She gave him a spray of the delicate golden bells.
"I should like to be curious and rude," he said, "and ask if you ever gave any one a flower before?"
"No," she replied.
"Then I shall prize this doubly," he a.s.sured her.
That evening Lord Airlie placed the golden blossom carefully away. The time came when he would have parted with any treasure on earth rather than that.
But his question had suddenly disturbed Beatrice. For a moment her thoughts flew to the sea sh.o.r.e at Knutsford. The present faded from her; she saw Hugh Fernely"s face as it looked when he offered her the beautiful lily. The very remembrance of it made her shudder as though seized with deathly cold--and Lord Airlie saw it.
"You are cold," he said; "how careless I am to keep you standing here!"
He helped her to draw the costly lace shawl around her shoulders, and Beatrice was quickly herself again, and they returned to the ball room; but Lord Airlie lingered by Miss Earle.
"You have enjoyed the ball, Beatrice," said Lord Earle, as he bade his daughters good night.
"I have, indeed, papa," she replied. "This has been the happiest evening of my life."
"I can guess why," thought Lord Earle, as he kissed the bright face upraised to him; "there will be no wretched underhand love business there."
He was not much surprised on the day following when Lord Airlie was the first morning caller, and the last to leave, not going until Lady Helena told him that they should all be at the opera that evening and should perhaps see him there. He regretted that he had promised Lady Morton his box for the night, when Lady Earle felt herself bound to ask him to join them in theirs.
All night Beatrice had dreamed of the true, n.o.ble face which began to haunt her. She, usually so regardless of all flattery, remembered every word Lord Airlie had spoken. Could it be true, as Lady Everton had said, that he cared for her?
Her lover would have been spared many anxious hours could he have seen how the golden blossoms were tended and cared for. Long afterward they were found with the little treasures which young girls guard so carefully.
When Lord Airlie had taken his departure and Lord Earle found himself alone with his mother, he turned to her with the happiest look she had ever seen upon his face.
"That seems to me a settled affair," he said. "Beatrice will make a grand countess--Lady Airlie of Lynnton. He is the finest young fellow and the best match in England. Ah, mother, my folly might have been punished more severely. There will no mesalliance there."
"No," said Lady Earle, "I have no fears for Beatrice; she is too proud ever to do wrong."
Chapter XXV
It was a pretty love story, although told in crowded London ball rooms instead of under the shade of green trees. Beatrice Earle began by wondering if Lord Airlie cared for her; she ended by loving him herself.
It was no child"s play this time. With Beatrice, to love once was to love forever, with fervor and intensity which cold and worldly natures can not even understand.
The time came when Lord Airlie stood out distinct from all the world, when the sound of his name was like music, when she saw no other face, heard no other voice, thought of nothing else save him. He began to think there might be some hope for him; the proud, beautiful face softened and brightened for him as it did for no other, and the glorious dark eyes never met his own, the frank, bright words died away in his presence. Seeing all these things, Lord Airlie felt some little hope.
For the first time he felt proud and pleased with the n.o.ble fortune and high rank that were his by birthright. He had not cared much for them before; now he rejoiced that he could lavish wealth and luxury upon one so fair and worthy as Beatrice Earle.
Lord Airlie was not a confident lover. There were times when he felt uncertain as to whether he should succeed. Perhaps true and reverential love is always timid. Lord Earle had smiled to himself many long weeks at the "pretty play" enacted before him, and Lady Helena had wondered when the young man would "speak out" long before Lord Airlie himself presumed to think that the fairest and proudest girl in London would accept him.
No day ever pa.s.sed during which he did not manage to see her. He was indefatigable in finding out the b.a.l.l.s, soirees, and operas she would attend. He was her constant shadow, never happy out of her sight, thinking of her all day, dreaming of her all night, yet half afraid to risk all and ask her to be his wife, lest he should lose her.
To uninterested speculators Lord Airlie was a handsome, kindly, honorable young man. Intellectual, somewhat fastidious, lavishly generous, a great patron of fine arts; to Beatrice Earle he was the ideal of all that was n.o.ble and to be admired. He was a prince among men. The proud heart was conquered. She loved him and said to herself that she would rather love him as a neglected wife than be the worshiped wife of any other man.
She had many admirers; "the beautiful Miss Earle" was the belle of the season. Had she been inclined to coquetry or flirtation she would not have been so eagerly sought after. The gentlemen were quite as much charmed by her utter indifference and haughty acceptance of their homage as by her marvelous beauty.
At times Beatrice felt sure that Lord Airlie loved her; then a sudden fit of timidity would seize her young lover, and again she would doubt it. One thing she never doubted--her own love for him. If her dreams were all false, and he never asked her to be his wife, she said to herself that she would never be the wife of any other man.
