,Nor the clew of thy mazy music to find.Thy home is the wood on the echoing hill,Or the verdant banks of the forest rill;And soft as the south wind the branches among,Thy plaintive lament goes floating along."
She went on swiftly through the beautiful night, guided by the nightingale's voice, and with a fast-beating heart; for, with all a young girl's folly, she meant to look into the Magic Mirror to see, perchance, the face of her future lord and master.
Louder and nearer grew the notes of the nightingale, as Leonora hastened on. She thought she had never heard anything so sweet. At first it had only been one bird, but now several had joined their notes together in a medley of intoxicating music that swelled deliciously upon the fragrant air of the night. She walked lightly, almost holdingher breath as she came upon the scene, for fear of frightening them away.
She passed from the shadow of the grand oaks that had overhung her path, out into an open space, and the Magic Mirror burst upon her sight—a little limpid lake fringed with willows and sweet-brier and water-lilies, and so clear that the full, white radiance of the moon and stars was mirrored on its tranquil breast, while, hid in the thicket of rose and willow, the night birds were pouring out their hearts in song.
"Oh, how sweet!" cried the girl. She clasped her hands in an ecstasy. Her heart was touched by the peaceful beauty and enchanting repose of the scene. Scarce a ripple stirred the bosom of the quiet lake, and the water-lilies, drooping to look at their fair reflections, were scarcely ruffled by the soft, light breeze that played around the enchanting spot.
Leonora moved softly forward to the verge of the Magic Mirror, and bending forward, with a slightly quickened heart-beat, gazed down into its crystal-clear depths. She saw her own face gazing back at her with all its fresh young beauty, its eager eyes and parted lips, the dark veil twisted carelessly about her head, and the loose tresses of her hair flowing beneath it. She saw all this clearly as in a mirror, and for a moment she remained intently gazing at it, wondering if the old legend were indeed true, and if the face of her future husband would indeed rise from those mysterious depths by the side of her own.
So absorbed was she in contemplation that she did not detect the faint scent of cigar smoke that suddenly filledthe air; she did not hear the approaching step that was muffled also, not to frighten the birds away. She remained gazing intently into the water, half bent forward, her hand grasping the slender branch of a willow, until suddenly, in the mystic pool, a face looked over her shoulder—the face of her fate.
Something like a startled cry burst from Leonora's lips as she thus beheld that face beside her own—that fair, strong, handsome face that was as familiar as her own—the face of Clive, Lord Lancaster.
She believed for a moment that his face had indeed arisen from the depths of the enchanted pool, and after that one startled cry she was silent, watching it with dilated eyes and bated breath, expecting every moment to see it fade into the nothingness from which it had sprung.
But, instead of fading, it grew clearer to her sight; it changed its expression. At first it had a half-mischievous smile upon the lips and in the eyes; this changed to gravity, tenderness, and passion. It was the face of a lover on which Leonora now gazed with rapt interest, unconscious that—
"His eyes looked loveTo eyes that spake again."
"His eyes looked loveTo eyes that spake again."
It was a moment of silent happiness.
The light wind stirred the lily-buds on the bosom of the lake that held those two fair faces mirrored in its breast; the nightingale's song pierced their hearts with exquisite pleasure that bordered on pain.
Leonora, wandering for one moment in the Land of Enchantment, was recalled to the present and to the actual by the man's folly.
He should have stolen away as he had come, in silence, leaving her alone with her beautiful, strange illusion, to bear its fruit in due season; but—
"Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness,Love's presence, warm and near."
"Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness,Love's presence, warm and near."
He yielded to a tender impulse without trying to resist it. He was close beside her; his cheek was near her own; his eyes looked into her eyes as they gazed up from the water, and those soft orbs had a look in them that made him dizzy with delight. He slid his arms around the graceful bending form and whispered in her ear:
"Leonora, is it fate?"
Alas!
"A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt!"
"A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt!"
Like one startled from a dream, she looked up and saw him holding her in that strong clasp, gazing into her face with a passion that frightened her. She tore herself from his arms.
"How dared you? oh, how dared you?" she cried out, indignantly.
Her angry words, her scornful glance, chilled the fire that burned within him. He realized his folly. Why had he touched her, frightened her, and so broken the spell of enchantment that held her? She would never forgive him, perhaps, for his temerity.
"Did you think, because you were my Lord Lancaster,forsooth, and I only the housekeeper's niece, that you could insult me thus?"
Her voice broke cold and sharp on the stillness. The nightingales had all flown away at the first sound of her angry tones.
"Insult you?" cried the culprit, agitatedly; he was too much shocked at the result of his hasty act to speak calmer. "Believe me, Miss West, I meant no insult. I did not think that you would take it so."
His words were unfortunate. They irritated Leonora even more.
