Chapter XI.Captain Greshan sprang forward to lift the flowers which Miss L'Estrange had dropped."Nay," she said, "never mind them. A fresh flower is very nice. A flower that has once been in the dust has lost its beauty."There was no trace of pain in the clear voice; it was rich and musical. Philippa L'Estrange, seated in the bright sunshine, heard the words that were to her a death-warrant, yet made no sign. "I have not yet met with my ideal," Lord Arleigh had said.Captain Gresham picked up some of the fallen flowers."A dead flower from your hand, Miss L'Estrange," he observed "is worth a whole gardenful of living ones from any one else."She laughed again that sweet musical laugh which seemed to come only from a happy heart; and then she looked round. The Duchess of Aytoun and Lord Arleigh were still in deep converse. Miss L'Estrange turned to Captain Gresham."I have been told," she said, "that there are some beautiful white hyacinths here; they are my favorite flowers. Shall we find them?"He was only too pleased. She bade a laughing adieu to the duchess, and smiled at Lord Arleigh. There was no trace of pain or of sadness in her voice or face. They went away together and Lord Arleigh never even dreamed that she had heard his remark.Then the duchess left him, and he sat under the spreading beech alone. His thoughts were not of the pleasantest nature; he did not like the general belief in his approaching marriage; it was fair neither to himself nor to Philippa--yet how was he to put an end to such gossip? Another idea occurred to him. Could it be possible that Philippa herself shared the idea? He would not believe it. Yet many things made him pause and think. She certainly evinced great preference for his society; she was never so happy as when with him. She would give up any engagement, any promised gayety or pleasure to be with him. She dressed to please him; she consulted him on most things; she seemed to identify her interests with his. But all this might be the result of their old friendship--it might have nothing to do with love.Could it be possible that she still remembered the childish nonsense that had passed between them--that she considered either herself or him bound by a foolish tie that neither of them had contracted? Could it be possible that she regarded herself as engaged to him? The bare idea of it seemed absurd to him; he could not believe it. Yet many little things that he could not explain to himself made him feel uncomfortable and anxious. Could it be that she, the most beautiful and certainly the most popular woman in London, cared so much for him as to hold him by so slender a tie as their past childish nonsense?He reproached himself for the thought, yet, do what he would, he could not drive it away. The suspicion haunted him; it made him miserable. If it was really so, what was he to do?He was a gentleman, not a coxcomb. He could not go to this fair woman and ask her if it was really true that she loved him, if she really cared for him, if she held him by a tie contracted in childhood. He could not do it. He had not sufficient vanity. Why should he think that Philippa, who had some of the noblest men in England at her feet--why should life think that she would renounce all her brilliant prospects for him? Yet, if the mistake had really occurred--if she really thought the childish nonsense binding--if she really believed that he was about to make her his wife--it was high time that she was undeceived, that she knew the truth. And the truth was that although he had a great liking, a kindly affection for her, he was not in love with her. He admired her beauty--nay, he went further; he thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, the most gifted, the most graceful. But he was not in love with her--never would be. She was not his type of woman, not his ideal. If she had been his sister, he would have loved her exceedingly--a brotherly affection was what he felt for her.Yet how could he go to this fair woman with the ungracious words that he did not love her, and had no thought of marrying her? His face flushed hotly at the thought--there was something in it against which his whole manhood rose in hot rebellion Still it must be done; there must be no such shadow between them as this--there must be no such fatal mistake. If the report of their approaching marriage were allowed to remain much longer uncontradicted, why, then he would be in honor compelled to fulfill public expectations; and this he had no intention, no desire to do. The only thing therefore was to speak plainly to her.How he hated the thought! How he loathed the idea! It seemed to him unmanly, most ignoble--and yet there was no help for it. There was one gleam of comfort for him, and only one. She was so quick, so keen, that she would be sure to understand him at once, without his entering into any long explanation. Few words would suffice, and those words he must choose as best he could. If it were possible, he would speak to her to-day--the sooner the better-and then all uncertainty would