There was no man of greater note in England than the late Royston Carruthers, Esq., Lord of the Manor of Rutsford. He was one of the ablest statesmen and finest orators in England. He had been returned for the Borough of Rutsford for many years, without opposition. To hear him make a speech was a decided treat; a handsome man of stately presence, he invested every word with new dignity. The grand volume of sound rolled on in one continuous stream; the ideas he expressed were noble, the sentiments patriotic and exalted; his gestures were full of animation and grace.
Royston Carruthers had done great service to his country in his time. He had advocated several important measures; his eloquence had facilitated the introduction of several bills; his country thought well of him, and for a wonder, was grateful to him.
Government offered him the title of Baron Rutsford of Rutsford, and he had declined it, saying that his ancestors had for years asked no higher title than that of Lord of the Manor, and he valued his name—Carruthers of Ulverston—too highly to ever exchange it for another.
In the very pride and zenith of his prosperity he married the Lady Hildegarde Blenholme, the only daughter of the Duke of Blenholme. She was a very beautiful and accomplished woman—proud to a fault, but generous and noble in disposition. They had one child, Basil, and while he was yet a boy, his father died, worn out with work and over-exertion. He left his wife, Lady Hildegarde Carruthers, sole guardian of the boy, expressing a wish that she should bring him up to resemble herself in mind and disposition as far as it was possible.
Three years after the great statesman's death, a cousin of Lady Hildegarde died, leaving her only child, Marion Hautville, under the sole care and guardianship of the mistress of Ulverston Priory.
"Bring her up as you would a daughter of your own," wrote the dying mother. "She has a large fortune—save her from fortune-hunters."
And Lady Carruthers scrupulously carried out her kinswoman's wish. She took the girl to her own home, Ulverston Priory; she superintended her education; she brought her up in simple, refined habits—succeeded in making of her a perfect lady and a noble woman.
Then the dearest wish of her heart was to see her son, the heir to Ulverston, marry Marion Hautville, one of the loveliest girls and wealthiest heiresses in England. She was far too wise ever to express such a wish openly, none the less it was deeply engraven on her heart. They were warmly attached to each other and Lady Carruthers fancied that she already saw some signs of liking on the part of Marion for Basil.
While Miss Hautville pursued her quiet, ordinary course of education under Lady Carruthers' roof, Basil went through Eton and Oxford; at both places he gained high honors and at both places he succeeded in puzzling his tutors and masters. He was of such a peculiar disposition; chivalrous, romantic, brave, yet with something about him—they could not define what, but quite unlike other boys.
He did not evince any taste for any particular branch of study; he had no inclination for the navy, for serving his country as his father had done before him. In fact, it was difficult to tell in what direction his taste really lay. Still, he left college with high honors, and his masters prophesied great things for him.
"He will make himself famous some day," they wrote to his anxious mother. "In the mean time, let him see something of the world, and you will know in what direction his talent lies."
So, crowded with honors, he came home to Ulverston. He was eighteen then and one of the handsomest young men England could boast. No barber's beauty; strong, comely, of noble bearing, with a face that had come to him from the crusaders of old.
Then Lady Hildegarde set herself to work to discover what manner of man her son was. She was puzzled; he was brave, generous, full of high spirits, truthful, even to bluntness. She could not discover any grave fault in him. She thanked God he had no vices, no mean faults, no contemptible failings.
"Basil," she said to him, one evening, as the three sat around the drawing-room fire. "Confess now, do you not like and admire the olden times better than these?"
"Yes," he replied; "I always did."
"I knew it," said Lady Hildegarde; "I understand now what has always puzzled everyone who has had the care of you. You were born two hundred years too late; the ancient days of knight errantry and chivalry would have suited you better than these."
"It is your fault, mother," he replied. "When I was only twelve years old, you gave me a beautiful edition of Froissart's Chronicles, and everything else has seemed dull and tame to me since."
"I thought as much," she said, quietly; "you make the same mistake others have made before you; you live in the past, not in the present."
"You are right, mother; in these days, there seems to me nothing to do."
"Your father thought differently," she said; "he died from overwork."
"Ah! my dear father was a genius," said the young man, thoughtfully, and for some minutes there was silence between them.
"I can understand you," said Lady Hildegarde, with a smile; "you would like to have been a knight, always looking out for some romantic adventure; you would have fought giants, released distressed princesses."
"Overthrown all wrong and upheld all right," he said; "that would have been my vocation."
Lady Hildegarde went over to him and laid her hand on his head. "My dearest boy, you are young yet, but will live to see that there is as much to be done in the way of redressing wrong now as there was in the days when knights rode forth to do battle for lady fair."