"You did not think so?" she cried, gazing reproachfully at him. "And, pray, sir, what cause had I given you to—to think that your caresses could be agreeable to me?"
He stood gazing at her in silence.
If he told her the real truth—told her that the face in the Magic Mirror had fooled him with its soft eyes and tender lips, and led him on to the commission of that impulsive act—she would be more angry than ever. She would deny that her own looks had tempted him, made a fool of him. He would not stoop to exculpate himself from the anger of one so manifestly unjust.
All the Lancaster pride flushed into his face as he stood looking down at her from his haughty height, his arms folded over his broad breast.
"What cause had I given you," she repeated, stamping her little foot angrily on the earth, "to think that your caresses were agreeable to me?"
"She is a little shrew!" he said to himself, with sudden anger. "I will never give another thought to her."
With that thought he answered, coldly:
"If you were like other women, Miss West, I might exculpate myself in your eyes. But as it is, I can only say that I meant no harm, and I humbly crave your pardon."
"Like other women!" she flashed, haughtily. "What do you mean, Lord Lancaster? Does the misfortune of my poverty and lowly birth place me beyond the pale of your respectful consideration? Perhaps, were I Lady Adela Eastwood it would be different."
"What the deuce does she know about the earl's daughter?" he asked himself, in extreme astonishment; but he answered, eagerly:
"Yes, indeed, it would be different, Miss West. I should not look into the Magic Mirror over Lady Adela's shoulder, certainly; nor would I put my arm around her waist, but—"
He could not say another word, for she interrupted him, glowing with angry beauty.
"So you acknowledge the truth to my very face. For shame, Lord Lancaster! You throw discredit upon your name of gentleman; you make me hate and despise you for those words! No; I will never forgive you as long as I live!" sobbed Leonora, bursting into angry tears; and then she fled away from him in the moonlight, leaving him standing like one dazed by the side of the Magic Mirror.
But it was only for a moment that he remained thus motionless.
He thought apprehensively.
"It was most unwise in Mrs. West to allow her niece to go roaming about alone at this hour. Even upon my grounds she may lose her way, or meet with some unpleasant adventure. I will follow her at a safe distance, and see that she gets back safely to the Hall."
He set out hurriedly, and, turning the bend in the road, almost ran over two figures standing motionless under the tall trees that bordered the lane—Mrs. West, with Leonora sobbing in her arms.
The good woman, looking up, uttered a cry of relief.
"Oh, Lord Lancaster! I am so glad to see you," she exclaimed. "I am so frightened. Something must have happened to Leonora. You see how she's crying. Well, she came out for a breath of fresh air, and then she wanted to hear the nightingales at the Magic Mirror, and so I sat down and waited for her; but she stayed so long, I went to look for her; and there she came flying into my arms, and crying like some hurt thing. Did you see anything or any person, my lord?" anxiously.
He was intensely annoyed. The sight of Leonora sobbing grievously in the woman's arms bitterly irritated him.
Why would she misjudge him so persistently? why misunderstand him always?
He looked at the graceful black figure with its head bowed on Mrs. West's plump shoulder, and said, curtly:
"Miss West is unnecessarily alarmed. She has seen no one or nothing but myself. It was the sight of me that alarmed her."
"Oh, hush! I did not mean to tell her!" cried Leonora through her sobs.
There was a note of warning in her voice; but in his vexation he did not heed it.
Mrs. West was looking at him anxiously.
"Of course, she would not have been frightened at the sight of you, my lord!" she exclaimed.
"I—was not frightened at anything—I was only angry," Leonora said, lifting her head at this moment, and hushing her low sobs into silence. "He had no right, Aunt West," she added, incoherently.
"No right!" echoed the good woman, looking from one to the other in amazement. "Why, what has he done, my dear?"
"Nothing; only looked over my shoulder into the water—and—and frightened me. Please don't think me silly, Aunt West. I think I'm nervous to-night. Let us go," said the girl, without looking at the tall, handsome form standing so near her.
"Let me come to-morrow and explain," he said, humbly, coming nearer to her; but she turned her face resolutely from him.
"No," she said, icily; "it is quite unnecessary. Come, Aunt West."
She dragged the good woman away, and left him standing there in the moonlight, with a settled shadow upon his face.
"What a contretemps!" he said to himself, gloomily. "Ah! how little I thought, when I came out to-night to smoke that solitary cigar, that I should meet with such an adventure! How angry she was! Every time we meet we drift further away from each other!"
He went back to Lady Adela and his guests after awhile. The earl's daughter chided him because he had left them for that odious cigar.
"It was most ungallant!" she declared.
"You are mistaken. I went to consult that oracle, the Magic Mirror," he replied.
Lady Adela had heard the old legend. She smiled and bridled.