be ended. It seemed to him, as he pondered these things, that a cloud had fallen over the sunshine. In his heart he blamed the folly of that gentle mother who had been the cause of all this anxiety."Such matters are always best left alone," he said to himself, "If I should ever have children of my own, I will never interfere in their love affairs."Think as he would ponder as he would, it was no easy task that lay before him--to tell her in so many words that he did not love her. Surely no man had ever had anything so ungracious to do before.He looked round the grounds, and presently saw her the center of a brilliant group near the lake. The Duke of Ashwood was by her side, theéliteof the guests had gathered round her. She--beautiful, bright, animated--was talking, as he could see, with her usual grace and ease. It struck him suddenly as absurd that this beautiful woman should care--as people said she did care--for him.Let him get it all over. He longed to see the bright face shine on him with sisterly kindness, and to feel himself at ease with her; he longed to have all misunderstanding done away with.He went up to the little group, and again the same peculiarity struck him--they all made way for him--even the Duke of Ashwood, although he did it with a frown on his face and an angry look in his eyes. Each one seemed to consider that he had some special right to be by the side of the beautiful Miss L'Estrange; and she, as usual when he was present, saw and heard no one else.It was high time the world was disabused. Did she herself join in the popular belief? He could not tell. He looked at the bright face; the dark eyes met his, but he read no secret in them."Philippa," he said, suddenly, "the water looks very tempting--would you like a row?""Above everything else," she replied. And they went off in the little pleasure-boat together.It was a miniature lake, tall trees bordering it and dipping their green branches into the water. The sun shone on the feathered spray that fell from the sculls, the white swans raised their graceful heads as the little boat passed by, and Philippa lay back languidly, watching the shadow of the trees. Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to her. She looked at Lord Arleigh."Norman," she said, "let the boat drift--I want to talk to you, and I cannot while you are rowing."He rested on his sculls, and the boat drifted under the drooping branches of a willow-tree. He never forgot the picture that then presented itself--the clear deep water, the green trees, and the beautiful face looking at him. "Norman," she said, in a clear, low voice, "I want to tell you that I overheard all that you said to the Duchess of Aytoun. I could not help it--I was so near to you."She was taking the difficulty into her own hands! He felt most thankful."Did you, Philippa? I thought you were engrossed with the gallant captain.""Did you really and in all truth mean what you said to her?" she asked."Certainly; you know me well enough to be quite sure that I never say what I do not mean.""You have never yet seen the woman whom you would ask to be your wife?" she said.There was a brief silence, and then he replied:"No, in all truth, I have not, Philippa."A little bird was singing on a swaying bough just above them--to the last day of her life it seemed to her that she remembered the notes. The sultry silence seemed to deepen. She broke it."But, Norman," she said, in a low voice, "have you not seen me?"He tried to laugh to hide his embarrassment, but it was a failure."I have seen you--and I admire you. I have all the affection of a brother for you, Philippa--" and then he paused abruptly."But," she supplied, "you have never thought of making me your wife? Speak to me quite frankly, Norman.""No, Philippa, I have not.""As matters stand between us, they require explanation," she said; and he saw her lips grow pale. "It is not pleasant for me to have to mention it, but I must do it. Norman, do you quite forget what we were taught to believe when we were children--that our lives were to be passed together?""My dearest Philippa, pray spare yourself and me. I did not know that you even remembered that childish nonsense."She raised her dark eyes to his face, and there was something in them before which he shrank as one who feels pain."One word, Norman--only one word. That past which has been so much to me--that past in which I have lived, even more than in the present or the future--am I to look upon it as what you call nonsense?"He took her hand in his."My dear Philippa," he said, "I hate myself for what I have to say--it makes me detest even the sound of my own voice. Yet you are right--there is nothing for us but perfect frankness; anything else would be foolish. Neither your mother nor mine had any right to try to bind us. Such things never answer, never prosper. I cannot myself imagine how they, usually so sensible, came in this instance to disregard all dictates of common sense. I have always looked upon the arrangement as mere nonsense; and I hope you have done the same. You