Lord Airlie muttered something that was not a benediction when, on the
morning following, Gaspar Laurence made his appearance at Earlescourt.
"We can not receive visitors this morning," said Beatrice, half
impatiently. "Mr. Laurence must have forgotten the ball tonight."
But Mr. Laurence had forgotten nothing of the kind. It was a delicious
morning, the sun shining brightly and clearly, the westerly breeze
blowing fresh and cool. He had thought it likely that the young ladies
would spend the morning out-of-doors, and begged permission to join
them.
Lady Earle was pleased with the idea. Lord Airlie mentioned something
about fatigue, but he was overruled.
"Stroll in the grounds," said Lady Helena; "go down by the lake; I will
join you there afterward. A few hours in the fresh air will be the
best preparation for the ball."
They went together. Gaspar's preference soon became apparent he would
not leave Beatrice, and Lord Airlie devotedly wished him at the
antipodes.
They sat down under the shade of a tall lady-birch, the deep, sunlit
lake shining through the trees. Then Gaspar, taking a little book in
his hands, asked:
"Have you read 'Undine,' Miss Earle--Fouque's 'Undine?'"
"No," she replied; "I am half ashamed to say so."
"It is the sweetest, saddest story ever written," he continued. "This
is just the morning for it. May I read it to you?"
There was a general and pleased murmur of assent. Lord Airlie muttered
to himself that he knew the fellow would air his German sentiment--at
their expense.
Still it was very pleasant. There was a gentle ripple on the deep
lake, the water washed among the tall reeds, and splashed with a faint,
musical murmur on the stones; the thick leafy branches rustled in the
wind; the birds sang in the trees.
Gaspar Laurence read well; his voice was clear and distinct; not a word
of the beautiful story was lost.
Beatrice listened like one in a dream. Her proud, bright face
softened, her magnificent eyes grew tender and half sad. Gaspar read
on--of the fair and lovely maiden, of the handsome young knight and his
love, of the water sprite, grim old Kuhlehorn, and the cottage where
Undine dwelt, of the knight's marriage, and then of proud, beautiful
Bertha.
The rippling of the lake and the singing of the birds seemed like an
accompaniment to the words, so full of pathos. Then Gaspar came to
Bertha's love for the knight--their journey on the river to the huge
hand rising and snatching the jewel from Undine's soft fingers, while
the knight's love grew cold.
Even the waters of the lake seemed to sob and sigh as Gaspar read on of
sweet, sad Undine and of her unhappy love, of Bertha's proud triumph,
her marriage with the knight, and the last, most beautiful scene of
all--Undine rising from the unsealed fountain and going to claim her
love.
"How exquisite!" said Beatrice, drawing a long, deep breath. "I did not
know there was such a story in the world. That is indeed a creation of
genius. I shall never forget Undine."
Her eyes wandered to the sweet spirituelle face and fair golden hair of
her sister. Lionel Dacre's glance followed hers.
"I know what you are thinking of," he said--"Miss Lillian is a perfect
Undine. I can fancy her, with clasped hands and sad eyes, standing
between the knight and Bertha, or rising with shadowy robes from the
open fountain."
"It is a beautiful creation," said Beatrice, gently. "Lillian would be
an ideal Undine--she is just as gentle, as fair, as true. I am like
Bertha, I suppose; at least I know I prefer my own way and my own will."
"You should give some good artist a commission to paint a picture,"
said Lord Airlie. "Choose the scene in the boat Undine bending over
the water, a dreamy expression on her fair face; Bertha sitting by the
knight, proud, bright, and half scornful of her companion. Imagine the
transparent water Undine's little hand half lost in it, and the giant
fingers clasping hers. I wonder that an artist has never painted that
scene."
"Who would do for the knight?" said Beatrice. "Lillian and I will
never dispute over a knight."
"Artists would find some difficulty in that picture," said Lillian.
"How could one clothe a beautiful ideal like Undine? Sweeping robes and
waving plumes might suit Bertha; but how could one depict Undine?"
"The knight is the difficulty," laughed Lionel.
"Why should we not go out on the lake now?" said Gaspar; "I will row."
"I have been wishing for the last ten minutes," replied Beatrice, "to
be upon the lake. I want to put my hand in the water and see what
comes."
Gaspar was not long in getting a pleasure boat out of the boat house.
Lionel managed to secure a seat near his Undine, and Lord Airlie by his
Beatrice.
It was even more pleasant on the water than on the land; the boat moved
easily along, the fresh, clear breeze helping it.
"Steer for those pretty water lilies," said Beatrice, "they look so
fresh and shining in the sun."