"Did you see your fate?" she asked him; and he answered, in a strange tone:
"I saw the woman I love in the Magic Mirror."
The earl's beautiful daughter was a little puzzled by his reply. She wondered if hers was the face he had seen in the water, but she dared not put the thought into words.
Several days passed away very quietly after Leonora's first day and night at Lancaster Park. The girl stayed in the small rooms to which she was restricted quite as closely as the housekeeper could have desired. She did not even offer to go out, seeming to have tacitly resigned herself to the situation.
She unpacked one of her trunks and showed Mrs. West the sketches she had promised to show her; she took out all her pretty, simple black dresses, and hung them on their pegs in the little dressing-closet her aunt assigned her.
When she had nothing else to do she read or embroidered. Her aunt noted with pleasure that she was seldom idle.
She did not know of the long hours Leonora spent, when alone, curled up in a big easy-chair, with her milk-white hands folded in her lap, her eyes half shut, with the dark lashes drooping against the pink cheeks, and a thoughtful, puzzled expression on the fair face.
If she had seen her, Mrs. West would have wondered much what her niece was thinking about.
In the meantime, the gay life of the great folks at Lancaster went on from day to day.
Leonora saw no more of it, steadily declining the well-meant offers of her aunt to provide her with surreptitious peeps at it.
"I do not care about it," Leonora would say, with an eloquent glance at her black dress. "Gayety only jars upon me, auntie, dear. I should like to go out in the fresh air a little; but if I can not do that, I have no desire for the rest."
But Mrs. West, however willing she was, did not dare advise her niece to go out into the grounds where the guests might be encountered at any time, or even old Lady Lancaster herself.
She knew that Leonora's pretty face, once seen by the guests, would excite remark. It had already won the admiration of the house-maids.
These latter persons, having caught occasional glimpses of Leonora in their errands to the housekeeper's room, were disposed to be very sociable with the fair American girl; but Mrs. West put an end to their well-meant cordialities by saying, gently:
"My niece would rather not be disturbed; she is in great trouble; she has recently lost her father."
After that the maids did not court Leonora's society any more. They accepted her aunt's excuse good-naturedly and sympathetically, and contented themselves by talking about her among themselves, and praising her beauty, which they declared to each other was even greater than that of the young ladies who were sojourning at Lancaster—greater even than that of Lady Adela Eastwood, who, it was confidently whispered, was to be the next mistress of Lancaster Park.
Mrs. West grew downright sorry for her pretty prisoner, whose pink cheeks were fading in the close, dark rooms where she was kept. She said to herself that this would not do. She must not have poor Dick's orphan child pining for liberty and light and the blessed sunshine that was free to all.
"I will not do it; no, not if I have to leave Lady Lancaster's service and make a home for the girl elsewhere," she said to herself.
So one day she came into the little room where Leonora, sitting at the window, gazed wistfully out at the green grass and the blue sky, with an unconscious pathos on the sweet, girlish face.
"My dear, you are tired of this stuffy little chamber, I know," she said.
"Not very," said the girl, a little drearily. "I suppose I ought to be grateful to you for giving me such a home."
"Grateful to me for hiding you away in these littlemusty rooms, as if you hadn't the sweetest face the sun ever shone on!" cried the good woman, self-reproachfully. "Not a bit of it, my dear. I'm ashamed of myself for treating you so. It mustn't go on so, or your health will suffer, and so I shall tell Lady Lancaster; and if she won't allow you the liberty of the grounds, I will go away from here and make us a snug little home somewhere else, where we may come and go as we please; so there!" said the good woman, with sudden independence.
Leonora rose impulsively and went and kissed the homely face of her friend.
"Aunt West, would you really do that much for me?" she exclaimed, delightedly.
"Yes, I would," Mrs. West answered, firmly. "Poor Dick left you to me to take care of, and I'm bound to do the best I can for your happiness."
"Ah!" said Leonora, checking an impatient sigh.
"And I've come to tell you," Mrs. West continued, "that if you'd like to go and sketch the Abbey ruins, you may go this morning, Leonora."
"If I'd like!" cried the girl. "Oh, Aunt West! it's just what I was wishing for. I shall be so happy!"
"Yes; you shall go, dear, and stay all day, if you like. I'll put you up a nice cold lunch in a little basket, and I'll hire the lodge-keeper's boy to show you the way. I'll give him a shilling to go, and he will stay all day to keep you from getting frightened."
"I shall not be frightened," said Leonora, radiant.
"I don't know; it's still and lonesome-like there, andthe bats and screech-owls might startle you. And there's an old dismantled chapel, too—"
"Oh, how lovely! I shall sketch that, too!" Leonora exclaimed, clapping her bands like a gleeful child.