are free as air--and so am I."She made no answer, but, after a few minutes, when she had regained her self-possession, she said:"The sun is warm on the water--I think we had better return;" and, as they went back, she spoke to him carelessly about the new rage for garden-parties."Does she care or not?" thought Lord Arleigh to himself. "Is she pleased or not? I cannot tell; the ways of women are inscrutable. Yet a strange idea haunts me--an uncomfortable suspicion."As he watched her, there seemed to him no trace of anything but light-hearted mirth and happiness about her. She laughed and talked; she was the center of attraction, the life of thefête. When he spoke to her, she had a careless jest, a laughing word for him; yet he could not divest himself of the idea that there was something behind all this. Was it his fancy, or did the dark eyes wear every now and then an expression of anguish? Was it his fancy, or did it really happen that when she believed herself unobserved, the light died out of her face?He was uncomfortable, without knowing why--haunted by a vague, miserable suspicion he could not explain, by a presentiment he could not understand--compelled against his will to watch her, yet unable to detect anything in her words and manner that justified his doing so. It had been arranged that after thefêtehe should return to Verdun House with Lady Peters and Philippa. He had half promised to dine and spend the evening there, but now he wondered if that arrangement would be agreeable to Philippa. He felt that some degree of restraint had arisen between them.He was thinking what excuse he could frame, when Philippa sent for him. He looked into the fresh young face; there was no cloud on it."Norman," she said, "I find that Lady Peters has asked Miss Byrton to join us at dinner--will you come now? It has been a charming day, but I must own that the warmth of the sun has tired me."Her tone of voice was so calm, so unruffled, he could have laughed at himself for his suspicions, his fears."I am quite ready," he replied. "If you would like the carriage ordered, we will go at once."He noticed her going home more particularly than he had ever done before. She was a trifle paler, and there was a languid expression in her dark eyes which might arise from fatigue, but she talked lightly as usual. If anything, she was even kinder to him than usual, never evincing the least consciousness of what had happened. Could it have been a dream? Never was man so puzzled as Lord Arleigh.They talked after dinner about a grand fancy ball that Miss Byrton intended giving at her mansion in Grosvenor Square. She was one of those who believed implicitly in the engagement between Lord Arleigh and Miss L'Estrange."I have a Waverley quadrille already formed," said Miss Byrton--"that isde rigueur. There could not be a fancy ball without a Waverley quadrille. How I should like two Shakesperian ones! I thought of having one from 'As You Like It' and another from 'Romeo and Juliet;' and, Miss L'Estrange, I wish you would come asJuliet. It seems rude even to suggest a character to any one with such perfect taste as yours--still I should like a beautifulJuliet--Julietin white satin, and glimmer of pearls.""I am quite willing," returned Philippa. "Julietis one of my favorite heroines. How manyRomeoswill you have?""Only one, if I can so manage it," replied Miss Byrton--"and that will be Lord Arleigh."She looked at him as she spoke; he shook his head, laughingly."No--I yield to no one in reverence for the creations of the great poet," he said; "but, to tell the truth, I do not remember that the character ofRomeoever had any great charm for me.""Why not?" asked Miss Byrton."I cannot tell you; I am very much afraid that I preferOthello--the noble Moor. Perhaps it is because sentiment has not any great attraction for me. I do not think I could ever kill myself for love. I should make a sorryRomeo, Miss Byrton."With a puzzled face she looked from him to Miss L'Estrange."You surprise me," she said, quickly. "I should have thoughtRomeoa character above all others to please you."Philippa has listened with a smile--nothing had escaped her. Looking up, she said, with a bright laugh:"I cannot compliment you on being a good judge of character, Miss Byrton. It may be perhaps that you have not known Lord Arleigh well enough. But he is the last person in the world to make a goodRomeo.I know but one character in Shakespeare's plays that would suit him.""And that?" interrogated Lord Arleigh."That," replied Philippa, "isPetruchio;" and amidst a general laugh the conversation ended.Miss Byrton was the first to take her departure. Lord Arleigh lingered for some little time--he was still unconvinced. The wretched, half-formed suspicion that there was something hidden beneath Philippa's manner still pursued him; he wanted to see if she was the same to him. There was indeed no perceptible difference. She leaned back in her favorite chair with an air of relief, as though she were tired of visitors."Now let us talk about thefête, Norman," she