"I want some romantic adventure," he said; "I cannot see much in the plain, common ways of man. I should like to do something that would make me a hero at once, something brave and glorious."
"My dear boy," she said; "God grant you may learn to distinguish true from false, true romance from mere sentiment, true gold from mere glitter."
He looked so eager, so handsome, she kissed him with passionate love.
"I should like to have been one of King Arthur's knights," he said, musingly.
"My dear Basil," said his mother; "your mind is chaos. I tell you there are giants to be fought, hydra-headed ones—the giants of ignorance, of wickedness, of injustice, and they call for a sharper, keener sword than that wielded by the knights of old."
And there came into her heart a great fear lest her boy, who had too much imagination, too much ideality, would waste his life in dreams.
"I will tell you, Basil," said Marion Hautville; "what I call a great hero. The man who does his duty perfectly in the state of life in which God has placed him."
"We all do that," replied Basil.
"Indeed we do not—you do not, to begin with. You ought now, instead of dreaming about Froissart and his barbaric times, you ought to be studying hard how to make a good master of this large estate—how to employ the vast wealth given to you—how best to serve your God, your country and those who will depend upon you."
"Solomon in petticoats!" cried Basil, gaily, and Marion joined in his laugh.
That conversation gave Lady Carruthers many uneasy moments. She understood so well the dreamy, yet ardent, romantic temperament of the boy.
"What shall I make of him?" she said. "Will he ever learn to live contentedly here at Ulverston, doing his duty, as Marion says, to God and man? My poor Basil, he lives too late!"
She asked advice from those best fitted to give it. One and all said the same thing; there would be nothing so useful for him as a tour on the Continent, seeing plenty of the world and going into society.
So Lady Carruthers, who loved home very dearly, gave up its peaceful tranquillity, and went with Basil and Miss Hautville to Paris, where they remained some months until they saw all that was most brilliant in that brilliant capital; from there to Berlin; then on to Vienna, and Basil lost much of his dreamy nature.
He was eager, ardent, impetuous, longing, as is the fashion of young men, to do brave deeds, to be a great hero, and not in the least knowing what to do.
He was just twenty when they returned home, at the commencement of the year; Lady Carruthers, worn out with travel and excitement, longing for rest. There was more to be done—her son had been presented at most of the courts of Europe; he must attend the first levees held in London this season.
The Carruthers had a magnificent mansion in Belgravia. Miss Hautville begged for one year more of seclusion and privacy, so that Lady Hildegarde and her son went to London alone. She remained there for a week, and then, finding her son afloat in London society, she returned to Ulverston.
And Basil Carruthers, the dreamy, ardent, romantic boy, remained in London alone.
Perhaps Lady Carruthers never did a more unwise thing than when she left her son, with his peculiar temperament and notions, to go through a London season alone. She honestly believed herself to be doing right. She was ill and unable to bear the whirl of fashion and gaiety. She could not withdraw him from town to spend the gayest month of the year in seclusion.
"Leave him to me, Hildegarde," said her cousin, Colonel Mostyn. "I will pilot him safely through the rocks and deep waters; nothing makes a man as self-reliant as feeling that he is trusted entirely."
And knowing that Colonel Mostyn was an elderly man, who knew about as much as there was to know of life in all its phases, Lady Hildegarde had no scruples.
The colonel and the young squire were most luxuriously established at Roche House, the Carruthers' family mansion in Belgravia. Lady Hildegarde made every arrangement for keeping up the establishment in all bachelor's comforts. There was an excellent housekeeper, one who had been at Ulverston Priory for many years.
"You will be able to give some good dinner-parties," she said to her son; "bachelor dinners—bien entender—for Mrs. Richards is an excellent housekeeper."
Assured and satisfied that all would go well, she left London. She hesitated as to whether she should give her son any warning about love or marriage, then decided that it would be quite useless.
"The boy is naturally so fastidious and refined," she thought; "he will never love beneath him. He will see no one so nice as Marion."
So Lady Hildegarde Carruthers went to her stately home, little dreaming of the fatal news that was to follow her.
Basil cared little for the fashions and frivolities of the day; Colonel Mostyn tried to laugh him out of his romantic and chivalrous ideas.
"You are behind the age, Basil—quite unfit for it," he would say to him. "Chevalier Bayard would not be appreciated in these times."
He listened with a smile on his face, while the young man talked of something to do—some grand action to fill up his life, some heroic deed with which to crown himself.
"Utopian, Basil—all those are Utopian ideas. Progress is the order of the day."
"Is there nothing?" asked Basil, "no way in which a man may distinguish himself after the fashion of the heroes of old?"