"And a little old grave-yard," pursued Mrs. West. "Some of the old Lancasters are buried there. You might be afraid of their ghosts."
"I am not afraid of the Lancasters, dead or living," the girl answered, saucily, her spirits rising at the prospect before her.
She set forth happily under the convoy of little Johnnie Dale, the lodge-keeper's lad, a loquacious urchin who plied her with small-talk while he walked by her side with the lunch-basket Mrs. West had prepared with as dainty care as if for Lady Lancaster herself.
She did not check the boy's happy volubility, although she did not heed it very much, either, as they hurried through the grand old park, where the brown-eyed deer browsed on the velvety green grass, and the great oak-trees cast shadows, perhaps a century old, across their path.
When they had shut the park gates behind them, and struck into the green country lanes, bordered with honeysuckle and lilac, Leonora drew breath with a sigh of delight.
"How sweet it all is! My father's country, too," she said. "Ah! he was right to love these grand old English homes, although he was but lowly born. What a grand old park, what sweet, green lanes, what a sweet and peaceful landscape! It is no wonder that the English love England!"
She remembered how her father, now dead and buried under the beautiful American skies, had loved England, and always intended to return to it some day with his daughter, that she might behold his native land.
She remembered how often he had quoted Mrs. Hemans' lines:
"The stately homes of England,How beautiful they stand!Amidst their tall ancestral treesO'er all the pleasant land!The deer across their greensward boundThrough shade and sunny gleam,And the swan glides past them with the soundOf some rejoicing stream."
"The stately homes of England,How beautiful they stand!Amidst their tall ancestral treesO'er all the pleasant land!The deer across their greensward boundThrough shade and sunny gleam,And the swan glides past them with the soundOf some rejoicing stream."
"He loved the homes of England, although his fate was not cast with them," she said to herself. "Poor papa! I must try to love England for his sake; it was always dear to him, although he was fond of his kind adopted home, too!"
When they reached the ruins, she studied them carefully on every side to secure a picturesque view. She found that to get the best possible one she would have to sit down among the graves close to the little dismantled chapel.
"You bain't going to sit down amang them theer dead folk, missus?" inquired Johnnie, round-eyed, and on the alert for ghosts.
"Yes, I am. Are you afraid to stay, Johnnie?" she asked, laughing.
"Ya'as, I be," he replied, promptly.
"Very well; you may go off to a distance and play," said Leonora. "Don't let any one come this way to disturb me. And if you get hungry, you may have a sandwich out of my basket."
"I'm hungry now," he answered, greedily.
"Already, you little pig!" she cried. "Very well; take your sandwich now, then, and be off out of my way. I'm going to make a picture."
She sat down on the broken head-stone of an old grave, took out her materials, and while she trimmed her pencils, glanced down and read the name on the tomb beneath her.
It was Clive, Lord Lancaster.
Something like a shudder passed over her as this dead Lancaster, gone from the ways of men more than a century ago, recalled to her the living one.
"What do all the paltry aims and ambitions of our life matter, after all?" the girl asked herself, soberly. "The grave awaits us all at last!
"'The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,Await alike the inevitable hour;The path of glory leads but to the grave.'"
"'The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,Await alike the inevitable hour;The path of glory leads but to the grave.'"
Sitting there among the lonely green graves and broken, discolored monuments, with the ivy creeping over their dim inscriptions, Leonora, a little lonely black figure, began her sketch.
She worked industriously and skillfully, and nothing disturbed her for several hours.
Johnnie had availed himself of the opportunity to makean excursion into the woods on his own account, and she was quite alone; but nothing alarmed her, and she worked on fearlessly amid the fragrant stillness of the lovely June day, whose calmness was broken by nothing louder than the hum of the bees among the flowers, or the joyous carol of the sky-lark as it soared from earth to heaven, losing itself, as it were, in the illimitable blue of the sky.
The midday sun climbed high and higher into the sky, and Leonora, pausing over her nearly completed sketch, pushed back her wide hat from her flushed face, and stopped to rest, glancing around at the quiet graves that encompassed her.
"What a still and peaceful company we are!" she said, aloud, quaintly, never thinking how strange it looked to see her sitting there—the only living thing among the silent tombs.
Then all at once, as if the tenants of the grave had come to life, Leonora heard a soft babel of voices and laughter.
With a start she turned her head.
A party of gay young ladies and gentlemen were strolling toward her across the level greensward. Foremost among them was Lord Lancaster, walking beside the earl's daughter.
It was too late for retreat.
Every eye turned on the graceful figure sitting there so quietly among the graves of the dead and gone Lancasters.
As they passed the low stone wall that divided them, Lancaster lifted his hat and bowed low and profoundly.
Then they were gone, but an eager hum of masculine voices was borne back to her ears on the light breeze:
"By Jove! what a beauty!"