said. "You are the only one I care to talk with about my neighbors."So for half an hour they discussed thefête, the dresses, the music, the different flirtations--Philippa in her usual bright, laughing, half-sarcastic fashion, with the keen sense of humor that was peculiar to her. Lord Arleigh could not see that there was any effort in her conversation; he could not see the least shadow on her brightness; and at heart he was thankful.When he was going away, she asked him about riding on the morrow just as usual. He could not see the slightest difference in her manner. That unpleasant little conversation on the lake might never have taken place for all the remembrance of it that seemed to trouble her. Then, when he rose to take his leave, she held out her hand with a bright, amused expression."Good-night,Petruchio," she said. "I am pleased at the name I have found for you.""I am not so sure that it is appropriate," he rejoined. "I think on the whole I would rather love aJulietthan tame a shrew.""It may be in the book of fate that you will do both," she observed; and they parted, laughing at the idea.To the last the light shone in her eyes, and the scarlet lips were wreathed in smiles; but, when the door had closed behind him and she was alone, the haggard, terrible change that fell over the young face was painful to see. The light, the youth, the beauty seemed all to fade from it; it grew white, stricken, as though the pain of death were upon her. She clasped her hands as one who had lost all hope."How am I to bear it?" she cried. "What am I to do?" She looked round her with the bewildered air of one who had lost her way--with the dazed appearance of one from beneath whose feet the plank of safety had been withdrawn. It was all over--life was all over; the love that had been her life was suddenly taken from her. Hope was dead--the past in which she had lived was all a plank--he did not love her.She said the words over and over again to herself. He did not love her, this man to whom she had given the passionate love of her whole heart and soul--he did not love her, and never intended to ask her to be his wife.Why, she had lived for this! This love, lying now in ruins around her, had been her existence. Standing there, in the first full pain of her despair, she realized what that love had been--her life, her hope, her world. She had lived in it; she had known no other wish, no other desire. It had been her all and now it was less than nothing."How am I to live and bear it?" she asked herself again; and the only answer that came to her was the dull echo of her own despair.That night, while the sweet flowers slept under the light of the stars, and the little birds rested in the deep shade of the trees--while the night wind whispered low, and the moon sailed in the sky--Philippa L'Estrange, the belle of the season, one of the most beautiful women in London, one of the wealthiest heiresses in England, wept through the long hours--wept for the overthrow of her hope and her love, wept for the life that lay in ruins around her.She was of dauntless courage--she knew no fear; but she did tremble and quail before the future stretching out before her--the future that was to have no love, and was to be spent without him.How was she to bear it? She had known no other hope in life, no other dream. What had been childish nonsense to him had been to her a serious and exquisite reality. He had either forgotten it, or had thought of it only with annoyance; she had made it the very corner-stone of her life.It was not only a blow of the keenest and cruelest kind to her affections, but it was the cruelest blow her vanity could have possibly received. To think that she, who had more admirers at her feet than any other woman in London, should have tried so hard to win this one, and have failed--that her beauty, her grace, her wit, her talent, should all have been lavished in vain.Why did she fail so completely? Why had she not won his love? It was given to no other--at least she had the consolation of knowing that. He had talked about his ideal, but he had not found it; he had his own ideal of womanhood, but he had not met with it."Are other women fairer, more lovable than I am?" she asked herself. "Why should another win where I have failed?"So through the long hours of the starlit night she lamented the love and the wreck of her life, she mourned for the hope that could never live again, while her name was on the lips of men who praised her as the queen of beauty, and fair women envied her as one who had but to will and to win.She would have given her whole fortune to win his love--not once, but a hundred times over.It seemed to her a cruel mockery of fate that she who had everything the world could give--beauty, health, wealth, fortune--should ask but this one gift, and that it should be refused her.She watched the stars until they faded from the skies and then she buried her face in the pillow and sobbed herself to sleep.
Captain Greshan sprang forward to lift the flowers which Miss L'Estrange had dropped.
