How the Plot Succeeded.
Colonel Mostyn had no longer any reason to complain of his young
kinsman; it was a month since he had been introduced to Lady Amelie, and
he had lived in one long dream. He no longer found the time wearisome,
or longed for something to do. He was in the power of a beautiful and
heartless coquette, who took care that he should not lightly wear her
chains.
He no longer showed any indifference to his evening engagements; to be
with her was the one wish of his life; where she went, he went--to ball,
opera, soiree, concert, fete, to dinners at Richmond, to water-parties;
whoever saw the beautiful Lady Amelie, saw her last victim with her.
Colonel Mostyn began to think that really matters had been carried quite
far enough; all the good he had anticipated was done; he did not wish
evil to follow, and he was beginning to scheme for his young kinsman's
rescue, when he was suddenly summoned to join his regiment, just ordered
abroad, and Basil was left to his fate.
He gave him some parting words of advice, but they fell on deaf ears.
Even had Basil quite understood them, he would have asked how was it
possible for a matter-of-fact, prosaic soldier like Colonel Mostyn, a
man of the world, to understand such transcendental beings as Lady
Amelie and himself.
During the whole of this time, believe me, he had no thought of harm or
wrong; he never dreamed of being in love with Lady Amelie. What was she
to him? His queen, his lode-star, his inspiration to all that was great
and glorious, the Lama to his Petrarch; but of anything less exalted, he
had no notion. Basil Carruthers, with all his eccentricity, would have
shuddered at the bare notion of dishonorable love or sin. He was an
enthusiast, a dreamer, a poet in heart and soul, but he was not the man
to betray a woman; he scorned the notion of such a sin; it was utterly
beneath his lofty nature. How skilfully she managed him! How artfully
she contrived to lead him on, to engage his whole thought, time and
attention, yet never to lose her influence for one moment!
Take a scene from her life and his. A bright, beautiful summer day,
when, with a large party of friends, they had gone down to Richmond.
When dinner was over, and the sweet, soft gloaming lay over the earth,
Lady Amelie left the room, where the guests were lingering over the wine
and grapes, and went out into the balcony that overlooked the green park
and the smooth, clear water.
Seeing that, and feeling tired of the conversation, Basil followed her.
She was leaning over the stone balustrade, and the green foliage
wreathed round the balcony formed a beautiful frame-work for a lovely
picture. He went up to her, and stood in silence by her side.
"How different these two worlds are!" she said. "The world in there, all
heat, noise and frivolity; the world out here, so calm, so grand and
still. Look at the shadow of the trees in the water! Look at the
floating clouds of rose-colored light in the sky!"
But he thought nothing in that outside world so beautiful as she
herself.
"Are you found of German stories?" he asked her, suddenly.
"Yes, some of them. I like the mystery and the spirituality, the poetry
and the romance."
"I read a book of Fouque's last night that charmed me--Minstrel Love. Do
you know it, Lady Amelie?"
"No," she replied; "tell me what it is."
"Only the history of a poet-knight who loved the lofty Lady Alcarda. She
lived with her husband, a German warrior, in an old castle, and the poet
was her knight.
"Do you know, Lady Amelie," he whispered, "that book made me ambitious?"
"Of what?" she asked.
"Dare I tell you? The Lady Alcarda was beautiful, gifted, pure of heart
and soul, lofty and spiritual--like you," he added, passionately, "and
she accepted the poet's service--she made him her knight."
"There are no knights in these days," she said, half sadly.
"Ah! let me prove to you that you are wrong. You are like Lady Alcarda.
Let me be your knight. I would be content to serve you in all chivalry,
and in all honor, until death, if you would reward me with a kind word
and a smile."
His handsome young face looked so eager, so wistful, that the coquette's
heart smote her for one half moment. Knowing what was before him, was it
not too cruel to lead him on? But the short-lived feeling of compunction
soon died. She bent her head and the perfume of the flowers she carried
reached him.