And as they floated over the water, her thoughts went back to that May
morning when Lillian sat upon the cliffs and sketched the white far-off
sails. How distant it seemed! She longed then for life. Now every
sweet gift which life could bestow was here, crowned with love. Yet
she sighed as Hugh Fernely's face rose before her. If she could but
forget it! After all it had been on her side but a mockery of love.
Yet another sigh broke from her lips, and then Lord Airlie looked
anxiously at her.
"Does anything trouble you, Miss Earle?" he asked. "I never remember
to have seen you so serious before."
She looked for a moment wistfully into his face. Ah, if he could help
her, if he could drive this haunting memory from her, if ever it could
be that she might tell him of this her trouble and ask him to save her
from Hugh Fernely! But that was impossible. Almost as though in answer
to her thought, Gaspar Laurence began to tell them of an incident that
had impressed him. A gentleman, a friend of his, after making
unheard-of sacrifices to marry a lady who was both beautiful and
accomplished, left her suddenly, and never saw her again, the reason
being that he discovered that she had deceived him by telling him a
willful lie before her marriage. Gaspar seemed to think she had been
hardly used. Lord Airlie and Lionel differed from him.
"I am quite sure," said Lord Airlie, "that I could pardon anything
sooner than a lie; all that is mean, despicable, and revolting to me is
expressed in the one word, 'liar.' Sudden anger, passion, hot
revenge--anything is more easily forgiven. When once I discover that a
man or woman has told me a lie, I never care to see their face again."
"I agree with you," said Lionel; "perhaps I even go further. I would
never pardon an air of deceit; those I love must be straightforward,
honest, and sincere always."
"Such a weight of truth might sink the boat," said Beatrice,
carelessly; but Lord Airlie's words had gone straight to her heart. If
he only knew. But he never would. And again she wished that in reply
to her father's question she had answered truthfully.
The time came when Lillian remembered Mr. Dacre's words, and knew they
had not been spoken in vain.
Beatrice had taken off her glove, and drew her hand trough the cool,
deep water; thinking intently of the story she had just heard--of
Undine and the water-sprites--she leaned over the boat's side and gazed
into the depths. The blue sky and white fleecy clouds, the tall green
trees and broad leaves, were all reflected there. There was a strange,
weird fascination in the placid water--what went on in the depths
beneath? What lay beneath the ripples? Suddenly she drew back with a
startled cry a cry that rang out in the clear summer air, and haunted
Lord Airlie while he lived. He looked at her; her face had grown
white, even to the very lips, and a nameless, awful dread lay in her
dark eyes.
"What is it?" he asked, breathlessly. She recovered herself with a
violent effort, and tried to smile.
"How foolish I am!" she said; "and what is worse you will all laugh at
me. It was sheer fancy and nonsense, I know; but I declare that
looking down into the water, I saw my own face there with such a
wicked, mocking smile that it frightened me."
"It was the simple reflection," said Lionel Dacre. "I can see mine.
Look again, Miss Earle."
"No," she replied, with a shudder; "it is only nonsense, I know, but it
startled me. The face seemed to rise from the depths and smile--oh,
oh, such a smile! When shall I forget it?"
"It was only the rippling of the water which distorted the reflection,"
said Lord Airlie.
Beatrice made no reply, but drew her lace shawl around her as though
she were cold.
"I do not like the water," she said presently; "it always frightens me.
Let us land, Mr. Laurence, please. I will never go on the lake again."
Gaspar laughed, and Mr. Dacre declared Beatrice had had too strong a
dose of Undine and the water-sprites. Lord Airlie felt her hand
tremble as he helped her to leave the boat. He tried to make her
forget the incident by talking of the ball and the pleasure it would
bring. She talked gayly, but every now and then he saw that she
shuddered as though icily cold.
When they were entering the house she turned round, and, in her
charming, imperious way, said:
"None of you must tell papa about my fright. I should not like him to
think that an Earle could be either fanciful or a coward. I am brave
enough on land."
The heat had tried both girls, and Lady Helena said they must rest
before dinner. She made Beatrice lie down upon the cosy little couch
in her dressing room. She watched the dark eyes close, and thought how
beautiful the young face looked in repose.
But the girl's sleep was troubled. Lady Earle, bending over her, heard
her sigh deeply and murmur something about the "deep water." She awoke,
crying out that she saw her own face, and Lady Earle saw great drops of
perspiration standing in beads upon her brow.
"What have you been dreaming of, child?" she asked. "Young girls like
you ought to sleep like flowers."