The colonel smiled sarcastically.
"My dear boy," he said, "between ourselves, some of those heroes of yours were unmitigated ruffians, I hardly like to give utterance to such a sentiment, yet I believe it. You cannot defend a bridge after the fashion of Horatius—you cannot conquer worlds like Alexander. I fancy you will have to be content with being one of the best lords of the manor Rutsford has ever known."
"You are sentimental, Basil," he said to him one morning, "but not practical. A man is nothing unless he is practical. Why not give up all these foolish notions of being a great hero? Go down to Ulverston, build schools, almhouses, mechanics' institutes and all that kind of thing. Marry and bring up your family to fear God and serve the queen. One ounce of such practice is worth all the theory in the world."
But Basil could not see it—he longed for the unattainable, the ideal. What lay plainly before him was a matter of great indifference to him.
Colonel Mostyn, the keen, cynical man of the world, was, perhaps, the best companion he could have had. But the colonel had many anxious thoughts over him. At last an idea struck him.
"The finest thing that could happen to Basil would be a very decided flirtation with a beautiful, worldly woman, who would laugh him out of these fantastic ideas and make a modern man of him."
So thought the colonel, and so has thought many a one before him, little dreaming of the danger of playing with fire.
But Basil did not seem to care much for ladies' society. He went to two or three grand balls and pronounced them stupid, on hearing which, the colonel raised his eyes and hands in horror.
"A young man of twenty who finds a ball stupid is past hope," he said.
There had been a great flutter in the dovecotes when it was known that Basil Carruthers, the heir of Ulverston, son of the great statesman, a young man whose income was quite twenty thousand per annum, besides the savings of a long minority, was in London—free, disengaged, and, as a matter of course, wanting a wife. Invitations literally poured in upon him—he accepted them at first, but soon grew tired.
"A tres dansantes at Lady Cecilia Gorton's," he said, holding out an invitation card at arm's length. "Go, if you like, colonel. I do not care for it."
The colonel was engrossed in the buttering of his roll, an operation which he always performed himself, but he was sufficiently astonished to pause in his proceedings and look at his nephew with a very horrified face.
"You do not mean to tell me, Basil, that you are tired of ladies—young ladies?"
"My dear colonel," said the young man, quietly, "I am very sorry to tell you that I find one chignon very much the same as another."
Colonel Mostyn sighed deeply. What Mentor could make anything out of such a Telemachus? He resigned himself, thankful that what he called one civilized taste remained—Basil enjoyed the opera.
"I would really sooner see him fall in love with an opera dancer than remain what he is," thought the man of the world.
One evening they went to the opera. It was "Lucretia Borgia," and, as usual, Basil Carruthers saw nothing but the stage. In vain did the unwearied colonel call his attention to Lady Evelyn Hope, the lovely blonde; the fascinating Spanish Countess Rosella; to the twin sisters, the Ladies Isabel and Marie Duncan—he looked at them without interest.
"I wonder," thought the colonel to himself, "if the woman be living who could touch that cold, icy heart!"
The opera was nearly over when he saw Basil looking intently at the occupants of a box on the grand tier. He even raised his glass, and sat for some minutes oblivious of everything and everyone except one central figure. Very quietly and without attracting Basil's attention, Colonel Mostyn raised his glass and looked at the box. His gaze was steadfast for some minutes, then he gave utterance to a prolonged sigh.
"That will do," he said to himself.
Like the diplomatist that he was, Colonel Mostyn said never a word, but when the act was ended, he turned to Basil.
"I see a lady, an old friend of mine, and I am going to spend a few minutes with her."
He went to the box, and had the satisfaction of seeing that Basil never removed his glass. When he returned to his own seat, the heir of Ulverston said, somewhat eagerly:
"Who is that lady, colonel, with whom you have been speaking?"
"My dear boy," he replied, "one chignon is just like another; which do you mean?"
"There is no chignon in this case. I mean the lady with whom you have been speaking."
"That is Lady Amelie Lisle," he replied, briefly.
"Amelie Lisle!" repeated Basil; "but who is she?"
"If you wish to know her pedigree, you must consult Burke's Peerage. I can only remember that she is the daughter of Lord Grayson, who married a French duchess, and rumor says she is the loveliest and most accomplished woman in England."
"Is she married?" was the next question.
"Yes; she married Lord Lisle, and rumor, always busy with beautiful women, says again that she is not too happy. Do you know Lord Lisle?"
"No; I do not remember having ever seen him."
"When you do, you will realize what it is for a man to be all animal. He eats well, sleeps well, drinks well; he rides out a great deal in the fresh air; he is tall and portly, never, perhaps, read a book through in his life, good humored, generous in his way, but obstinate as a—well, as a woman."
