Lionel Dacre stood for some minutes stunned with the shock and
surprise. He could not be mistaken; unless his senses played him
false, it was Lillian Earle whom he had mistaken for a maid meeting her
lover. It was Lillian he had believed so pure and guileless who had
stolen from her father's home under the cover of night's darkness and
silence--who had met in her father's grounds one whom she dared not
meet in the light of day.
If his dearest friend had sworn this to Lionel he would not have
believed it. His own senses he could not doubt. The faint, feeble
moonlight had as surely fallen on the fair face and golden hair of
Lillian Earle as the sun shone by day in the sky.
He threw away his cigar, and ground his teeth with rage. Had the skies
fallen at his feet he could not have been more startled and amazed.
Then, after all, all women were alike. There was in them no truth; no
goodness; the whole world was alike. Yet he had believed in her so
implicitly--in her guileless purity, her truth, her freedom from every
taint of the world. That fair, spirituelle form had seemed to him only
as a beautiful casket hiding a precious gem. Nay, still more, though
knowing and loving her, he had begun to care for everything good and
pure that interested her. Now all was false and hateful.
There was no truth in the world, he said to himself. This girl, whom
he had believed to be the fairest and sweetest among women, was but a
more skillful deceiver than the rest. His mother's little deceptions,
hiding narrow means and straitened circumstances, were as nothing
compared with Lillian's deceit.
And he had loved her so! Looking into those tender eyes, he had
believed love and truth shone there; the dear face that had blushed and
smiled for him had looked so pure and guileless.
How long was it since he had held her little hands clasped within his
own, and, abashed before her sweet innocence, had not dared to touch
her lips, even when she had promised to love him? How he had been
duped and deceived! How she must have laughed at his blind folly!
Who was the man? Some one she must have known years before. There was
no gentleman in Lord Earle's circle who would have stolen into his
grounds like a thief by night. Why had he not followed him, and
thrashed him within an inch of his life? Why had he let him escape?
The strong hands were clinched tightly. It was well for Hugh Fernely
that he was not at that moment in Lionel's power. Then the fierce, hot
anger died away, and a passion of despair seized him. A long, low cry
came from his lips, a bitter sob shook his frame. He had lost his
fair, sweet love. The ideal he had worshiped lay stricken; falsehood
and deceit marked its fair form.
While the first smart of pain was upon him, he would not return to the
house; he would wait until he was calm and cool. Then he would see how
she dared to meet him.
His hands ceased to tremble; the strong, angry pulsating of his heart
grew calmer. He went back to the drawing room; and, except that the
handsome face was pale even to the lips, and that a strange, angry
light gleamed in the frank, kindly eyes, there was little difference in
Lionel Dacre.
She was there, bending over the large folio he had asked her to show
him; the golden hair fell upon the leaves. She looked up as he
entered; her face was calm and serene; there was a faint pink flush on
the cheeks, and a bright smile trembled on her features.
"Here are the drawings," she said; "will you look over them?"
He remembered how he had asked her to sing to him, and she refused,
looking confused and uneasy the while. He understood now the reason
why.
He took a chair by her side; the folio lay upon a table placed in a
large room, lighted by a silver lamp. They were as much alone there as
though they had been in another room. She took out a drawing, and laid
it before him. He neither saw it nor heard what she remarked.
"Lillian," he said, suddenly, "if you were asked what was the most
deadly sin a woman could commit, what should you reply?"
"That is a strange question," she answered. "I do not know, Lionel. I
think I hate all sin alike."
"Then I will tell you," he said bitterly; "it is false, foul
deceit--black, heartless treachery."
She looked up in amazement at his angry tone; then there was for some
moments unbroken silence.
"I can not see the drawings," he said; "take them away. Lillian Earle,
raise your eyes to mine; look me straight in the face. How long is it
since I asked you to be my wife?"
Her gentle eyes never wavered, they were fixed half in wonder on his,
but at his question the faint flush on her cheeks grew deeper.
"Not very long," she replied; "a few days."
"You said you loved me," he continued.
"I do," she said.
"Now, answer me again. Have you ever loved or cared for any one else,
as you say you do for me?"
"Never," was the quiet reply.
"Pray pardon the question--have you received the attentions of any
lover before receiving mine?"
"Certainly not," she said, wondering still more.
"I have all your affection, your confidence, your trust; you have never
duped or deceived me; you have been open, truthful, and honest with me?"
"You forget yourself, Lionel," she said, with gentle dignity; "you
should not use such words to me."
"Answer!" he returned. "You have to do with a desperate man. Have you
deceived me?"
"Never," she replied, "In thought, word, or deed."
"Merciful Heaven!" he cried. "That one can be so fair and so false!"
There was nothing but wonder in the face that was raised to his.
"Lillian," he said, "I have loved you as the ideal of all that was pure
and noble in woman. In you I saw everything good and holy. May Heaven
pardon you that my faith has died a violent death."
"I can not understand you," she said, slowly. "Why do you speak to me
so?"
"I will use plainer words," he replied--"so plain that you can not
mistake them. I, your betrothed husband, the man you love and trust,
ask you, Lillian Earle, who was it you met tonight in your father's
grounds?"
