Captain Greshan sprang forward to lift the flowers which Miss L'Estrange
had dropped.
"Nay," she said, "never mind them. A fresh flower is very nice. A flower
that has once been in the dust has lost its beauty."
There was no trace of pain in the clear voice; it was rich and musical.
Philippa L'Estrange, seated in the bright sunshine, heard the words
that were to her a death-warrant, yet made no sign. "I have not yet met
with my ideal," Lord Arleigh had said.
Captain Gresham picked up some of the fallen flowers.
"A dead flower from your hand, Miss L'Estrange," he observed "is worth a
whole gardenful of living ones from any one else."
She laughed again that sweet musical laugh which seemed to come only
from a happy heart; and then she looked round. The Duchess of Aytoun and
Lord Arleigh were still in deep converse. Miss L'Estrange turned to
Captain Gresham.
"I have been told," she said, "that there are some beautiful white
hyacinths here; they are my favorite flowers. Shall we find them?"
He was only too pleased. She bade a laughing adieu to the duchess, and
smiled at Lord Arleigh. There was no trace of pain or of sadness in her
voice or face. They went away together and Lord Arleigh never even
dreamed that she had heard his remark.
Then the duchess left him, and he sat under the spreading beech alone.
His thoughts were not of the pleasantest nature; he did not like the
general belief in his approaching marriage; it was fair neither to
himself nor to Philippa--yet how was he to put an end to such gossip?
Another idea occurred to him. Could it be possible that Philippa herself
shared the idea? He would not believe it. Yet many things made him pause
and think. She certainly evinced great preference for his society; she
was never so happy as when with him. She would give up any engagement,
any promised gayety or pleasure to be with him. She dressed to please
him; she consulted him on most things; she seemed to identify her
interests with his. But all this might be the result of their old
friendship--it might have nothing to do with love.
Could it be possible that she still remembered the childish nonsense
that had passed between them--that she considered either herself or him
bound by a foolish tie that neither of them had contracted? Could it be
possible that she regarded herself as engaged to him? The bare idea of
it seemed absurd to him; he could not believe it. Yet many little things
that he could not explain to himself made him feel uncomfortable and
anxious. Could it be that she, the most beautiful and certainly the most
popular woman in London, cared so much for him as to hold him by so
slender a tie as their past childish nonsense?
He reproached himself for the thought, yet, do what he would, he could
not drive it away. The suspicion haunted him; it made him miserable. If
it was really so, what was he to do?
He was a gentleman, not a coxcomb. He could not go to this fair woman
and ask her if it was really true that she loved him, if she really
cared for him, if she held him by a tie contracted in childhood. He
could not do it. He had not sufficient vanity. Why should he think that
Philippa, who had some of the noblest men in England at her feet--why
should life think that she would renounce all her brilliant prospects
for him? Yet, if the mistake had really occurred--if she really thought
the childish nonsense binding--if she really believed that he was about
to make her his wife--it was high time that she was undeceived, that she
knew the truth. And the truth was that although he had a great liking, a
kindly affection for her, he was not in love with her. He admired her
beauty--nay, he went further; he thought her the most beautiful woman he
had ever seen, the most gifted, the most graceful. But he was not in
love with her--never would be. She was not his type of woman, not his
ideal. If she had been his sister, he would have loved her
exceedingly--a brotherly affection was what he felt for her.
Yet how could he go to this fair woman with the ungracious words that he
did not love her, and had no thought of marrying her? His face flushed
hotly at the thought--there was something in it against which his whole
manhood rose in hot rebellion Still it must be done; there must be no
such shadow between them as this--there must be no such fatal mistake.
If the report of their approaching marriage were allowed to remain much
longer uncontradicted, why, then he would be in honor compelled to
fulfill public expectations; and this he had no intention, no desire to
do. The only thing therefore was to speak plainly to her.
How he hated the thought! How he loathed the idea! It seemed to him
unmanly, most ignoble--and yet there was no help for it. There was one
gleam of comfort for him, and only one. She was so quick, so keen, that
she would be sure to understand him at once, without his entering into
any long explanation. Few words would suffice, and those words he must
choose as best he could. If it were possible, he would speak to her
to-day--the sooner the better-and then all uncertainty would be ended.
It seemed to him, as he pondered these things, that a cloud had fallen
over the sunshine. In his heart he blamed the folly of that gentle
mother who had been the cause of all this anxiety.