"And is that lovely lady married to such a man?"
"Yes; the lovely lady was very young, and perhaps his fortune tempted her. She is all fire and poetry, plays with passion as children play with sharp knives."
"Will you introduce me?" asked Basil Carruthers.
"My dear Basil," replied the wily diplomatist, with an air of assumed frankness, "I really do not think you would like her. She is fond of balls, of dancing, of all sorts of amusements that you despise. If I introduce you to anybody at all, it must be to Minerva in disguise."
"I should not like Minerva," was the abrupt reply.
"Well, as you seem anxious, I will undertake it. We are going to the Duchess of Hexham's ball tomorrow evening. Lady Amelie Lisle is sure to be there—no grand ball is complete without her. She is so surrounded now. I hardly like to interrupt her. Are you going to the Hexham ball?"
Now Basil had said no, he should certainly decline the invitation, but he seemed to forget it.
"Certainly I shall go," he said.
"Ah, then we shall see her there," replied the colonel, and his long mustache concealed the triumphant smile with which he listened to the words.
The poets of old must have been thinking of a woman like Lady Amelie when they wrote of circes and sirens, and women whose beauty has proved fatal to men. It is perhaps quite as well that they are very rare—the power of a beautiful woman is great. If she be good, and use it for a good purpose; the world is the better for it. If she be bad, and her beauty is simply used as a lure, the world is the worse for it.
Either for good or evil, the power of Lady Amelie was great, for a more royally beautiful woman had seldom been seen. She was the very ideal of glowing, luxurious loveliness, and her beauty was perhaps the least of her charms. She had that wonderful gift of fascination which makes even a plain woman irresistible. Allied to beauty so wondrous as hers, it was fatal.
It is morning, and Lady Amelie, fresh and radiant as a June rose, is in her boudoir, an exquisite little room, hung with pink silk and white lace; the windows were draped with pink silk, and the light that came through was subdued and rosy, the fairest of all lights in which to see a fair woman.
A gem of a room, from which a painter would have made a room glowing in luxurious color. The air was heavy with the perfume of white hyacinths and daphnes—the jardinieres were filled with the sweetest of flowers; Lady Amelie loved them so well; she was never so pleased as when in the midst of them. There was a marble Flora, whose hands were filled with purple heliotropes—in fact, every beauty that money, taste or luxury could suggest, was there. Pale pink was a color that Lady Amelie loved—her chairs and couches were covered with it. She is sitting now in a pretty, fantastic chair, the subdued rosy light of the room falling full upon her. She is reading the fashionable daily paper, smiling as some on dits meet her eye. Surely such beauty as that should be immortal. No wonder that Basil Carruthers, whose eyes had never rested long on a woman's face before, should not weary of hers.
It is the beauty of an empress, royal, commanding, statuesque, yet radiant and full of grace. Her figure, as she reclines, is perfection; the soft, flowing lines, the gracious curves, the free, unfettered grace, the queenly dignity, all combined, enchant one. The head, whose contour is simply perfect, is crowned with a mass of dark hair, shining like the lustrous wing of some rare bird. The brow is white, rounded at the temples and clear as the leaf of the lily. The brows are straight, delicate and have in them wonderful expression. But it was Lady Amelie's eyes that drew men so irresistibly to her feet. They were irresistible. Black, with a languid, golden light in their wondrous depths; full of veiled fire and repressed passion. They could melt and flash, persuade and command, as no other eyes did. No man ever looked into their depths without losing himself there. Her mouth was no less beautiful, tender and sensitive; yet those lovely lips could curl with scorn that withered and pride that crashed.
She knew that she was beautiful, and she rejoiced in her beauty, as the lion in his strength or the serpent in its cunning. Men she looked upon as her natural vassals, her subjects, her lawful prey. She never once, in the whole course of her triumphant life, paused to think whether or not she inflicted pain. If any one had said to her, abruptly, "You have made such a person suffer," she would have laughed gaily. The ache and pain of honest hearts is incense to a coquette.
And Lady Amelie Lisle was a coquette to the very depth of her heart! She could have counted her victims by the hundred. Who ever saw her and did not love her? She delighted in this universal worship; it became necessary to her as the air she breathed. Universal dominion was her end and aim; but once sure of a man's love or admiration, it became worthless to her and she longed for something fresh. Like Alexander, she would have conquered worlds.
Not, be it understood, that Lady Amelie, as she expressed it, "ever went in for anything serious." She had never been in love in her life, except with herself, and to that one affection she was most constant. She accepted all, but gave none. Once or twice her flirtations had been on the verge, but Lady Amelie was one of those who can look very steadily over the brink but never fall in.
