Laurie Meredith found himself in a terrible dilemma. He had thought
that he was quite safe in pledging himself to Jewel Fielding, being
perfectly sure that he could never love again as he had loved his lost
Flower.
But suddenly, and almost hopelessly, it seemed, he found himself most
passionately in love with Lord Ivon's great-granddaughter, the proud
English beauty.
And it was her wonderful resemblance to Flower that had wiled his heart
from his breast.
At times, when looking at her or listening to her musical voice, he
could scarcely persuade himself that she was a stranger; she seemed so
much like Flower, his lost bride, that he longed to clasp her in his
arms, and say:
"You must be Flower, who loved me so dearly once, and who was my adored
little bride! Confess the truth, and own that you are only masquerading
as the heiress of this proud nobleman!"
If he had followed this wild impulse of his heart all would have been
well. She would have been only too happy to find him again, and would
gladly have resigned the proudest destiny for his dear sake.
But his reason fought sternly against such folly and madness. He would
say to himself, in bitter chiding:
"I am a traitor to Jewel in thus cherishing a mad passion for one whom
she instinctively dreaded from the first as a rival. Flower is dead,
dead; and this girl, with her face and voice, is but a stranger. Oh, my
little love, my blue-eyed Flower, if only I could call you back to my
heart!"
His passionate regret for her revived with tenfold force; she seemed
to be always in his mind, mixed up strangely with the idea of Azalia
Brooke, and people began to say that he had forgotten all the songs he
ever knew but one, for when pressed to sing of late he always gave the
same song--one that particularly irritated Jewel:
"Thou art lost to me forever--I have lost thee, Isadore,
Thy head will never rest on my loyal bosom more,
Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine,
Nor thy arm around me lovingly and trustingly intwine.
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore!
"My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and forlorn,
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings a melancholy strain,
For my heart is like a heavy cloud that overflows with rain.
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore!"
Within a week after that scene in which Jewel had betrayed her angry
jealousy of Azalia Brooke, he wished devoutly that he had never
entangled himself in an engagement with the imperious brunette.
Could he have followed the dictates of his heart he would not have lost
an hour in wooing Azalia Brooke.
She had told him that she was going soon. They had been in Boston more
than a month, and Lord and Lady Ivon were getting anxious to resume
their travels. They would go to Washington next to see an American
Congress in session, and an American President.
When he heard that she was going, he realized, by the terrible pain he
felt, that he loved her with his whole soul, that when she was gone,
the whole world would seem dark and cold and empty.
"For, alas, alas! with me
The light of life is o'er!
'No more--no more--no more--'
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
"And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams,
Are where thy blue eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams--
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams!"
He grew impatient with himself at what he called to himself his
inexcusable folly. What if he were free to woo, was it likely she would
listen?--she, the proud descendant of one of the proudest lords of
England. Doubtless she had been taught to have a secret contempt for
Americans, and he was a thorough American, proud of his country, proud
of its institutions, and though rich, cultured, and well-born, he had
no title to lay at the beauty's feet, while Mrs. Raynold Clinton had
told him that the young and handsome Earl of Clive was desperately in
love with Azalia Brooke.
"He was like her shadow in London last winter," she said. "Azalia
refused him, but he would not take no for an answer, and Lord and Lady
Ivon are in hopes she will reconsider her decision, as the match is a
good one, even for their great-granddaughter."
Every word was a thorn in his heart. He began to realize something of
what Jewel's jealousy was to her in the strange pain that racked his
heart.
Then he tried to reason with himself. He never could be anything to
Azalia Brooke, even if she were not so cold and proud. He belonged to
Jewel Fielding, and she had made him understand very plainly that it
would not be a safe plan for him to break with her now.
Suddenly the Earl of Clive made his appearance in Boston. He had
crossed the Atlantic in order to be near the lady of his heart.
He was young, rich, and good-looking--a trifle arrogant, perhaps, but
one with so many gifts of this life has some cause for vanity.
He devoted himself with ardor to Azalia Brooke, causing more than one
gallant admirer to think, indignantly:
"Were there no beauteous maids at home,
And no true lovers here,
That he must cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear?"
Jewel Fielding was very glad that Azalia Brooke's titled lover had come
upon the scene.
The beautiful brunette was by no means blind to the state of her
lover's feelings. She was half maddened with her bitter jealousy of her
betrothed and her hatred of Azalia Brooke.
She hoped that Laurie would see the futility of his passion now that
Lord Clive had come.