There was unbroken silence for some minutes; then Lillian bent over her
sister, and said:
"Tell me all, darling; perhaps I can help you."
"I promised to be his wife, Lily," continued Beatrice. "I am sure I
did not mean it. I was but a child. I did not realize all that the
words meant. He kissed my face, and said he should come to claim me.
Believe me, Lily, I never thought of marriage. Brilliant pictures of
foreign lands filled my mind; I looked upon Hugh Fernely only as a
means of escape from a life I detested. He promised to take me to
places the names of which filled me with wonder. I never thought of
leaving you or mamma--I never thought of the man himself as of a lover."
"You did not care for him, then, as you do for Lord Airlie?" interposed
Lillian.
"Do not pain me!" begged Beatrice. "I love Hubert with the love that
comes but once in life; that man was nothing to me except that his
flattery, and the excitement of contriving to meet him, made my life
more endurable. He gave me a ring, and said in two years' time he
should return to claim me. He was going on a long voyage. Lily, I
felt relieved when he was gone--the novelty was over--I had grown
tired. Besides, when the glamour fell from my eyes, I was ashamed of
what I had done. I tried to forget all about him; every time the
remembrance of him came to my mind I drove it from me. I did not think
it possible he would ever return. It was but a summer's pastime. That
summer has darkened my life. Looking back, I own I did very wrong.
There is great blame attaching to me, but surely they who shut me out
from the living world were blameworthy also.
"Remember all through my story, darling, that I am not so good, not so
patient and gentle as you. I was restless at the Elms, like a bird in a
cage; you were content. I was vain, foolish, and willful; but, looking
back at the impetuous, imperious child, full of romance, untrained,
longing for the strife of life, longing for change, for excitement, for
gayety, chafing under restraint, I think there was some little excuse
for me. There was no excuse for what followed. When papa spoke to
us--you remember it, Lily--and asked so gently if we had either of us a
secret in our lives--when he promised to pardon anything, provided we
kept nothing from him--I ought to have told him then. There is no
excuse for that error. I was ashamed. Looking round upon the noble
faces hanging on the wall, looking at him, so proud, so dignified, I
could not tell him what his child had done. Oh, Lily, if I had told
him, I should not be kneeling here at your feet now."
Lillian made no reply, but pressed the proud, drooping figure more
closely to her side.
"I can hardly tell the rest," said Beatrice; "the words frighten me as
I utter them. This man, who has been the bane of my life, was going
away for two years. He was to claim me when he returned. I never
thought he would return; I was so happy, I could not believe it." Here
sobs choked her utterance.
Presently she continued: "Lily, he is here; he claims me, and also the
fulfillment of my promise to be his wife."
A look of unutterable dread came over the listener's fair, pitying face.
"He wrote to me three weeks since; I tried to put him off. He wrote
again this morning, and swears he will see me. He will be here tonight
at nine o'clock. Oh, Lily, save me, save me, or I shall die!"
Bitter sobs broke from the proud lips.
"I never knelt to any one before," Beatrice said; "I kneel to you, my
sister. No one else can help me. You must see him for me, give him a
letter from me, and tell him I am very ill. It is no untruth, Lily. I
am ill, my brain burns, and my heart is cold with fear. Will you do
this for me?"
"I would rather almost give you my life," said Lillian gently.
"Oh, do not say that, Lily! Do you know what there is at stake? Do you
remember papa's words--that, if ever he found one of us guilty of any
deceit, or involved in any clandestine love affair, even if it broke
his heart he would send the guilty one from him and never see her
again? Think, darling, what it would be for me to leave
Earlescourt--to leave all the magnificence I love so dearly, and drag
out a weary life at the Elms. Do you think I could brook Lord Earle's
angry scorn and Lady Helena's pained wonder? Knowing our father as you
know him, do you believe he would pardon me?"
"I do not," replied Lily, sadly.
"That is not all," continued Beatrice. "I might bear anger, scorn, and
privation, but, Lily, if this miserable secret is discovered, Lord
Airlie will cease to love me. He might have forgiven me if I had told
him at first; he would not know that I had lied to him and deceived
him. I can not lose him--I can not give him up. For our mother's
sake, for my sake, help me, Lily. Do what I have asked!"
"If I do it," said Lillian, "it will give you but a few days' reprieve;
it will avail nothing; he will be here again."
"I shall think of some means of escape in a few days," answered
Beatrice wistfully. "Something must happen, Lily, fortune could not be
so cruel to me; it could not rob me of my love. If I can not free
myself, I shall run away. I would rather suffer anything than face
Lord Airlie or my father. Say you will help me for my love's sake! Do
not let me lose my love!"
"I will help you," said Lillian; "it is against my better
judgment--against my idea of right--but I can not refuse you. I will
see the man, and give him your letter. Beatrice, let me persuade you.
You can not free yourself. I see no way--running away is all
nonsense--but to tell Lord Earle and your lover; anything would be
better than to live as you do, a drawn sword hanging over your heart.