The world spoke well of her. "She was certainly a great coquette," people said, indulgently, but then she was so beautiful and so much admired. She smiles as she reads the fashionable intelligence; there is a paragraph describing her appearance at a ball given by one of the queens of society. The paper speaks of her beauty, her magnificent dress and costly jewels. She remembered all the homage, the sighs, the whispered words, the honeyed compliments, smiled and thought how sweet life was.
At that moment her maid entered. "My lady," she said. "Colonel Mostyn would be so much obliged if you could see him. It is on important business."
"Certainly. I will see him here," she replied. "What can he want with me?" thought my lady. "He was very empresse last night; surely he is not going to make love to me."
And the notion of a gray-haired lover piqued her and made her smile again.
The colonel entered with the most courtly of bows, and she received him graciously. He talked of the opera, of the ball, of the last new novel, of the latest marriage on the tapis, and all the time Lady Lisle's beautiful eyes were looking at him. "It was not for this you came," she thought. At last the colonel spoke openly.
"I have come to ask of you a great favor, Lady Lisle," he said. "You have perhaps heard of my young kinsman, Basil Carruthers?"
"The heir of Ulverston?" she said. "Certainly. He is one of the prizes in the matrimonial market at present, colonel."
Colonel Mostyn drew a very animated and interesting portrait of his young charge.
"He wants modernizing; his ideas are dated two hundred years back. Lady Lisle, there is no one who could work such wonders for him as you."
"What could I do?" she asked, with a conscious smile.
"You could modernize him and humanize him. Will you allow me to introduce him to you? And will you take him in hand a little—teach him something of life as it is, not as he dreams of it?"
"What if he burns his wings, like many other silly moths?" she asked, laughingly.
"It would do him all the good in the world," he replied, with enthusiasm. "Will you believe, Lady Lisle, that he never admired any one, not even Lady Evelyn Hope? He never admired any face until he saw yours last evening." That piqued her. "I have never seen anything like his indifference to all ladies. Dear Lady Lisle, you are the brilliant sun that alone can melt this icicle. I assure you, that his mother and myself are in despair."
"You must not blame me," she said, "for whatever happens. You choose to run the risk."
"Nothing can happen but what will be for his greatest good," said the colonel, gallantly.
"You may introduce him to me," said Lady Amelie, "and I will do the best I can for him."
"You will be at the Duchess of Hexham's ball this evening?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied. "You have described your charge, Colonel Mostyn; now I know the carte du pays. It would be better not to mention having seen me."
"Certainly not"—
"Let me see," she interrupted. "I am to teach him what life is like in this nineteenth century, to try to inoculate him with modern ideas; to teach him how to appreciate the society of ladies; he shall learn his lesson well."
There was something in her peerless face and her brilliant smile that made Colonel Mostyn pause, and wonder if after all he had done a wise thing.
"The boy cannot be hurt," he said to himself; "he has too much sense to fall in love with a married lady. A violent flirtation will do him good, and cure him of his absurd ideas."
"Your ladyship will be the benefactress of the whole family if you can rescue our young hero, and help us make him in some degree fit for the age he lives in."
Lady Amelie smiled; there was not much fear in her failing in anything she undertook.
"It is not often that young men err on the side of originality and singularity," she said; "I have always considered realism the sin of the age. I am quite curious to see your hero, Colonel Mostyn."
"I believe he is quite as anxious to see you, Lady Lisle; he positively asked me to introduce him to you, and that is a request he has never made before, though I have shown him some beautiful women."
"I ought to feel flattered," said Lady Amelie, and again there was something in her smile that made the colonel wonder whether he had done amiss.
"We are quite in a conspiracy," he said, and Lady Lisle laughingly assured him that all women were fond of plots.
"Your sex, my dear colonel, are so strong and so wise that it is a real pleasure to any poor weak woman to outwit you." And Lady Amelie shot him a glance from her beautiful eyes that made the colonel again half pity his young kinsman.
The Duchess of Hexham bore the reputation of being a most accomplished woman; if she excelled in anything it was certainly the giving of balls. She had the largest, loftiest and best ball-room in London. It was never overcrowded.
"As many flowers as possible," she was in the habit of saying; "but we must limit our guests."
It did not matter either who was fashionable and who was not, the duchess would have nothing but beauty and grace at her balls. You were sure at Hexham House to meet the most beautiful women in London and the most eligible men. It was consequently agreed on all sides that her grace gave the best balls during the season. This one at which Lady Amelie was to be present, promised unusual splendor.
An archduke of one of the European courts was just then the guest of the queen, and he had promised to honor Hexham House with his presence.