The remembrance of Hugh Fernely crossed her mind at times--not very often, and never with any great fear or apprehension. It seemed to her more like a dark, disagreeable dream than a reality. Could it be possible that she, Beatrice Earle, the daughter of that proud, n.o.ble father, so sternly truthful, so honorable, could ever have been so mad or so foolish? The very remembrance of it made the beautiful face flush crimson. She could not endure the thought, and always drove it hastily from her.
The fifteenth of July was drawing near; the two years had nearly pa.s.sed, yet she was not afraid. He might never return, he might forget her, although, remembering his looks and words, that, she feared, could not be.
If he went to Seabay--if he went to the Elms, it was not probable that he would ever discover her whereabouts, or follow her to claim the fulfillment of her absurd promise. At the very worst, if he discovered that she was Lord Earle"s daughter, she believed that her rank and position would dazzle and frighten him. Rarely as those thoughts came to her, and speedily as she thrust them from her, she considered them a dear price for the little novelty and excitement that had broken the dead level calm of life at the Elms.
Lord Airlie, debating within himself whether he should risk, during the whirl and turmoil of the London season, the question upon which the happiness of his life depended, decided that he would wait until Lord Earle returned to Earlescourt, and follow him there.
The summer began to grow warm; the hawthorn and apple blossoms had all died away; the corn waved in the fields, ripe and golden; the hay was all gathered in; the orchards were all filled with fruit. The fifteenth of July--the day that in her heart Beatrice Earle had half feared--was past and gone. She had been nervous and half frightened when it came, starting and turning deathly pale at the sound of the bell or of rapid footsteps. She laughed at herself when the day ended.
How was it likely he would find her? What was there in common between the beautiful daughter of Lord Earle and Hugh Fernely, the captain of a trading vessel? Nothing, save folly and a foolish promise rashly asked and rashly given.
Three days before Lord Earle left London, he went by appointment to meet some friends at Brookes"s. While there, a gentleman entered the room who attracted his attention, most forcibly--a young man of tall and stately figure, with a n.o.ble head, magnificently set upon broad shoulders; a fine, manly face, with proud, mobile features--at times all fire and light, the eyes clear and glowing, again, gentle as the face of a smiling woman. Lord Earle looked at him attentively; there seemed to be something familiar in the outline of the head and face, the haughty yet graceful carriage.
"Who is that?" he inquired of his friend, Captain Langdon. "I have seen that gentleman before, or have dreamed of him."
"Is it possible that you do not know him?" cried the captain. "That is Lionel Dacre, "your next of kin," if I am not mistaken."
Pleasure and pain struggled in Lord Earle"s heart. He remembered Lionel many years ago, long before he committed the foolish act that had cost him so much. Lionel had spent some time with him at Earlescourt; he remembered a handsome and high-spirited boy, proud and impetuous, brave to rashness, generous to a fault; a fierce hater of everything mean and underhand; truthful and honorable--his greatest failing, want of cool, calm thought.
Lionel Dacre was poor in those days; now he was heir to Earlescourt, heir to the t.i.tle that, with all his strange political notions, Ronald Earle ever held in high honor; heir to the grand old mansion and fair domain his father had prized so highly. Pleasure and pain were strangely intermingled in his heart when he remembered that no son of his would every succeed him, that he should never train his successor.
The handsome boy that had grown into so fine a man must take his place one day.
Lord Earle crossed the room, and going up to the young man, laid one hand gently upon his shoulder.
"Lionel," he said, "it is many years since we met. Have you no remembrance of me?"
The frank, clear eyes looked straight into his. Lord Earle"s heart warmed as he gazed at the honest, handsome face.
"Not the least in the world," replied Mr. Dacre, slowly. "I do not remember ever to have seen you before."
"Then I must have changed," said Lord Earle. "When I saw you last, Lionel, you were not much more than twelve years old, and I gave you a "tip" the day you went back to Eton. Charlie Villiers was with you."
"Then you are Lord Earle," returned Lionel. "I came to London purposely to see you," and his frank face flushed, and he held out his hand in greeting.
"I have been anxious to see you," said Lord Earle; "but I have not been long in England. We must be better acquainted; you are my heir at law."
"Your what?" said Mr. Dacre, wonderingly.
"My heir," replied Lord Earle. "I have no son; my estates are entailed, and you are my next of kin."
"I thought you had half a dozen heirs and heiresses," said Lionel. "I remember some story of a romantic marriage. Today I hear of nothing but the beautiful Miss Earle."
"I have no son," interrupted Lord Earle, sadly. "I wrote to you last week, asking you to visit me. Have you any settled home?"