"Such matters are always best left alone," he said to himself, "If I
should ever have children of my own, I will never interfere in their
love affairs."
Think as he would ponder as he would, it was no easy task that lay
before him--to tell her in so many words that he did not love her.
Surely no man had ever had anything so ungracious to do before.
He looked round the grounds, and presently saw her the center of a
brilliant group near the lake. The Duke of Ashwood was by her side, the
_élite_ of the guests had gathered round her. She--beautiful, bright,
animated--was talking, as he could see, with her usual grace and ease.
It struck him suddenly as absurd that this beautiful woman should
care--as people said she did care--for him.
Let him get it all over. He longed to see the bright face shine on him
with sisterly kindness, and to feel himself at ease with her; he longed
to have all misunderstanding done away with.
He went up to the little group, and again the same peculiarity struck
him--they all made way for him--even the Duke of Ashwood, although he
did it with a frown on his face and an angry look in his eyes. Each one
seemed to consider that he had some special right to be by the side of
the beautiful Miss L'Estrange; and she, as usual when he was present,
saw and heard no one else.
It was high time the world was disabused. Did she herself join in the
popular belief? He could not tell. He looked at the bright face; the
dark eyes met his, but he read no secret in them.
"Philippa," he said, suddenly, "the water looks very tempting--would you
like a row?"
"Above everything else," she replied. And they went off in the little
pleasure-boat together.
It was a miniature lake, tall trees bordering it and dipping their green
branches into the water. The sun shone on the feathered spray that fell
from the sculls, the white swans raised their graceful heads as the
little boat passed by, and Philippa lay back languidly, watching the
shadow of the trees. Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to her. She looked
at Lord Arleigh.
"Norman," she said, "let the boat drift--I want to talk to you, and I
cannot while you are rowing."
He rested on his sculls, and the boat drifted under the drooping
branches of a willow-tree. He never forgot the picture that then
presented itself--the clear deep water, the green trees, and the
beautiful face looking at him.
"Norman," she said, in a clear, low voice, "I want to tell you that I
overheard all that you said to the Duchess of Aytoun. I could not help
it--I was so near to you."
She was taking the difficulty into her own hands! He felt most thankful.
"Did you, Philippa? I thought you were engrossed with the gallant
captain."
"Did you really and in all truth mean what you said to her?" she asked.
"Certainly; you know me well enough to be quite sure that I never say
what I do not mean."
"You have never yet seen the woman whom you would ask to be your wife?"
she said.
There was a brief silence, and then he replied:
"No, in all truth, I have not, Philippa."
A little bird was singing on a swaying bough just above them--to the
last day of her life it seemed to her that she remembered the notes. The
sultry silence seemed to deepen. She broke it.
"But, Norman," she said, in a low voice, "have you not seen me?"
He tried to laugh to hide his embarrassment, but it was a failure.
"I have seen you--and I admire you. I have all the affection of a
brother for you, Philippa--" and then he paused abruptly.
"But," she supplied, "you have never thought of making me your wife?
Speak to me quite frankly, Norman."
"No, Philippa, I have not."
"As matters stand between us, they require explanation," she said; and
he saw her lips grow pale. "It is not pleasant for me to have to mention
it, but I must do it. Norman, do you quite forget what we were taught to
believe when we were children--that our lives were to be passed
together?"
"My dearest Philippa, pray spare yourself and me. I did not know that
you even remembered that childish nonsense."
She raised her dark eyes to his face, and there was something in them
before which he shrank as one who feels pain.
"One word, Norman--only one word. That past which has been so much to
me--that past in which I have lived, even more than in the present or
the future--am I to look upon it as what you call nonsense?"
He took her hand in his.
"My dear Philippa," he said, "I hate myself for what I have to say--it
makes me detest even the sound of my own voice. Yet you are right--there
is nothing for us but perfect frankness; anything else would be foolish.
Neither your mother nor mine had any right to try to bind us. Such
things never answer, never prosper. I cannot myself imagine how they,
usually so sensible, came in this instance to disregard all dictates of
common sense. I have always looked upon the arrangement as mere
nonsense; and I hope you have done the same. You are free as air--and so
am I."