"He shall see such lovely women," said the duchess to her husband, "that he shall go back to his own country in despair."
To Lady Amelie she had said, laughingly: "Look your very loveliest. I want you to make a conquest of the archduke."
And that queen of coquettes thought to herself that her hands on that eventful evening would indeed be full. Not one word did the diplomatic old colonel say to Basil, but that young man was not quite himself. He had been wonderfully attracted by Lady Lisle's face; he read poetry, love of romance and everything else beautiful and piquant in it. Of all the women he had seen she was the only one who had interested him. He wondered whether the mind matched the peerless face. She must be clever, witty, brilliant, he thought, or she would not have kept all those men enchained as she did. He was very anxious to see her again.
"If she is like everyone else," he said, "I shall soon be disenchanted, but if she speaks as she looks, she will indeed be peerless among women."
He longed for the evening. He said nothing of her, but he talked so incessantly of the Duchess of Hexham, that the colonel understood exactly where his thoughts were, and smiled again most knowingly to himself.
He looked at his young kinsman in his faultless evening dress, and said to himself that there was not in all England a more noble or handsome man.
Lady Amelie called all the skill of the milliner to her aid; her dress was superb and effective—gold flowers on a white ground—a dress that irresistibly reminded one of sunbeams; it fell around her in statuesque folds that would have driven a sculptor to despair. Her beautiful neck and white arms were bare. She wore a diamond necklace of almost priceless value; her dark, shining hair was crowned with a circlet of the same royal stones; a diamond bracelet clasped one rounded arm. As she moved the light shone on her dress and gleamed on her jewels, until one was dazed with her splendor.
Lady Amelie was very particular about her flowers. On this evening, with her costly dress and magnificent jewels, she would have nothing but white daphnes. Did she know that the sweet, subtle fragrance of a daphne reaches the senses long before the odor of other flowers touches them? As she surveyed herself in the mirror, she felt devoutly satisfied.
"I shall be able to convert Basil Carruthers, Esq., to anything I like," she said; "if he has resisted all the world, he will yield to me."
So she drove off, resplendent, happy, animated, ready for the weaving of her spells.
Any good Christian, seeing her pass by with that triumphant smile on her lovely face, might have prayed their nearest and dearest should be kept from harm.
Lady Amelie never arrived very early at a ball. She liked to make her entree when most of the other guests were assembled. It was sweet to her to see how sorry and shy the ladies looked at her arrival, and how the faces of the men brightened. The first thing, of course, when she arrived at Hexham House, was the archduke. It was wonderful to watch the various phases of character that she could assume at will. With the archduke, she was the brilliant woman of the world, witty, sarcastic, adorable. He was enchanted with her; he declared that she combined all the charms of English and French women; he danced with her and would fain have lingered by her side, but that etiquette called him away.
Then Lady Amelie, already the belle of the ball, looked up, for Colonel Mostyn was standing before her, and by his side one of the handsomest and noblest young men she had ever seen. He introduced Basil Carruthers to his fate.
She looked in his face with a smile, and drawing aside a fold of her sumptuous dress, made room for him to sit near her.
He thought her even more dazzlingly beautiful than when he had seen her at the opera. The perfume of the white daphnes must have touched his senses as those most lovely eyes smiled into his; his brain seemed to reel; he was intoxicated with her beauty as some men are with the fumes of rare wine.
Colonel Mostyn lingered for a few minutes, then, well satisfied, went away, leaving Basil and Lady Amelie together. She had taken her seat under the shade of a magnificent mass of gorgeous, blooming flowers, with wondrous leaves and rich perfume. As she sat with her gleaming dress and jewels showing to perfection, from against this beautiful background, Basil was completely charmed. In all his life he had never even seen such a picture. She turned to him, when they were alone, with the sweetest smile on her lovely lips; her eyes seemed to rain down light into his.
"This is a brilliant scene, Mr. Carruthers; the duchess excels in the arrangement of her rooms."
He made some reply; he never quite knew what it was. It was enough for him to watch the charm of that irresistible face as she spoke. "Of course, everything depends on taste," she continued; "I quite expect you to laugh at me, but do you know what scene I should find much more brilliant than this?"
"I cannot imagine," he replied; "but I shall not laugh."
"Ah, well. I am peculiar in my tastes. In place of this brilliant ballroom, I should like to be seated at a tournament. I should like to see the knights with their banners and waving plumes, in the lists—the ladies in their balconies all hung with cloth of gold—the queen of beauty with the prize. Ah, me! in those days, ladies had knights and men were heroes."
As he looked at her, his whole soul shone in his eyes.