"Heavens! was that a ghost?"
"What a lovely being! Who is she, Lancaster?" She heard his deep, musical voice answer carelessly:
"It is Miss West—a young lady who is staying in the neighborhood for the sketching, I believe."
They went on toward the ruins.
Leonora, with a deeper color in her fair face, bent over her sketch and rapidly put some finishing touches to it.
"Now I wonder where little Johnnie can be?" she thought.
She glanced up and saw Captain Lancaster coming back to her.
He came on quickly toward the figure sitting among the graves, with the small head poised defiantly, although Leonora was thinking to herself:
"He is coming to scold me, perhaps, for trespassing on his property."
He came up to her and stood bareheaded before her with the sunlight falling on his fair head—tall, stalwart, handsome—a living Lancaster among those dead and gone ones; one who did no discredit to the name.
"I beg your pardon for interrupting you," he said; "but—you are sketching the ruins?"
"Yes."
"Will you let me see your work?"
She held it out to him in silence.
He scrutinized it in mingled wonder and delight.
"How perfect! how spirited! how beautiful!" he cried. "You must have real talent!"
"Thank you!" she answered, with a slight inclination of her head.
He stood watching the half-averted face a moment in silence. It had a slightly bored air, as if she wished he had not come, or that he would, at least, soon go.
"You are very brave, Miss West, sitting here all alone among these graves," he said, after that momentary pause.
"Did you leave your friends to come back and tell me that?" inquired she, with delicate sarcasm.
"No-o," slowly; "I came back to ask a favor, Miss West."
"Indeed?" incredulously.
"Yes; and it is this: I should like to have that sketch. My friend, Lady Adela, is in raptures over that pile of old ruins. She would like to have a picture of it."
He was watching her closely. He was rewarded for his intent scrutiny by seeing an angry crimson flush the round cheek.
"You would like this for her?" said Leonora, with ominous calmness.
"Yes; will you part with it?—for money, if you will. It is singularly perfect, and should be worth something considerable."
"You are very kind," said Leonora.
She had pulled a flower from a grave, and was tearing its petals apart with fierce cruelty between her white fingers.
"No; I am only just," he said; then, with a smile. "Ah! Miss West, do not be so cruel to that poor flower. I have a shuddering conviction that it is, metaphorically, myself you are deliberately annihilating."
She glanced up to him rather curiously from beneath her shady lashes.
"I—did not really think what I was doing," she said. "Why should you think I would treat you that way?"
"Because I have been so unfortunate as to incur your dislike," he answered.
She did not utter the denial he half hoped she would, but she threw her mutilated flower from her with a quickly suppressed sigh.
"Well, am I to have the sketch?" he inquired, after waiting vainly for an answer.
"No."
"You refuse?" he asked, chagrined.
"Yes. I drew the picture for myself, not for Lady Adela," she replied, spiritedly.
"She will be disappointed at my failure to secure it for her," said he.
"That does not matter to me," Leonora returned, coldly. "Why does she not make a picture for herself?"
"She does not sketch."
"Ah! is it beneath her dignity?" asked the girl.
"No, but beyond her power," he returned.
"Really?" asked the girl.
"Yes," he replied; "she assures me that she has no talent at all in that way. You who are so clever, Miss West, might afford to pity her."
"I do, but not because she can not draw," said Leonora.
"Why, then?"
"Because, for all her high birth and proud position, she will have to sell herself for money."
The shot told. She saw his cheek grow red.
"Mrs. West has been telling her these things. I wish to Heaven she had held her tongue!" he thought, bitterly. But aloud he said, lightly: "Perhaps you may find it expedient to do the same thing, Miss West."
"To do what?" she inquired.
"To marry for money," he replied.
"And you think it would be expedient?" she inquired, drawing her delicate black brows together in a vexed little frown.
"Yes, for you," he replied. "You are too beautiful and gifted, Miss West, to be contented in your present humble condition. You should marry wealth and position. Both would become you rarely."
"Thank you, my lord," she said, bowing, with a pretty gesture of mock humility.
"That reminds me to tell you that De Vere will be here to-morrow," he said, suddenly.
"What has that to do with our subject?" she inquired, shortly.
"Everything. De Vere is in love with you, and he is rich and well born. You can be Mrs. De Vere any time you wish."
"Did your friend employ you to tell me this?" asked Leonora, pale with passion.
"No; but he would have no objection to my doing so. He will tell you so himself when he comes."
"And you advise me to marry him?" she asked, gazing into his face with her soft, steady glance.
His own eyes fell beneath it.
"I should not presume to advise you; yet it would be a good thing for you, I know. De Vere adores you. He would be your slave, and you would be like a little queen in the position to which his wealth would raise you."
"You make a great deal of wealth," she said, gravely, and waiting curiously for his reply.
