THE STORY OF ELAINE.
Miss Hastings laid down the newspaper, with a quick glance of pleased
surprise.
"I am glad that I came to Omberleigh," she said. "Imagine, Pauline, who
is here. You have heard me speak of the St. Lawrences. I educated Laura
St. Lawrence, and she married well and went to India. Her husband holds
a very high appointment there. Lady St. Lawrence is here with her son,
Sir Vane. I am so pleased."
"And I am pleased for you," responded Pauline, with the new gentleness
that sat so well upon her.
"I must go and see them," continued Miss Hastings. "They are staying at
Sea View. We can soon find out where Sea View is."
"St. Lawrence!" said Pauline, musingly; "I like the name; it has a
pleasant sound."
"They are noble people who bear it," observed Miss Hastings. "Lady St.
Lawrence was always my ideal of a thoroughbred English gentlewoman. I
never heard how it was, but the greater part of their fortune was lost
when Sir Arthur died. He left but this one son, Vane; and, although he
has the title, he has but little to support it with. I know their family
estates were all sold. Lady St. Lawrence has a small fortune of her own;
but it is not much."
Again Pauline repeated the name to herself--"Vane St.
Lawrence!"--thinking there was a sound as of half-forgotten music in it.
That was a name that would have suited the face she had watched on the
sands.
"Vane St. Lawrence!"
Unconsciously to herself she had said the words aloud. Miss Hastings
looked up quickly.
"Did you speak, my dear?" she asked; and Pauline wondered to find her
face suddenly grow warm with a burning blush.
"I think," said Miss Hastings, presently, "that I should like to visit
them at once. Lady St. Lawrence may not be staying long, and I should
never forgive myself if I were to miss her. Will you come with me,
Pauline?"
"Yes, willingly."
She was ready to go anywhere, to do anything, with that great, wonderful
love, that great, grand calm, filling her heart and soul.
For the first time the sight of her own magnificent loveliness pleased
her.
"I may see him again," she thought to herself with almost child-like
simplicity, "and I should like him to think of me."
She took more pains than she had ever taken before; and the picturesque
taste that was part of her character greatly assisted her. Her dress was
of purple silk, plain, rich, and graceful; her hat, with its drooping
purple plume, looked like a crown on the beautiful head. She could no
more help looking royal and queenly than she could help the color of her
eyes and hair. Miss Hastings looked up with a smile of surprise, the
proud face was so wonderfully beautiful--the light that never yet shone
on land or sea was shining on it.
"Why, Pauline," she said, laughing, "Lady St. Lawrence will think I am
taking the Queen of Sheba in disguise! What strange change is coming
over you, child?"
What indeed? Was it the shadow of the love that was to redeem her--to
work wonders in her character? Was it the light that came from the
half-awakening soul? Wiser women than good, kindly, simple-hearted Miss
Hastings might have been puzzled.
They were not long in finding Sea View--a pretty villa a little way out
of the town, standing at the foot of a cliff, surrounded by trees and
flowers--one of the prettiest spots in Omberleigh. They were shown into
the drawing-room, the windows of which commanded a magnificent view of
the sea.
Before they had been there many minutes there entered a fair, gentle,
gracious lady, whose eyes filled with tears as she greeted Miss Hastings
warmly.
"You are like a spirit from the past," she said. "I can see Laura a
little child again as I look at you. Nothing could have pleased me so
much as seeing you."
Then she looked admiringly at the beautiful girl by her side. Miss
Hastings introduced her.
"Miss Darrell," she said, "it seems strange that I should meet you. My
husband in his youth knew Sir Oswald well."
Lady St. Lawrence was just what Miss Hastings had described her--a
thoroughly high-bred English lady. In figure she was tall and upright;
her face had been beautiful in its youth, and was even now comely and
fair; the luxuriant brown hair was streaked here and there with silver.
She wore a dress of rich brocade, with some becoming arrangement of
flowers and lace on her head; she was charming in her lady-like
simplicity and gentleness.
Pauline, knowing that the two ladies would have much to talk about,
asked permission to amuse herself with some books she saw upon the
table.
"They belong to my son," said Lady St. Lawrence, with a smile.