"Would you be my knight?" she said; "would you go through danger and
peril to serve me?"
"I would die for you," he replied, simply; "quite content, if you smiled
on me as I died."
"Do you mean it, without any romance or nonsense? Seriously, would you,
to serve me?"
"Yes: and count all loss as gain."
"Then you shall be my knight, my friend. I am not a queen. I have no
sword to lay on your shoulder, but I place my hand in yours, and I
accept your loyal service."
She laid her white hand in his, and the touch of those slender fingers
thrilled him as nothing had ever done before.
"I am your sovereign liege," she said, with a smile. "If I come to you
in distress you are sworn, remember, to help me. If I require your
service, it is mine."
"Yes," he said; "at all times and at all hours."
"I shall go through life the more happily for knowing that I have so
true and chivalrous a defender," she replied.
And they sat in the flower-wreathed balcony, watching the sun set over
the river, and the simple, dreaming boy believed himself in Paradise.
It seemed to him that the spell was broken when the other guests came
out and joined them. As he could no longer talk to Lady Amelie, he was
content to stand by himself and think over his own happiness. To him it
was like a beautiful page from some old romance, that this lovely lady
should have smiled upon him, and have laid her gracious hand upon him,
calling him her knight. How insufferable the empty talk of the men
around him seemed! Ah, if they knew how he was sworn to do the lady's
service!
It was more than an hour afterward when Lady Lisle was free again; then
he enjoyed the felicity of helping her with her shawls, and of sitting
by her side while they drove home in the moonlight.
Lady Amelie was the very queen of coquettes. In the course of all her
long experience, she had never, through all her flirtations, said one
word too much. But no other woman living could imply so much by a
gesture, a look or an exclamation. One morning Basil had called early,
in the hope of escorting her to an exhibition of paintings. He found her
alone, and while he was talking to her, a gentleman entered the room--a
tall, portly, sensual-looking man, whom Basil disliked at first sight.
Lady Amelie introduced him to her husband, Lord Lisle, who was very
cordial in his greeting.
"Lady Lisle has often spoken of you," he said; "but this is, strange to
say, the first time I have ever had the pleasure of seeing you. I met
your mother, Lady Carruthers, a year ago, and have a most pleasant
recollection of her."
Lord Lisle sat down, and Lady Amelie gave a pretty little sigh,
expressive of her resignation to something unpleasant.
And truly a conversation with Lord Lisle was about as unpleasant a
matter as one could well experience. His language was coarse; his ideas
coarser still. There was very little to redeem it. He mistook slang for
wit, told stories that made his wife shudder, and misbehaved himself as
only such a man can do.
Basil looked at him in dismay. Could it be possible that this man was
the husband of that queen of beauty? What a life for her! No wonder she
looked sad as she sat listening to him! The young man's heart ached for
her.
"Are you engaged this evening?" asked Lord Lisle; "if not, dine with us.
I expect Sir Harry Vere, and he is the most amusing character I know."
He would have refused, but that he met the imploring glance of Lady
Amelie's eyes.
"I will come with pleasure," he replied; and her eyes thanked him.
Then Lord Lisle, thinking he had been most amiable and charming, rose
from his chair and quitted the room. In some vague, indistinct way the
atmosphere seemed clearer after he had gone.
Lady Amelie made no comment; a woman less gifted than herself might have
done so; she merely raised her hands and eyes and gave one deep sigh.
Will you believe me that that sigh meant more than any other woman could
have put into words? It meant "Pity me! see how I am wasted on this boor
of a man! think how uncongenial he is, how wretched I am."
No one could sigh so effectively as Lady Amelie Lisle; thus it was with
difficulty she refrained from smiling. Basil looked so wretchedly
anxious and uncomfortable, she saw that he was longing to say something,
but dare not.
"I shall not be five minutes," she said, with a graceful little smile;
"and then we can spend a long hour with the pictures."