"It is a great power in the world," he replied.
"Is it?" she asked. "Ah! Lord Lancaster, 'almost thou persuadest me' to sink to Lady Adela's level and sell myself for gold."
"You seem to have imbibed a strange contempt for Lady Adela," he said.
"I have. Where is her womanliness, her self-respect, that she can lend herself to that wicked old woman's ambitious schemes for buying a coroneted head with her twenty thousand a year? She is the daughter of a hundred earls, and yet she can give herself to you merely for the money's sake. Pah!"
"Need it be merely for the money's sake?" he asked. "Am I repulsive to look upon, Miss West? Is it quite impossible that a woman, Lady Adela or another, should give me her heart with her hand?"
Something like wounded pride quivered in his voice, and he looked at her reproachfully.
"Would it be impossible for me to be loved for myselfalone?" he went on, slowly. "Might not some good, true, sweet woman love me for my own self—even as I am?"
She looked up at the handsome face, the large, graceful form, and silently recalled the words Lieutenant De Vere had spoken to her on the steamer's deck that day:
"He is more run after by the women than any man in the regiment."
"He knows his power," she thought; and from sheer contrariness made no answer to his appeal. "He shall not know what I think about it," she said to herself.
The handsome young lord stood looking at the fair face and mute red lips with a half chagrined air for a moment; then he said, hastily:
"Good-day, Miss West. I see how disagreeable my presence is, so I will leave you to your meditations among the tombs. I hope none of those old fellows will come out of their graves to haunt you for your scorn of their descendant.
"I hope not, indeed!" said Leonora, and then she laughed.
He turned back at the sound of that laugh.
Perhaps she was relenting.
She had risen, indeed, and was holding out to him the sketch he coveted.
"Take it," she said. "I was in a bad temper just now. Lady Adela may have it."
"Will you, indeed, be so kind?" he exclaimed, radiant with pleasure. "But, indeed, you must not give your whole morning's work for nothing. Let me—"
He put his hand into his pocket and brought out a shining gold piece.
"Thank you, my lord," said Leonora, demurely, as she received the money into her palm. "I shall be able to buy myself a new dress with this."
"You are not angry?" he said, struck by an inexplicable something in her tone.
"Oh, no; I am very glad to be so well paid for my work," she answered, with the same demure air; and then she said, suddenly: "Good-morning," and walked away from him.
He followed her.
"Are you going home alone, Miss West?"
"No; I have a small escort hereabouts, if he has not eaten my lunch and run away," she replied, carelessly.
"Johnnie Dale? No, he has not run away. You will find him in the lane, where I saw him as we came through. Shall I find him for you?"
"No, thank you. Doubtless Lady Adela is impatient at your long stay," she said, walking coolly away from him.
"The deuce! I expect she is. I had quite forgotten the daughter of a hundred earls," he said to himself, ruefully. "I forget everything with Leonora West. She would not answer my question, yet I would give the world to know what she really thinks. If I had not promised De Vere a fair field, I would try to find out what she thought before the sun sets. How brusque she is! Ah!"
The last exclamation was wrung from him by seeing Leonora lift her hand as she walked across the field.
Something bright and shining flashed in the air a moment, then fell into the grass.
"She has thrown my gold piece away like so much dross! What does she mean?" he asked himself.
But the question was one not easily answered, so he returned to his friends, who were chattering like so many magpies among the ruins.
"We thought you had gone back home, you were so long away," said Lady Adela, looking rather cross.
"Now I shall have to invent some fiction to account for my long absence," he thought, pulling vexedly at his long mustache. "Deuce take the women! They pull one this way and that way, until one is out of patience!"
And while he was hastily concocting an excuse, Leonora was walking rapidly through the lanes and fields with little Johnnie, on her way back to the Hall.
"I'm glad you came back so soon," Mrs. West said; "for some of the young people have gone over to the ruins, I hear, and I was afraid they would see you."
"They did see me; but I came away soon after," the girl answered, carelessly.
"They are going to have a picnic at the ruins to-morrow, it seems," pursued her aunt. "Lady Lancaster and all of them are going. So the house will be empty, and I can take you all over it to-morrow, if you like."
"Thank you; I shall like it very much," said Leonora, rather apathetically.
"And your picture of the ruins—did you get it, mydear?" pursued Mrs. West, suddenly remembering the sketch.
"Oh, yes; I finished it."
"Aren't you going to let me see it?"
"I'm sorry, aunt, but I sold it as soon as I finished it. I'll go back some day and make another for you."
"You sold it! To whom, my dear?" exclaimed the good soul, surprised.
"Why, to Lord Lancaster," Leonora answered, indifferently.
But Mrs. West was delighted. She thought that her niece must be very accomplished, indeed, if she could make a picture that Lord Lancaster would be willing to buy.