She made no answer, but, after a few minutes, when she had regained her
self-possession, she said:
"The sun is warm on the water--I think we had better return;" and, as
they went back, she spoke to him carelessly about the new rage for
garden-parties.
"Does she care or not?" thought Lord Arleigh to himself. "Is she pleased
or not? I cannot tell; the ways of women are inscrutable. Yet a strange
idea haunts me--an uncomfortable suspicion."
As he watched her, there seemed to him no trace of anything but
light-hearted mirth and happiness about her. She laughed and talked; she
was the center of attraction, the life of the _fête_. When he spoke to
her, she had a careless jest, a laughing word for him; yet he could not
divest himself of the idea that there was something behind all this. Was
it his fancy, or did the dark eyes wear every now and then an expression
of anguish? Was it his fancy, or did it really happen that when she
believed herself unobserved, the light died out of her face?
He was uncomfortable, without knowing why--haunted by a vague, miserable
suspicion he could not explain, by a presentiment he could not
understand--compelled against his will to watch her, yet unable to
detect anything in her words and manner that justified his doing so. It
had been arranged that after the _fête_ he should return to Verdun House
with Lady Peters and Philippa. He had half promised to dine and spend
the evening there, but now he wondered if that arrangement would be
agreeable to Philippa. He felt that some degree of restraint had arisen
between them.
He was thinking what excuse he could frame, when Philippa sent for him.
He looked into the fresh young face; there was no cloud on it.
"Norman," she said, "I find that Lady Peters has asked Miss Byrton to
join us at dinner--will you come now? It has been a charming day, but I
must own that the warmth of the sun has tired me."
Her tone of voice was so calm, so unruffled, he could have laughed at
himself for his suspicions, his fears.
"I am quite ready," he replied. "If you would like the carriage ordered,
we will go at once."
He noticed her going home more particularly than he had ever done
before. She was a trifle paler, and there was a languid expression in
her dark eyes which might arise from fatigue, but she talked lightly as
usual. If anything, she was even kinder to him than usual, never
evincing the least consciousness of what had happened. Could it have
been a dream? Never was man so puzzled as Lord Arleigh.
They talked after dinner about a grand fancy ball that Miss Byrton
intended giving at her mansion in Grosvenor Square. She was one of those
who believed implicitly in the engagement between Lord Arleigh and Miss
L'Estrange.
"I have a Waverley quadrille already formed," said Miss Byrton--"that is
_de rigueur_. There could not be a fancy ball without a Waverley
quadrille. How I should like two Shakesperian ones! I thought of having
one from 'As You Like It' and another from 'Romeo and Juliet;' and, Miss
L'Estrange, I wish you would come as _Juliet_. It seems rude even to
suggest a character to any one with such perfect taste as yours--still I
should like a beautiful _Juliet--Juliet_ in white satin, and glimmer of
pearls."
"I am quite willing," returned Philippa. "_Juliet_ is one of my favorite
heroines. How many _Romeos_ will you have?"
"Only one, if I can so manage it," replied Miss Byrton--"and that will
be Lord Arleigh."
She looked at him as she spoke; he shook his head, laughingly.
"No--I yield to no one in reverence for the creations of the great
poet," he said; "but, to tell the truth, I do not remember that the
character of _Romeo_ ever had any great charm for me."
"Why not?" asked Miss Byrton.
"I cannot tell you; I am very much afraid that I prefer _Othello_--the
noble Moor. Perhaps it is because sentiment has not any great attraction
for me. I do not think I could ever kill myself for love. I should make
a sorry _Romeo_, Miss Byrton."
With a puzzled face she looked from him to Miss L'Estrange.
"You surprise me," she said, quickly. "I should have thought _Romeo_ a
character above all others to please you."
Philippa has listened with a smile--nothing had escaped her. Looking up,
she said, with a bright laugh:
"I cannot compliment you on being a good judge of character, Miss
Byrton. It may be perhaps that you have not known Lord Arleigh well
enough. But he is the last person in the world to make a good _Romeo._ I
know but one character in Shakespeare's plays that would suit him."
"And that?" interrogated Lord Arleigh.
"That," replied Philippa, "is _Petruchio_;" and amidst a general laugh
the conversation ended.
Miss Byrton was the first to take her departure. Lord Arleigh lingered
for some little time--he was still unconvinced. The wretched,
half-formed suspicion that there was something hidden beneath Philippa's
manner still pursued him; he wanted to see if she was the same to him.
