On my wedding day I will tell Lionel Dacre that the girl he loves is the truest, the noblest, the dearest in the world."
"It is against my better judgment," returned Lillian.
"It is against my conscience, judgment, love, everything," added Beatrice; "but it will save me from cruel ruin and sorrow; and it shall not hurt you, Lily--it shall bring you good, not harm.
Now, try to forget it. He will not know how to atone to you for this. Think of your happiness when he returns."
She drew the golden head down upon her shoulder, and with the charm that never failed, she talked and caressed her sister until she had overcome all objections.
But during the long hours of that night a fair head tossed wearily to and fro on its pillow--a fair face was stained with bitter tears. Lionel Dacre lingered, half hoping that even at the last she would come and bid him stay because she wished to tell him all.
But the last moment came, and no messenger from Lillian brought the longed-for words. He passed out from the Hall. He could not refrain from looking once at the window of her room, but the blind was closely drawn. He little knew or dreamed how and why he would return.
Thursday morning dawned bright and beautiful, as though autumn wished to surpass the glories or summer. Beatrice had not told Lillian when she was going to meet Hugh, partly because she dreaded her sister's anxiety, partly because she did not wish any one to know how long she might be with him; for Beatrice anticipated a painful interview, although she felt sure of triumph in the end.
Lillian was ill and unable to rise; unused to emotion, the strain upon her mind had been too great. When Lady Helena listened to her maid's remarks and went up to see her granddaughter, she forbade her to get up, and Lillian, suffering intensely, was only too pleased to obey.
The breakfast party was a very small one. Lord Earle was absent; he had gone to Holte. Lady Helena hurried away to sit with Lillian. Lord Airlie had been smiling very happily over a mysterious little packet that had come by post. He asked Beatrice if she would go out with him--he had something to show her. They went out into the park, intending to return in time for luncheon.
The morning was bright and calm. Something of the warmth and beauty of the summer lingered still, although the ground was strewn with fallen leaves.
Lord Airlie and Beatrice sat at the foot of the grand old cedar tree whence they would see the distant glimmer of the deep, still lake. The birds sang around them, and the sun shone brightly.
On the beautiful face of Beatrice Earle her lover read nothing but happiness and love.
"I have something here for you, Beatrice," said Lord Airlie, showing her a little packet--"a surprise. You must thank me by saying that what it contains will be more precious to you than anything else on earth."
She opened the pretty case; within it there lay a fine gold chain of exquisite fashion and a locket of marvelous beauty.
She uttered a little cry of surprise, and raised the present in her hands.
"Now, thank me," said Lord Airlie, "in the way I asked."
"What it contains is more precious to me than anything on earth," she said. "You know that, Hubert; why do you make me repeat it?"
"Because I like to hear it," he answered. "I like to see my proud love looking humble for a few minutes; I like to know that I have caged a bright, wild bird that no one else could tame."
"I am not caged yet," she objected.
"Beatrice," said Lord Airlie, "make me a promise. Let me fasten this locket around your neck, and tell me that you will not part with it night or day for one moment until our wedding day."
"I can easily promise that," she said. She bent her beautiful head, and Lord Airlie fastened the chain round her throat.
He little knew what he had done. When Lord Airlie fastened the chain round the neck of the girl he loved, he bound her to him in life and in death.
"It looks charming," he said. "How everything beautiful becomes you, Beatrice! You were born to be a queen--who am I that I should have won you? Tell me over again--I never grow tired of hearing it--do you love me?"
She told him again, her face glowing with happiness. He bent over her and kissed the sweet face; he kissed the little white hands and the rings of dark hair the wind blew carelessly near him.
"When the leaves are green, and the fair spring is come," he said, "you will be my wife, Beatrice--Lady Airlie of Lynnton. I love my name and title when I remember that you will share them.
And you shall be the happiest Lady Airlie that ever lived--the happiest bride, the happiest wife the sun ever shone upon. You will never part with my locket, Beatrice?"
"No," she replied; "never. I will keep it always."
They sat through the long bright hours under the shade of the old cedar tree, while Lillian lay with head and heart aching, wondering in her gentle way why this sorrow should have fallen upon her.
She did not know, as she lay like a pale broken lily, that years ago her father, in the reckless heyday of youth, had wilfully deceived his father, and married against his wish and commands; she did not know how that unhappy marriage had ended in pride, passion, and sullen, jealous temper--while those who should have foreborne went each their own road--the proud, irritated husband abroad, away from every tie of home and duty, the jealous, angry wife secluding herself in the bitterness of her heart--both neglecting the children intrusted to them. She knew how one of those children had gone wrong; she knew the deceit, the misery, the sorrow that wrong had entailed. She was the chief victim, yet the sin had not been hers.
There were no fierce, rebellious feelings in her gentle heart, no angry warring with the mighty Hand that sends crosses and blessings alike. The flower bent by the wind was not more pliant. Where her sorrow and love had cast her she lay, silently enduring her suffering, while Lionel traveled without intermission, wishing only to find himself far away from the young girl he declared he had ceased to love yet could not forget.