"He was very kind, especially after the way she behaved the other night. It was quite silly. I did not think Leonora would be so easily frightened. It is a wonder that Lord Lancaster was not offended," she thought.
The next day dawned as fair and lovely as any picnic-party could desire. The party from Lancaster set out as early as twelve o'clock, and left the coast clear for Leonora's explorations of the great house.
Mrs. West, with her basket full of keys upon her arm, undertook the office of guide. We do not propose to accompany them, you and I, reader. Descriptions of rooms are wearisome alike to reader and writer. Most people skip over these prolix inventories of furniture and bric-a-brac,and hasten on to more interesting matters. We will too, reader.
Mrs. West had "reckoned without her host" when she supposed that the house was empty, and that the lady of Lancaster Park as well as the rest of the guests had gone to the Abbey ruins on fun and frolic intent. It was quite true that she had intended doing so, but there is a quaint old adage to the effect that "man proposes, but God disposes."
That prosaic affliction, rheumatism, which is no respecter of persons, and to which old age is peculiarly liable, laid its grim hand upon the great lady that morning, and reminded her of a fact that she was sometimes prone to forget, in the arrogance of her greatness and worldly prosperity—namely that, in spite of her wealth and power, she was but mortal, after all, and that although she could order other things, she had no control over her own frail body and soul.
So, groaning under the hand of her relentless enemy, Lady Lancaster was fain to relinquish her design of superintending the loves of her nephew and the earl's daughter for that day at least. She made arrangements for the party to proceed without her, and surrendered herself to the good offices of her maid for the day.
And a doleful day Mlle. Elise had of it, too, for her lady's temper, never sweet, was sharp as vinegar under the stress of her affliction. In vain did Elise apply the hot fomentations and the vaunted liniments, in vain darken the room, and with kindest ministrations endeavor to woo quiet and repose to the couch of the afflicted one. LadyLancaster being full of selfishness and venom always, vented it with even more than usual rigor upon the head of her unoffending handmaid, and keeping up a series of groans, hysterics, and revilings, made hideous the gloom of her curtained chamber.
So, groaning and lamenting and scolding, Lady Lancaster passed the hours of her penance, and toward high noon the devoted maid had the satisfaction of hearing her acknowledge that she felt a little better, and that if the sharp twinges of pain did not come back into her shoulder, she might perhaps fall into a little doze.
"Thank God," said Elise, devoutly, to herself, and she smoothed and patted the lace-fringed pillows, and sat down to watch her mistress's slumbers, feeling intensely relieved, and praying within herself that the shrewish dowager might not open her keen black eyes again for at least twenty-four hours.
"For I do not believe that her shoulder can hurt any worse than mine, with the rubbing I have given her," said the French woman, ruefully, to herself; and she was afraid to breathe lest those wrinkled lids should open again, and the querulous voice demand some further service from her weary and impatient handmaiden.
"And if the pay wasn't so good, I would not stay in her service another day," said the woman to herself. "She grows harder and more vixenish every day of her life. As old as she is, she does not seem to be making any preparations for dying. I dare say she expects to live forever. Ugh! how yellow, and wrinkled, and ugly she is, with the paint and powder off, and her wig of gray curls in the box;I should want to die if I were as ugly and witchy-looking as she is."
And the maid settled her coquettish little cap a little more rakishly upon her befrizzled hair, and made a grimace expressive of intense satisfaction with her own young and pretty face. For Elise, in common with many of her sex, believed that beauty was a great power in the world, and had vague dreams of making capital out of hers as soon as she had saved up a little pile of money, enough to start a thread and needle and ribbon shop for herself in London, where she expected to captivate some handsome and flourishing young tradesman with her pretty face and gay attire.
But while Elise, gazing into the long mirror opposite, indulged in these Alnaschar visions of the future, the beady black orbs of her mistress had flared wide open again, and she exclaimed, in such sharp, sudden accents that the maid gave a start of terror:
"Elise, who is that playing upon the drawing-room piano?"
"Oh, my lady, I thought you were asleep!" cried poor Elise, ruefully.
"So I should have been if some fool had not commenced to play on the grand piano in the drawing-room. Who is it, I say?" demanded Lady Lancaster, irascibly.
"Oh, my lady, you must be mistaken!" Elise began to say; but then she stopped in confusion. Some onewasplaying the piano, and the strong, full, melodious notes, struck by a practiced hand, echoed melodiously through the house.
"I'm not deaf, Mam'selle Elise," said her mistress, scornfully. "Some one is playing the piano. Hark, it is the grand march from 'Norma!' I thought all of the people had gone to the picnic."
"So they have, my lady—every soul of them."
"Then who is that playing in the drawing-room?—tell me that!" snapped the peevish old lady.