There was indeed no perceptible difference. She leaned back in her
favorite chair with an air of relief, as though she were tired of
visitors.
"Now let us talk about the _fête_, Norman," she said. "You are the only
one I care to talk with about my neighbors."
So for half an hour they discussed the _fête_, the dresses, the music,
the different flirtations--Philippa in her usual bright, laughing,
half-sarcastic fashion, with the keen sense of humor that was peculiar
to her. Lord Arleigh could not see that there was any effort in her
conversation; he could not see the least shadow on her brightness; and
at heart he was thankful.
When he was going away, she asked him about riding on the morrow just as
usual. He could not see the slightest difference in her manner. That
unpleasant little conversation on the lake might never have taken place
for all the remembrance of it that seemed to trouble her. Then, when he
rose to take his leave, she held out her hand with a bright, amused
expression.
"Good-night, _Petruchio_," she said. "I am pleased at the name I have
found for you."
"I am not so sure that it is appropriate," he rejoined. "I think on the
whole I would rather love a _Juliet_ than tame a shrew."
"It may be in the book of fate that you will do both," she observed; and
they parted, laughing at the idea.
To the last the light shone in her eyes, and the scarlet lips were
wreathed in smiles; but, when the door had closed behind him and she was
alone, the haggard, terrible change that fell over the young face was
painful to see. The light, the youth, the beauty seemed all to fade from
it; it grew white, stricken, as though the pain of death were upon her.
She clasped her hands as one who had lost all hope.
"How am I to bear it?" she cried. "What am I to do?" She looked round
her with the bewildered air of one who had lost her way--with the dazed
appearance of one from beneath whose feet the plank of safety had been
withdrawn. It was all over--life was all over; the love that had been
her life was suddenly taken from her. Hope was dead--the past in which
she had lived was all a plank--he did not love her.
She said the words over and over again to herself. He did not love her,
this man to whom she had given the passionate love of her whole heart
and soul--he did not love her, and never intended to ask her to be his
wife.
Why, she had lived for this! This love, lying now in ruins around her,
had been her existence. Standing there, in the first full pain of her
despair, she realized what that love had been--her life, her hope, her
world. She had lived in it; she had known no other wish, no other
desire. It had been her all and now it was less than nothing.
"How am I to live and bear it?" she asked herself again; and the only
answer that came to her was the dull echo of her own despair.
That night, while the sweet flowers slept under the light of the stars,
and the little birds rested in the deep shade of the trees--while the
night wind whispered low, and the moon sailed in the sky--Philippa
L'Estrange, the belle of the season, one of the most beautiful women in
London, one of the wealthiest heiresses in England, wept through the
long hours--wept for the overthrow of her hope and her love, wept for
the life that lay in ruins around her.
She was of dauntless courage--she knew no fear; but she did tremble and
quail before the future stretching out before her--the future that was
to have no love, and was to be spent without him.
How was she to bear it? She had known no other hope in life, no other
dream. What had been childish nonsense to him had been to her a serious
and exquisite reality. He had either forgotten it, or had thought of it
only with annoyance; she had made it the very corner-stone of her life.
It was not only a blow of the keenest and cruelest kind to her
affections, but it was the cruelest blow her vanity could have possibly
received. To think that she, who had more admirers at her feet than any
other woman in London, should have tried so hard to win this one, and
have failed--that her beauty, her grace, her wit, her talent, should all
have been lavished in vain.
Why did she fail so completely? Why had she not won his love? It was
given to no other--at least she had the consolation of knowing that. He
had talked about his ideal, but he had not found it; he had his own
ideal of womanhood, but he had not met with it.
"Are other women fairer, more lovable than I am?" she asked herself.
"Why should another win where I have failed?"
So through the long hours of the starlit night she lamented the love and
the wreck of her life, she mourned for the hope that could never live
again, while her name was on the lips of men who praised her as the
queen of beauty, and fair women envied her as one who had but to will
and to win.
She would have given her whole fortune to win his love--not once, but a
hundred times over.
It seemed to her a cruel mockery of fate that she who had everything the
world could give--beauty, health, wealth, fortune--should ask but this
one gift, and that it should be refused her.
She watched the stars until they faded from the skies and then she
buried her face in the pillow and sobbed herself to sleep.