"And I, too," he cried. "I love those days ten thousand times better than these."
"Do you?" asked her ladyship with admiring eyes, "how strange! It is not long since I was speaking to one whom I may call a young man of the period, and his reply was, 'Horrid bore, those kind of things were, Lady Lisle,' and I thought most young men were of his opinion."
"I am not," said Basil, "I love those knights and heroes of old! great men and grand men who were content to ride forth, and to battle unto death for a woman's smile."
She raised her radiant eyes to his.
"Would you do that much for a woman's smile, Mr. Carruthers?"
He paused a moment before speaking, then said: "For one such woman as those men loved, I would." She sighed deeply; the jewels on her white breast gleamed and glistened.
"Ah, you think, then, that the glorious race of women heroes loved and died for, have disappeared?"
"I thought so, until I saw you," he replied.
"You are wrong," she said. "You will live to tell me that you are wrong. There may be no Helen such as she who lived at Troy, and no Cleopatra such as Egypt's dusky queen, but there are grand women living yet, worthy of heroes' love."
"I am sure of it," he said, "now that I have seen you."
But she made no reply; she did not even appear to have heard his words.
"I can understand you," she said, gently. "Women have sometimes the rare gift of entering into the minds of reserved men. I understand you as though I had known you for years."
His face cleared, his heart beat, his eyes brightened for her as they had never done for any other woman.
"I can remember," she said, "when I had many similar opinions. I used to think these, our present days of steam and progress, quite unfit for heroes; I used to long for olden times again, when, by one great deed, a man made a great name."
His eyes shone with new fire as he looked at her; it seemed to him that he had found his other soul at last. His mother laughed at him; Marion Hautville was sarcastic to him, but this beautiful woman—this magnificent queen at whose feet men bowed—she not only sympathized with him, but she had the self-same ideas.
"The great thing that I complain of," said Lady Amelie, "is that there really seems in these days nothing to do. You, for instance, supposing that you were ambitious, how would you distinguish yourself?"
And as she asked the question, my lady gave a sidelong look at her victim and was charmed to see the progress she had made.
It was not possible that the queen of the ball should be allowed to sit apart from the dancers long. Many curious glances were bent on the pair who sat before the grand tier of fragrant blossoms.
"Who is that with Lady Amelie?" asked one of another.
"Mr. Carruthers of Ulverston," was the, reply; and great was the indignation felt by young ladies and their mammas.
Poor Lady Masham had five marriageable daughters, and none had as yet received even the faintest shadow of an offer. In her own mind she had thought of Mr. Carruthers as especially eligible for one of them, and had resolved, when he did go more into society, upon a decided mode of attack. Her dismay, when she saw the state of things, can be better imagined than described.
"My dear," she said to her friend and confidant, Mrs. Scrops, "look, only look! Lady Amelie has victimized Mr. Carruthers."
"She cannot do him any harm," replied Mrs. Scrops; "she is married, I am thankful to say."
"There will be no good done with him this season," said poor Lady Masham. "I would rather he had fallen in love than that she took possession of him."
But Basil was not allowed to remain very long tete-a-tete with his charming queen. The Duchess of Hexham, alarmed lest her most brilliant star should be eclipsed, came to the rescue. Lady Amelie was soon surrounded, and then was carried off by the archduke.
Not, however, before she had managed to turn round to Basil and say to him, sotto voce, "You must call and see me. We shall be friends, I can foretell." And he was more charmed than ever by those words. Friends with that enchanting woman, that proud, peerless queen, that radiant beauty! Be friends with her! It was more than he had dared to venture to hope. That he might worship her in the distance seemed to him honor enough.
He had dreamed of such women, but he had not thought they existed; they belonged to the heroic ages, past now and dead. Here, in the midst of the days he considered so degenerate, he had found the very ideal of his heart.
The brilliant scene before him seemed to fade away. Ah! if there was but some faint chance of distinguishing himself for her sake!—if she were but a princess in distress!—a lady for whom he could enter the lists and fight until he won! What was there in this prosaic century that he could do for her?—literally nothing but give her flowers.
"Basil! Basil! my dear boy," said a voice near him. "Pray excuse me, but what are you doing here? Dreaming in a ballroom? This will not do."
And Basil, aroused from his dream, looked up to see the face of Colonel Mostyn, wearing an expression of perfect horror.
"Do rouse up, Basil! Do, for heaven's sake, try to be like every one else! Lady Masham wishes to know you; come with me."