"Nay," she said, "never mind them. A fresh flower is very nice. A flower that has once been in the dust has lost its beauty."
There was no trace of pain in the clear voice; it was rich and musical. Philippa L'Estrange, seated in the bright sunshine, heard the words that were to her a death-warrant, yet made no sign. "I have not yet met with my ideal," Lord Arleigh had said.
Captain Gresham picked up some of the fallen flowers.
"A dead flower from your hand, Miss L'Estrange," he observed "is worth a whole gardenful of living ones from any one else."
She laughed again that sweet musical laugh which seemed to come only from a happy heart; and then she looked round. The Duchess of Aytoun and Lord Arleigh were still in deep converse. Miss L'Estrange turned to Captain Gresham.
"I have been told," she said, "that there are some beautiful white hyacinths here; they are my favorite flowers. Shall we find them?"
He was only too pleased. She bade a laughing adieu to the duchess, and smiled at Lord Arleigh. There was no trace of pain or of sadness in her voice or face. They went away together and Lord Arleigh never even dreamed that she had heard his remark.
Then the duchess left him, and he sat under the spreading beech alone. His thoughts were not of the pleasantest nature; he did not like the general belief in his approaching marriage; it was fair neither to himself nor to Philippa--yet how was he to put an end to such gossip? Another idea occurred to him. Could it be possible that Philippa herself shared the idea? He would not believe it. Yet many things made him pause and think. She certainly evinced great preference for his society; she was never so happy as when with him. She would give up any engagement, any promised gayety or pleasure to be with him. She dressed to please him; she consulted him on most things; she seemed to identify her interests with his. But all this might be the result of their old friendship--it might have nothing to do with love.
Could it be possible that she still remembered the childish nonsense that had passed between them--that she considered either herself or him bound by a foolish tie that neither of them had contracted? Could it be possible that she regarded herself as engaged to him? The bare idea of it seemed absurd to him; he could not believe it. Yet many little things that he could not explain to himself made him feel uncomfortable and anxious. Could it be that she, the most beautiful and certainly the most popular woman in London, cared so much for him as to hold him by so slender a tie as their past childish nonsense?
He reproached himself for the thought, yet, do what he would, he could not drive it away. The suspicion haunted him; it made him miserable. If it was really so, what was he to do?
He was a gentleman, not a coxcomb. He could not go to this fair woman and ask her if it was really true that she loved him, if she really cared for him, if she held him by a tie contracted in childhood. He could not do it. He had not sufficient vanity. Why should he think that Philippa, who had some of the noblest men in England at her feet--why should life think that she would renounce all her brilliant prospects for him? Yet, if the mistake had really occurred--if she really thought the childish nonsense binding--if she really believed that he was about to make her his wife--it was high time that she was undeceived, that she knew the truth. And the truth was that although he had a great liking, a kindly affection for her, he was not in love with her. He admired her beauty--nay, he went further; he thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, the most gifted, the most graceful. But he was not in love with her--never would be. She was not his type of woman, not his ideal. If she had been his sister, he would have loved her exceedingly--a brotherly affection was what he felt for her.
Yet how could he go to this fair woman with the ungracious words that he did not love her, and had no thought of marrying her? His face flushed hotly at the thought--there was something in it against which his whole manhood rose in hot rebellion Still it must be done; there must be no such shadow between them as this--there must be no such fatal mistake. If the report of their approaching marriage were allowed to remain much longer uncontradicted, why, then he would be in honor compelled to fulfill public expectations; and this he had no intention, no desire to do. The only thing therefore was to speak plainly to her.
How he hated the thought! How he loathed the idea! It seemed to him unmanly, most ignoble--and yet there was no help for it. There was one gleam of comfort for him, and only one. She was so quick, so keen, that she would be sure to understand him at once, without his entering into any long explanation. Few words would suffice, and those words he must choose as best he could. If it were possible, he would speak to her to-day--the sooner the better-and then all uncertainty would be ended. It seemed to him, as he pondered these things, that a cloud had fallen over the sunshine. In his heart he blamed the folly of that gentle mother who had been the cause of all this anxiety.