He saw the question strike her as lightning sometimes strikes a fair
tree. The color faded from her lips; a cloud came over the clear,
dove-like eyes; she tried to answer, but the words died away in a faint
murmur.
"Do you deny that you were there?" he asked. "Remember, I saw you, and
I saw him. Do you deny it?"
"No," she replied.
"Who was it?" he cried; and his eyes flamed so angrily upon her that
she was afraid. "Tell me who it was. I will follow him to the world's
end. Tell me."
"I can not, Lionel," she whispered; "I can not. For pity's sake, keep
my secret!"
"You need not be afraid," he said, haughtily. "I shall not betray you
to Lord Earle. Let him find out for himself what you are, as I have
done. I could curse myself for my own trust. Who is he?"
"I can not tell you," she stammered, and he saw her little white hands
wrung together in agony. "Oh, Lionel, trust me--do not be angry with
me."
"You can not expect me," he said, although he was softened by the sight
of her sorrow, "to know of such an action and not to speak of it,
Lillian. If you can explain it, do so. If the man was an old lover of
yours, tell me so; in time I may forget the deceit, if you are frank
with me now. If there be any circumstance that extenuates or explains
what you did, tell it to me now."
"I can not," she said, and her fair face drooped sadly away from him.
"That I quite believe," he continued, bitterly. "You can not and will
not. You know the alternative, I suppose?"
The gentle eyes were raised to his in mute, appealing sorrow, but she
spoke not.
"Tell me now," he said, "whom it was you stole out of the house to
meet--why you met him? Be frank with me; and, if it was but girlish
nonsense, in time I may pardon you. If you refuse to tell me, I shall
leave Earlescourt, and never look upon your false, fair face again."
She buried her face in her hands, and he heard a low moan of sorrow
come from her white lips.
"Will you tell me, Lillian?" he asked again--and he never forgot the
deadly anguish of the face turned toward him.
"I can not," she replied; her voice died away, and he thought she was
falling from her chair.
"That is your final decision; you refuse to tell me what, as your
accepted lover, I have a right to know?"
"Trust me, Lionel," she implored. "Try, for the love you bear me, to
trust me!"
"I will never believe in any one again," he said. "Take back your
promise, Lillian Earle; you have broken a true and honest heart, you
have blighted a whole life. Heaven knows what I shall become, drifted
from you. I care not. You have deceived me. Take back your ring. I
will say goodbye to you. I shall not care to look upon your false,
fair face again."
"Oh, Lionel, wait!" she cried. "Give me time--do not leave me so!"
"Time will make little difference," he answered; "I shall not leave the
Hall until tomorrow morning; you can write to me if you wish me to
remain."
He laid the ring upon the table, refusing to notice the trembling,
outstretched hand. He could not refrain from looking back at her as he
quitted the room. He saw the gentle face, so full of deadly sorrow,
with its white quivering lips; and yet he thought to himself, although
she looked stricken with anguish, there was no guilt on the clear, fair
brow.
He turned back from the door and went straight to Lord Earle.
"I shall leave Earlescourt tomorrow," he said, abruptly. "I must go,
Lord Earle; do not press to stay."
"Come and go as you will, Lionel," said Ronald, surprised at the
brusqueness of his manner; "we are always pleased to see you and sorry
to lose you. You will return soon, perhaps?"
"I will write to you in a few days," he replied. "I must say goodbye to
Lady Earle."
She was astounded. Beatrice and Lord Airlie came up to him there was a
general expression of surprise and regret. He, unlike himself, was
brusque, and almost haughty.
Sir Harry and Lady Laurence had gone home. Beatrice, with a vague fear
that something had gone wrong, said she was tired; Lord Airlie said
goodnight; and in a few minutes Lady Helena and her son were left alone.
"What has come over Lionel?" asked Ronald. "Why, mother, how mistaken
I am! Do you know that I quite believed he was falling in love with
Lillian?"
"He did that long ago," replied Lady Helena, with a smile. "Say
nothing about it. Lionel is very proud and impetuous. I fancy he and
Lillian have had some little dispute. Matters of that kind are best
left alone--interference always does harm. He will come back in a few
days; and all be right again. Ronald, there is one question I have
been wishing to ask you--do not be angry if I pain you, my son.
Beatrice will be married soon--do you not intend her mother to be
present at the wedding?"
Lord Earle rose from his chair, and began, as he always did in time of
anxiety, to pace up and down the room.
"I had forgotten her claim," he said. "I can not tell what to do,
mother. It would be a cruel, unmerited slight to pass her over, but I
do not wish to see her. I have fought a hard battle with my feelings,
but I can not bring myself to see her."
"Yet you loved her very much once," said Lady Helena.
"I did," he replied, gently. "Poor Dora."
"It is an awful thing to live at enmity with any one," said Lady
Helena--"but with one's own wife! I can not understand it, Ronald."
"You mistake, mother," he said, eagerly; "I am not at enmity with Dora.
She offended me--she hurt my honor--she pained me in a way I can never
forget."
"You must forgive her some day," replied Lady Earle; "why not now?"
"No," he said, sadly. "I know myself--I know what I can do and what I
can not do. I could take my wife in my arms, and kiss her face--I
could not live with her. I shall forgive her, mother, when all that is
human is dying away from me. I shall forgive her in the hour of death."