"Indeed I don't know, Lady Lancaster," answered the maid, truthfully.
"Then make it your business to find out—go and see," was the peremptory command; and Elise without any more ado obeyed it.
"I did not know that there was a woman in the house who could wake the soul in the piano like that," said Lady Lancaster to herself, when the girl was gone. "What a touch! What grand notes! Who is it that has been hiding her talents in a napkin? Not Lady Adela! She is fast enough to show all the accomplishments she possesses. So are all the other women, for that matter. Modesty is not one of their failings."
And she waited most impatiently for Elise to return. She was both curious and angry. She was angry because her nap had been brought to an untimely end, and she was curious to know who had done it.
It seemed to her that the maid stayed a long time. The march from "Norma" was finished, and the unknown musician had struck into another piece—a melancholy fugue—before the girl came flying back with upraised hands and dilated eyes, exclaiming:
"Oh, my lady, I never was so astonished in all my life!"
"You fool!" cried Lady Lancaster, in a rage. "Who cares whether you are astonished or not? Why don't you tell me what I sent you to find out?"
"What a spiteful old cat!" Elise said to herself, indignantly; but she answered, meekly enough:
"So I am going to tell you, my lady, directly. It's that girl from America—the housekeeper's niece."
Lady Lancaster bounded erect in her bed and regarded the maid for a moment in unfeigned dismay. She had utterly forgotten the existence of Mrs. West's niece, and it took several minutes of bewildered thought to recall her to her mind. When her memory had fully come back, she gasped out feebly:
"Do you say that that child—West's niece—is down in the drawing-room playing on the piano?"
"Yes, my lady, that was what I said," said Elise, who was almost as much astonished as her mistress.
"The impertinent little monkey! Wherever did she learn to play like that? Did you tell her to go away, Elise?" angrily.
"No, my lady. I only went and peeped in at the door. When I saw who it was, I came quietly away."
"Help me out of bed, Elise," cried her mistress, imperiously.
"Oh, my lady, and bring back all the pain in your shoulder again!" Elise cried, aghast.
"Do as I bid you, girl," sharply.
The maid took the thin, bony little figure into her strong young arms, and lifted it out upon the floor.
"Now bring my dressing-gown, my slippers, and my wig. Put them on me—quickly," commanded my lady.
Elise knew that there was no use in expostulating. She quietly did as she was told. She powdered the yellow face, adjusted the curly wig and youthful cap, put on the velvet slippers and the gorgeous brocaded dressing-gown that made Lady Lancaster look like the Queen of Sheba in all her glory.
"Now give me your arm," she said, turning toward the door.
"But, my lady, where are you going?" cried Elise.
"To the drawing-room," curtly.
"You'll catch your death of cold," whimpered the maid.
"What is that to you?" flashed the dowager, sharply. "Come along."
And clinging to the arm of Elise, and groaning at every step with the reawakened pain in her shoulder, Lady Lancaster took up her march to the drawing-room, her flowered gown trailing majestically behind her, going forth as one goes to conquer, for she was intent on the instant and utter annihilation, metaphorically speaking, of the daring plebeian child who had so coolly transgressed her commands.
Leonora had never got beyond the picture-gallery and the drawing-room. The great, black, ebony piano had fascinated her. She could not tear herself away.
"Oh, Aunt West, my fingers ache to touch the keys!"
"Can you play, dear?" asked her aunt, with one of her kind, indulgent smiles.
"Only let me show you," said the girl. "There is no one to hear, is there, aunt?"
"No, there is no one," said Mrs. West, reflectively. "The maids are all in the other wing. This part of the house is empty. I dare say it will be no harm for you to amuse yourself a little while."
She threw back the magnificent embroidered cover, and raised the lid herself. Leonora's eyes beamed under their long lashes at sight of the gleaming pearl keys.
"Oh!" she said, under her breath, and sat down. She ran her fingers lightly along the keys. A shower of melody seemed to fall from them. The silver-sweet notes fell soft and swift as rain-drops from the flying fingers, and full of subtle harmony and delicious sound. She played on and on, and when the exquisite aria came to a close Mrs. West gazed at her in amazement.
"Oh, my dear, what music!" she cried. "I do not believe that any of the ladies who come here can play as well as that."
"Can not Lady Adela?"
"No, I am sure she can not," Mrs. West answered, decidedly. "But shall we go now?"
"Presently, Aunt West. I may stay just a little longer, may I not?"
"If you like to stay alone. I have just thought of some duties I have to perform. I will go back and leave you here. If I come in half an hour, will you be ready?"
"Oh, yes, thank you, aunt," she answered, and ran her fingers lovingly over the keys, little thinking that the strong, full, joyous notes were awakening Nemesis from her nap upstairs.