Tell them, and trust to their kindness; at least you will have peace of
mind then. They will prevent him from annoying you."
"I can not," she said, and the breath came gasping from her lips.
"Lillian, you do not know what Lord Airlie is to me. I could never
meet his anger. If ever you love any one you will understand better.
He is everything to me. I would suffer any sorrow, even death, rather
than see his face turned coldly from me."
She loosened her grasp of Lillian's hands and fell upon the floor,
weeping bitterly and passionately. Her sister, bending over her, heard
the pitiful words--"My love, my love! I can not lose my love!"
The passionate weeping ceased, and the proud, sad face grew calm and
still.
"You can not tell what I have suffered, Lily," she said, humbly. "See,
my pride is all beaten down, only those who have had a secret, eating
heart and life away, can tell what I have endured. A few more days of
agony like this, and I shall be free forever from Hugh Fernely."
Her sister tried to soothe her with gentle words, but they brought no
comfort.
"He will be here at nine," she said; "it is six now. I will write my
letter. He will be at the shrubbery gate. I will manage so that you
shall have time. Give him the note I will write, speak to him for me,
tell him I am ill and can not see him. Shall you be frightened?"
"Yes," replied Lillian, gently; "but that will not matter. I must
think of you, not of myself."
"You need not fear him," said Beatrice. "Poor Hugh, I could pity him
if I did not hate him. Lily, I will thank you when my agony is over; I
can not now."
She wrote but a few words, saying she was ill and unable to see him; he
must be satisfied, and willing to wait yet a little longer.
She gave the letter to her sister. Lillian's heart ached as she noted
the trembling hands and quivering lips.
"I have not asked you to keep my secret, Lily," said Beatrice,
sorrowfully.
"There is no need," was the simple reply.
* * * * *
Sir Harry and Lady Laurence dined that day at Earlescourt, and it was
nearly nine before the gentlemen, who did not sit long over their wine,
came into the drawing room. The evening was somewhat chilly; a bright
fire burned in the grate, and the lamps were lighted. Sir Harry sat
down to his favorite game of chess with Lady Helena; Lord Earle
challenged Lady Laurence to a game at ecarte. The young people were
left to themselves.
"In twenty years' time," said Lionel to Lillian, "we may seek refuge in
cards; at present music and moonlight are preferable, Lily. You never
sing to me; come to the piano now."
But she remembered the dreaded hour was drawing near.
"Pray excuse me," she begged; "I will sing for you presently."
He looked surprised; it was the first time she had ever refused him a
favor.
"Shall we finish the folio of engravings?" he asked.
Knowing that, when once she was seated by his side, it would be
impossible to get away, she again declined; but this time the fair face
flushed, and the sweet eyes drooped.
"How guilty you look," he said. "Is there any mystery on hand? Are you
tired of me? Or is there to be another important consultation over the
wedding dresses?"
"I have something to attend to," she replied, evasively. "Get the
folio ready--I shall not be long."
Beatrice, who had listened to the brief dialogue in feverish suspense,
now came to the rescue, asking Lionel to give them the benefit of his
clear, ringing tenor in a trio of Mendelssohn's.
"My 'clear, ringing tenor' is quite at your service," he said with a
smile. "Lily is very unkind to me tonight."
They went to the piano, where Lord Airlie awaited them; and Lillian,
looking at her small, jeweled watch--Lord Earle's present--saw that it
wanted three minutes to nine.
She at once quitted the room, unobserved, as she thought; but Lionel
saw her go.
No words can tell how distasteful and repugnant was the task she had
undertaken. She would have suffered anything almost to have evaded it.
She, who never had a secret; she, whose every word and action were open
as the day; she, who shrank from all deceit and untruth as from a
deadly plague, to be mixed up with a wretched clandestine love affair
like this! She, to steal out of her father's house at night, to meet a
stranger, and plead her sister's cause with him! The thought horrified
her; but the beautiful face in its wild sorrow, the sad voice in its
passionate anguish, urged her on.
Lillian went hastily to her own room. She took a large black shawl and
drew it closely round her, hiding the pretty evening dress and the rich
pearls. Then, with the letter in her hand, she went down the staircase
that led from her rooms to the garden.
The night was dark; heavy clouds sailed swiftly across the sky, the
wind moaned fitfully, bending the tall trees as it were in anger, then
whispering round them as though suing for pardon. Lillian had never
been out at night alone before, and her first sensation was one of
fear. She crossed the gardens where the autumn flowers were fading;
the lights shone gayly from the Hall windows; the shrubbery looked dark
and mysterious. She was frightened at the silence and darkness, but
went bravely on. He was there. By the gate she saw a tall figure
wrapped in a traveling cloak; as she crossed the path, he stepped
hastily forward, crying with a voice she never forgot:
"Beatrice, at last you have come!"
"It is not Beatrice," she said, shrinking from the outstretched arms.
"I am Lillian Earle. My sister is ill, and has sent you this."