"Such matters are always best left alone," he said to himself, "If I should ever have children of my own, I will never interfere in their love affairs."
Think as he would ponder as he would, it was no easy task that lay before him--to tell her in so many words that he did not love her. Surely no man had ever had anything so ungracious to do before.
He looked round the grounds, and presently saw her the center of a brilliant group near the lake. The Duke of Ashwood was by her side, theéliteof the guests had gathered round her. She--beautiful, bright, animated--was talking, as he could see, with her usual grace and ease. It struck him suddenly as absurd that this beautiful woman should care--as people said she did care--for him.
Let him get it all over. He longed to see the bright face shine on him with sisterly kindness, and to feel himself at ease with her; he longed to have all misunderstanding done away with.
He went up to the little group, and again the same peculiarity struck him--they all made way for him--even the Duke of Ashwood, although he did it with a frown on his face and an angry look in his eyes. Each one seemed to consider that he had some special right to be by the side of the beautiful Miss L'Estrange; and she, as usual when he was present, saw and heard no one else.
It was high time the world was disabused. Did she herself join in the popular belief? He could not tell. He looked at the bright face; the dark eyes met his, but he read no secret in them.
"Philippa," he said, suddenly, "the water looks very tempting--would you like a row?"
"Above everything else," she replied. And they went off in the little pleasure-boat together.
It was a miniature lake, tall trees bordering it and dipping their green branches into the water. The sun shone on the feathered spray that fell from the sculls, the white swans raised their graceful heads as the little boat passed by, and Philippa lay back languidly, watching the shadow of the trees. Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to her. She looked at Lord Arleigh.
"Norman," she said, "let the boat drift--I want to talk to you, and I cannot while you are rowing."
He rested on his sculls, and the boat drifted under the drooping branches of a willow-tree. He never forgot the picture that then presented itself--the clear deep water, the green trees, and the beautiful face looking at him. "Norman," she said, in a clear, low voice, "I want to tell you that I overheard all that you said to the Duchess of Aytoun. I could not help it--I was so near to you."
She was taking the difficulty into her own hands! He felt most thankful.
"Did you, Philippa? I thought you were engrossed with the gallant captain."
"Did you really and in all truth mean what you said to her?" she asked.
"Certainly; you know me well enough to be quite sure that I never say what I do not mean."
"You have never yet seen the woman whom you would ask to be your wife?" she said.
There was a brief silence, and then he replied:
"No, in all truth, I have not, Philippa."
A little bird was singing on a swaying bough just above them--to the last day of her life it seemed to her that she remembered the notes. The sultry silence seemed to deepen. She broke it.
"But, Norman," she said, in a low voice, "have you not seen me?"
He tried to laugh to hide his embarrassment, but it was a failure.
"I have seen you--and I admire you. I have all the affection of a brother for you, Philippa--" and then he paused abruptly.
"But," she supplied, "you have never thought of making me your wife? Speak to me quite frankly, Norman."
"No, Philippa, I have not."
"As matters stand between us, they require explanation," she said; and he saw her lips grow pale. "It is not pleasant for me to have to mention it, but I must do it. Norman, do you quite forget what we were taught to believe when we were children--that our lives were to be passed together?"
"My dearest Philippa, pray spare yourself and me. I did not know that you even remembered that childish nonsense."
She raised her dark eyes to his face, and there was something in them before which he shrank as one who feels pain.
"One word, Norman--only one word. That past which has been so much to me--that past in which I have lived, even more than in the present or the future--am I to look upon it as what you call nonsense?"
He took her hand in his.
"My dear Philippa," he said, "I hate myself for what I have to say--it makes me detest even the sound of my own voice. Yet you are right--there is nothing for us but perfect frankness; anything else would be foolish. Neither your mother nor mine had any right to try to bind us. Such things never answer, never prosper. I cannot myself imagine how they, usually so sensible, came in this instance to disregard all dictates of common sense. I have always looked upon the arrangement as mere nonsense; and I hope you have done the same. You are free as air--and so am I."
She made no answer, but, after a few minutes, when she had regained her self-possession, she said:
"The sun is warm on the water--I think we had better return;" and, as they went back, she spoke to him carelessly about the new rage for garden-parties.