Basil followed, like a victim. Lady Masham received him cordially, mentioned casually that she had been to school with his mother, therefore felt called upon to take a special interest in himself, and then, very kindly, introduced him to her youngest daughter, Miss Nellie, whom she pathetically called the flower of her flock. Miss Nellie was a pretty girl, as were all the Misses Masham, or they would not have figured at her grace's ball. She wore the regulation chignon, golden brown in her case, her eyes were blue, her lips rosy and sweet, her face fair as the lilies and roses of summer. They had all been brought up after the same pattern; they all knew exactly what to say in every case and how to say it. As a matter of course, and not, it is to be feared, because he felt the least inclination, Basil asked the young lady to dance, and Miss Nellie, with the prettiest pink flush on her cheek, consented.
She talked about the rooms, the opera, the archduke, until Basil almost groaned aloud. There was his beautiful queen, with her face full of poetry and her eyes of love. Yet if he could but have had both hearts, he would have seen that pretty, simple Nellie Masham, who talked innocent little commonplaces to him, was worth a thousand of such women as Lady Amelie Lisle. But it is not given to men to see clearly; anything but that. When Basil Carruthers had finished that dance he longed to escape, lest he should be compelled to go through another. Then came another moment of rapture for him, when, from the midst of a crowd of courtiers, Lady Amelie summoned him to take her to her carriage. Already they seemed like old friends. Basil drew the lace shawl around the white shoulders and held her flowers.
"You have told me I may call," he said; "will you tell me when?"
"I am visible any time after two," said Lady Amelie. Not for any amount of love or homage would she forego her comforts. Then it seemed to him that the world stopped until two the next day. He went back to the ballroom, but its beauty had all departed—there was no soul in the music, no fragrance in the flowers.
"Colonel," he said, "I have had quite enough of the ball. Are you ready for home?"
The colonel, who was quite satisfied with the result of the night's work, declared that he also was ready, and they went.
"A very pleasant ball," remarked the diplomatist, as they drove home.
"Was it?" said Basil dreamily. "I did not notice much—the only part of it I enjoyed was the conversation I had with Lady Lisle. Ah, colonel, if the ladies of the present day resembled her, there would be some hope for chivalry."
"God forbid," thought the colonel to himself. Aloud he replied: "Yes, she is a very beautiful and most accomplished woman."
"She is more than that; she has a touch of genius and fire and poetry. I have met no one like her."
"I can only hope," thought Colonel Mostyn, "he will not take the disease too severely. I want a difference, but I do not care to have a case of raving love and madness on my hands."
At breakfast time the next morning, Colonel Mostyn was pleased to see that, for the first time, Basil eagerly opened the papers and spoke anxiously of the evening engagements.
"Better rest at home, tonight," said the colonel; "you were out last evening, and going out much tires you, I know. What do you say to a quiet game at chess?"
"I cannot say positively. I shall not know what my evening engagements are until dinner-time."
And then the colonel felt quite relieved. "He is going to call on Lady Amelie," he thought, "and wherever she goes this evening he will follow. I shall soon see him like other young men."
As for Basil himself, he simply lived in one longing for two o'clock. My lady was perfectly ready to receive him. She had arranged a little scene and smiled to herself as she thought how sure it was to succeed.
"He saw me all magnificence last evening; now I will play a different role."
She wore a plain dress of some white flowing material, with a knot of scarlet ribbons on her fair neck; her shining hair was drawn from her white brow and fell in luxuriant waves; in it she wore one rose half shrouded in green leaves, and never in all her gorgeous magnificence had Lady Amelie looked one-half as fair. She was seated in her own boudoir, where the white daphnes shone like stars in the rosy light. A picture that would have ravished the heart of any man that gazed upon it, and Lady Amelie knew that it was perfect, even down to the graceful attitude and half sad, half languid expression of her face.
It was not much after two when he came. Her reception of him was perfect—unstudied, graceful, natural; and he looking at her, thought her more beautiful than ever.
"You were reading," he said; "have I disturbed you?"
"No; Owen Meredith is a favorite poet of mine; there is something very unworldly and beautiful about his verses."
"That is why you like them—you are so unworldly yourself."
"Perhaps so, in one sense. I have just sufficient tinge of it about me to teach me that whatever are my thoughts and opinions, if they differ much from other people's, I must keep them to myself, unless, as is the case now, I meet a congenial soul."
A view of the subject which was quite new to Basil.
"I thought originality was a sign of genius," he replied, "and that people admired it."
She smiled with an air of superiority that left him miles behind.
"My observation teaches me that there is nothing worldly people disapprove of so highly as originality," she said. "To be more clever than your neighbor is a crime they never pardon."
Basil, drinking in the beauty of that marvelous face, and the light of those lovely eyes, learned more worldly wisdom in one hour from the lovely lips of Lady Amelie than he had ever learned before.