There were Tennyson, Keats, and Byron, and written inside of each, in a
bold, clear hand, was the name "Vane St. Lawrence." Pauline lost herself
again in the sweet story of Elaine, from which she was aroused at
intervals by the repetition of the words--"My son Vane."
She could not help hearing some part of Lady St. Lawrence's confidential
communication, and it was to the effect how deeply she deplored the
blindness of her son, who might marry his cousin Lillith Davenant, one
of the wealthiest heiresses in England. Miss Hastings was all kindly
sympathy.
"It would be such an excellent thing for him," continued Lady St.
Lawrence; "and Lillith is a very nice girl. But it is useless counseling
him; Vane is like his father. Sir Arthur, you know, always would have
his own way."
Pauline began to feel interested in this Vane St. Lawrence, who refused
to marry the wealthy heiress because he did not love her.
"He must be somewhat like me," she said to herself with a smile.
Then the conversation changed, and Lady St. Lawrence began to speak of
her daughter Laura and her children. Pauline returned to Elaine, and
soon forgot everything else.
She was aroused by a slight stir. She heard Lady St. Lawrence say:
"My dear Vane, how you startled me!"
Looking up, she saw before her the same face that had engrossed her
thoughts and fancy!
She was nearer to it now, and could see more plainly the exquisite
refinement of the beautiful mouth, the clear, ardent expression of the
bold, frank eyes, the gracious lines of the clustering hair. Her heart
seemed almost to stand still--it was as though she had suddenly been
brought face to face with a phantom.
He was bending over Lady St. Lawrence, talking eagerly to her--he was
greeting Miss Hastings with much warmth and cordiality. Pauline had
time to recover herself before Lady St. Lawrence remembered her. She had
time to still the wild beating of her heart--to steady her trembling
lips--but the flush was still on her beautiful face and the light in her
eyes when he came up to her.
Lady St. Lawrence spoke, but the words sounded to Pauline as though they
came from afar off; yet they were very simple.
"Miss Darrell," she said, "let me introduce my son to you."
Then she went back to Miss Hastings, eager to renew the conversation
interrupted by the entrance of her son.
What did Sir Vane see in those dark eyes that held him captive? What was
looking at him through that most beautiful face? What was it that seemed
to draw his heart and soul from him, never to become his own again? To
any other stranger he would have spoken indifferent words of greeting
and welcome; to this dark-eyed girl he could say nothing. When souls
have spoken, lips have not much to say.
They were both silent for some minutes; and then Sir Vane tried to
recover himself. What had happened to him? What strange, magic influence
was upon him? Ten minutes since he had entered that room heart-whole,
fancy-free, with laughter on his lips, and no thought of coming fate.
Ten minutes had worked wonders of change; he was standing now in a kind
of trance, looking into the grand depths of those dark eyes wherein he
had lost himself.
They said but few words; the calm and silence that fell over them during
that first interval was not to be broken; it was more eloquent than
words. He sat down by her side; she still held the book open in her
hands. He glanced at it.
"Elaine," he said, "do you like that story?"
She told him "Yes," and, taking the book from her hands, he read the
noble words wherein Sir Lancelot tells the Lily Maid how he will dower
her when she weds some worthy knight, but that he can do no more for
her.
Was it a dream that she should sit there listening to those words from
his lips--she had fancied him Sir Lancelot without stain, and herself
Elaine? There was a sense of unreality about it; she would not have been
surprised at any moment to awake and find herself in the pretty
drawing-room at Marine Terrace--all this beautiful fairy tale a
dream--only a dream. The musical voice ceased at last; and it was to her
as though some charm had been broken.
"Do you like poetry, Miss Darrell?" inquired Sir Vane.
"Yes," she replied; "it seems to me part of myself. I cannot explain
clearly what I mean, but when I hear such grand thoughts read, or when I
read them for myself, it is to me as though they were my own."
"I understand," he responded--"indeed I believe that I should understand
anything you said. I could almost fancy that I had lived before, and had
known you in another life."
Then Lady St. Lawrence said something about Sea View, and they left
fairy-land for a more commonplace sphere of existence.