"Does she care or not?" thought Lord Arleigh to himself. "Is she pleased or not? I cannot tell; the ways of women are inscrutable. Yet a strange idea haunts me--an uncomfortable suspicion."
As he watched her, there seemed to him no trace of anything but light-hearted mirth and happiness about her. She laughed and talked; she was the center of attraction, the life of thefête. When he spoke to her, she had a careless jest, a laughing word for him; yet he could not divest himself of the idea that there was something behind all this. Was it his fancy, or did the dark eyes wear every now and then an expression of anguish? Was it his fancy, or did it really happen that when she believed herself unobserved, the light died out of her face?
He was uncomfortable, without knowing why--haunted by a vague, miserable suspicion he could not explain, by a presentiment he could not understand--compelled against his will to watch her, yet unable to detect anything in her words and manner that justified his doing so. It had been arranged that after thefêtehe should return to Verdun House with Lady Peters and Philippa. He had half promised to dine and spend the evening there, but now he wondered if that arrangement would be agreeable to Philippa. He felt that some degree of restraint had arisen between them.
He was thinking what excuse he could frame, when Philippa sent for him. He looked into the fresh young face; there was no cloud on it.
"Norman," she said, "I find that Lady Peters has asked Miss Byrton to join us at dinner--will you come now? It has been a charming day, but I must own that the warmth of the sun has tired me."
Her tone of voice was so calm, so unruffled, he could have laughed at himself for his suspicions, his fears.
"I am quite ready," he replied. "If you would like the carriage ordered, we will go at once."
He noticed her going home more particularly than he had ever done before. She was a trifle paler, and there was a languid expression in her dark eyes which might arise from fatigue, but she talked lightly as usual. If anything, she was even kinder to him than usual, never evincing the least consciousness of what had happened. Could it have been a dream? Never was man so puzzled as Lord Arleigh.
They talked after dinner about a grand fancy ball that Miss Byrton intended giving at her mansion in Grosvenor Square. She was one of those who believed implicitly in the engagement between Lord Arleigh and Miss L'Estrange.
"I have a Waverley quadrille already formed," said Miss Byrton--"that isde rigueur. There could not be a fancy ball without a Waverley quadrille. How I should like two Shakesperian ones! I thought of having one from 'As You Like It' and another from 'Romeo and Juliet;' and, Miss L'Estrange, I wish you would come asJuliet. It seems rude even to suggest a character to any one with such perfect taste as yours--still I should like a beautifulJuliet--Julietin white satin, and glimmer of pearls."
"I am quite willing," returned Philippa. "Julietis one of my favorite heroines. How manyRomeoswill you have?"
"Only one, if I can so manage it," replied Miss Byrton--"and that will be Lord Arleigh."
She looked at him as she spoke; he shook his head, laughingly.
"No--I yield to no one in reverence for the creations of the great poet," he said; "but, to tell the truth, I do not remember that the character ofRomeoever had any great charm for me."
"Why not?" asked Miss Byrton.
"I cannot tell you; I am very much afraid that I preferOthello--the noble Moor. Perhaps it is because sentiment has not any great attraction for me. I do not think I could ever kill myself for love. I should make a sorryRomeo, Miss Byrton."
With a puzzled face she looked from him to Miss L'Estrange.
"You surprise me," she said, quickly. "I should have thoughtRomeoa character above all others to please you."
Philippa has listened with a smile--nothing had escaped her. Looking up, she said, with a bright laugh:
"I cannot compliment you on being a good judge of character, Miss Byrton. It may be perhaps that you have not known Lord Arleigh well enough. But he is the last person in the world to make a goodRomeo.I know but one character in Shakespeare's plays that would suit him."
"And that?" interrogated Lord Arleigh.
"That," replied Philippa, "isPetruchio;" and amidst a general laugh the conversation ended.
Miss Byrton was the first to take her departure. Lord Arleigh lingered for some little time--he was still unconvinced. The wretched, half-formed suspicion that there was something hidden beneath Philippa's manner still pursued him; he wanted to see if she was the same to him. There was indeed no perceptible difference. She leaned back in her favorite chair with an air of relief, as though she were tired of visitors.