"Flowers never quite close their eyes," said Beatrice, with a smile.
"I shut mine, but my brain is active, it seems, even in sleep. I was
dreaming of the lake, Lady Helena. Dreams are very wonderful; do they
ever come true?"
"I knew one that did," replied Lady Earle. "When I was young, I had a
friend whom I loved very dearly--Laura Reardon. A gentleman, a Captain
Lemuel, paid great attention to her. She loved him--my poor Laura--as
I hope few people love. For many months he did everything but make an
offer--saw her ever day, sent her flowers, books, and music, won her
heart by a thousand sweet words and gentle deeds. She believed he was
in earnest, and never suspected him of being a male flirt. He left
London, suddenly, saying goodbye to her in the ordinary way, and
speaking of his return in a few weeks.
"She came to me one morning and told me a strange dream. She dreamed
she was dead, and lay buried in the center aisle of an old country
church. At the same time, and in the usual vague manner of dreams, she
was conscious of an unusual stir. She heard carriages drive up to the
church door; she heard the rustling of dresses, the sound of footsteps
above her head, the confused murmur of a crowd of people; then she
became aware that a marriage was going on. She heard the minister ask:
"'George Victor Lemuel, will you have this woman for your lawful wedded
wife?'
"The voice she knew and loved best in the world replied:
"'I will.'
"'Alice Ferrars, will you take this man for your lawful wedded husband?"
"'I will,' replied the clear, low voice.
"She heard the service finished, the wedding bells peal, the carriages
drive away. I laughed at her, Beatrice; but the strange thing is,
Captain George Lemuel was married on the very day Laura dreamed the
dream. He married a young lady, Alice Ferrars, and Laura had never
heard of the name before she dreamed it. The marriage took place in an
old country church. That dream came true, Beatrice; I never heard of
another dream like it."
"Did your friend die?" she asked.
"No," replied Lady Helena; "she did not die, but her life was spoiled
by her unhappy love."
"I should have died had it been my disappointment," said Beatrice; "the
loss of what one loves must be more bitter than death."
* * * * *
Far and near nothing was spoken of but the ball at Earlescourt.
Anything so brilliant or on so grand a scale had not been given in the
county for many years.
Lord Earle felt proud of the arrangements as he looked through the ball
room and saw the gorgeous array of flowers, tier upon tier of
magnificent bloom, a sight well worth coming many miles to see. Here
and there a marble statue stood amid the flowers. Little fountains of
scented water rippled musically. He stopped for a few moments looking
at the blossoms and thinking of his beautiful child.
"How she loves everything bright and gay!" he said to himself. "She
will be queen of the ball tonight."
As Lord Earle stood alone in his library that evening, where he had
been reading, stealing a quiet half hour, there came a gentle knock at
the door.
"Come in," he said, and there stood before him something that he
thought must be a vision.
"Grandmamma sent me," said Beatrice, blushing, "to see if I should do.
You are to notice my diamonds, papa, and tell me if you approve of the
setting."
As he looked at the radiant figure a sense of wonder stole over him.
Could this magnificent beauty really be Dora's daughter--Dora who had
stained her pretty hand with strawberry juice so many years ago?
He knew nothing of the details of the dress, he saw only the beautiful
face and glorious eyes, the crowns of waving hair, the white, stately
neck and exquisite arms. Before him was a gleam of pale pink satin,
shrouded with lace so fine and delicate that it looked like a fairy
web; and the Earle diamonds were not brighter than the dark eyes. They
became the wearer well. They would have eclipsed a fair, faded beauty;
they added radiance to Beatrice's.
"Where is Lillian?" he asked; and she knew from the tone of his voice
how proud and satisfied he was.
"I am here, papa," said a gentle voice. "I wanted you to see Beatrice
first."
Lord Earle hardly knew which to admire the more. Lillian looked so
fair and graceful; the pure, spiritual face and tender eyes had new
beauty; the slender, girlish figure contrasted well with the stately
dignity of Beatrice.
"I hope it will be a happy evening for you both," he said.
"I feel sure it will for me," said Beatrice, with a smile. "I am
thoroughly happy, and am looking forward to the ball with delight."
Lord Earle smiled half sadly as he gazed at her bright face, wondering
whether, in years to come, it would be clouded or shadowed.
"Will you dance, papa?" asked Beatrice, with a gleam of mischief in her
dark eyes.
"I think not," he replied; and Ronald Earle's thoughts went back to the
last time he had ever danced--with Valentine Charteris. He remembered
it well. Ah, no! All those pleasant, happy days were over for him.