"Now let us talk about thefête, Norman," she said. "You are the only one I care to talk with about my neighbors."
So for half an hour they discussed thefête, the dresses, the music, the different flirtations--Philippa in her usual bright, laughing, half-sarcastic fashion, with the keen sense of humor that was peculiar to her. Lord Arleigh could not see that there was any effort in her conversation; he could not see the least shadow on her brightness; and at heart he was thankful.
When he was going away, she asked him about riding on the morrow just as usual. He could not see the slightest difference in her manner. That unpleasant little conversation on the lake might never have taken place for all the remembrance of it that seemed to trouble her. Then, when he rose to take his leave, she held out her hand with a bright, amused expression.
"Good-night,Petruchio," she said. "I am pleased at the name I have found for you."
"I am not so sure that it is appropriate," he rejoined. "I think on the whole I would rather love aJulietthan tame a shrew."
"It may be in the book of fate that you will do both," she observed; and they parted, laughing at the idea.
To the last the light shone in her eyes, and the scarlet lips were wreathed in smiles; but, when the door had closed behind him and she was alone, the haggard, terrible change that fell over the young face was painful to see. The light, the youth, the beauty seemed all to fade from it; it grew white, stricken, as though the pain of death were upon her. She clasped her hands as one who had lost all hope.
"How am I to bear it?" she cried. "What am I to do?" She looked round her with the bewildered air of one who had lost her way--with the dazed appearance of one from beneath whose feet the plank of safety had been withdrawn. It was all over--life was all over; the love that had been her life was suddenly taken from her. Hope was dead--the past in which she had lived was all a plank--he did not love her.
She said the words over and over again to herself. He did not love her, this man to whom she had given the passionate love of her whole heart and soul--he did not love her, and never intended to ask her to be his wife.
Why, she had lived for this! This love, lying now in ruins around her, had been her existence. Standing there, in the first full pain of her despair, she realized what that love had been--her life, her hope, her world. She had lived in it; she had known no other wish, no other desire. It had been her all and now it was less than nothing.
"How am I to live and bear it?" she asked herself again; and the only answer that came to her was the dull echo of her own despair.
That night, while the sweet flowers slept under the light of the stars, and the little birds rested in the deep shade of the trees--while the night wind whispered low, and the moon sailed in the sky--Philippa L'Estrange, the belle of the season, one of the most beautiful women in London, one of the wealthiest heiresses in England, wept through the long hours--wept for the overthrow of her hope and her love, wept for the life that lay in ruins around her.
She was of dauntless courage--she knew no fear; but she did tremble and quail before the future stretching out before her--the future that was to have no love, and was to be spent without him.
How was she to bear it? She had known no other hope in life, no other dream. What had been childish nonsense to him had been to her a serious and exquisite reality. He had either forgotten it, or had thought of it only with annoyance; she had made it the very corner-stone of her life.
It was not only a blow of the keenest and cruelest kind to her affections, but it was the cruelest blow her vanity could have possibly received. To think that she, who had more admirers at her feet than any other woman in London, should have tried so hard to win this one, and have failed--that her beauty, her grace, her wit, her talent, should all have been lavished in vain.
Why did she fail so completely? Why had she not won his love? It was given to no other--at least she had the consolation of knowing that. He had talked about his ideal, but he had not found it; he had his own ideal of womanhood, but he had not met with it.
"Are other women fairer, more lovable than I am?" she asked herself. "Why should another win where I have failed?"
So through the long hours of the starlit night she lamented the love and the wreck of her life, she mourned for the hope that could never live again, while her name was on the lips of men who praised her as the queen of beauty, and fair women envied her as one who had but to will and to win.
She would have given her whole fortune to win his love--not once, but a hundred times over.
It seemed to her a cruel mockery of fate that she who had everything the world could give--beauty, health, wealth, fortune--should ask but this one gift, and that it should be refused her.
She watched the stars until they faded from the skies and then she buried her face in the pillow and sobbed herself to sleep.