The sun shone brightly upon the roses that gleamed in her hair and nestled against the white neck. Could it be lingering in cruel mockery upon the pale face and the dark eyes so full of wild horror? As Beatrice Earle read that letter, the color left even her lips, her heart seemed to stand still, a vague, nameless dread took hold of her, the paper fell from her hands, and with a long, low cry she fell upon her knees, hiding her face in her hands.
It had fallen at last—the cruel blow that even in her dreams and thoughts she had considered impossible. Hugh Fernely had found her out, and claimed her as his own!
This letter, which had stricken joy and beauty from the proud face and left it white and cold almost as the face of the dead was from him; and the words it contained were full of such passionate love that they terrified her. The letter ran as follows:
"My own Beatrice,—From peril by sea and land I have returned to claim you. Since we parted I have stood face to face with death in its most terrible form. Each time I conquered because I felt I must see you again. It is a trite saying that death is immortal. Death itself would not part me from you—nay, if I were buried, and you came to my grave and whispered my name, it seems to me I must hear you.
"Beatrice, you promised to be my wife—you will not fail me? Ah, no, it can not be that the blue heavens above will look on quietly and witness my death blow! You will come to me, and give me a word, a smile to show how true you have been.
"Last evening I wandered round the grounds, wondering which were the windows of my love's chamber, and asking myself whether she was dreaming of me. Life has changed for you since we sat upon the cliffs at Knutsford and you promised to be my wife. I heard at the farm all about the great change, and how the young girl who wandered with me through the bonny green woods is the daughter of Lord Earle. Your home, doubtless, is a stately one. Rank and position like yours might frighten some lovers—they do not daunt me. You will not let them stand between us. You can not, after the promises you uttered.
"Beatrice, my voyage has been a successful one; I am not a rich man, but I have enough to gratify every wish to your heart. I will take you away to sunny lands over the sea where life shall be so full of happiness that you will wish it never to end.
"I wait your commands. Rumor tells me Lord Earl is a strange, disappointed man. I will not yet call upon you at your own home; I shall await your reply at Brookfield. Write at once, Beatrice, and tell me how and when I may meet you. I will go anywhere, at any time. Do not delay—my heart hungers and thirsts for one glance of your peerless face. Appoint an hour soon. How shall I live until it comes? Until then think of me as
"Your devoted lover, Hugh Fernely.
"Address Post Office, Brookfield."
She read every word carefully and then slowly turned the letter over and read it again. Her white lips quivered with indignant passion. How dared he presume so far? His love! Ah, if Hubert Airlie could have read those words! Fernely's love! She loathed him; she hated, with fierce, hot hatred, the very sound of his name. Why must this most wretched folly of her youth rise up against her now? What must she do? Where could she turn for help and counsel?
Could it be possible that this man she hated so fiercely had touched her face and covered her hands with kisses and tears? She struck the little white hands which held the letter against the marble stand, and where Hugh Fernely's tears had fallen a dark bruise purpled the fair skin; white hard, fierce words came from the beautiful lips.
"Was I blind, foolish, mad?" she cried. "Dear Heaven, save me from the fruits of my own folly!"
Then hot anger yielded to despair. What should she do? Look which way she might, there was no hope. If Lord Earle once discovered that she had dealt falsely with him, she would be driven from the home she had learned to love. He would never pardon such concealment, deceit, and folly as hers. She knew that. If Lord Airlie ever discovered that any other man had called her his love, had kissed her face, and claimed her as his own, she would lose his affection. Of that she was also quite sure.
If she would remain at Earlescourt, if she would retain her father's affection and Lord Airlie's love, they must never hear of Hugh Fernely. There could be no doubt on that head.
What should she do with him? Could she buy him off? Would money purchase her freedom? Remembering his pride and his love, she thought not. Should she appeal to his pity—tell him all her heart and life were centered in Lord Airlie? Should she appeal to his love for pity's sake?
Remembering his passionate words, she knew it would be useless. Had she but been married before he returned—were she but Lady Airlie of Lynnton—he could not have harmed her. Was the man mad to think he could win her—she who had had some of the most noble-born men in England at her feet? Did he think she would exchange her grand old name for his obscure one—her magnificence for his poverty.
There was no more time for thought; the dinner bell had sounded for the last time, and she must descend. She thrust the letter hastily into a drawer, and locked it, and then turned to her mirror. She was startled at the change. Surely that pale face, with its quivering lips and shadowed eyes could not be hers. What should she do to drive away the startled fear, the vague dread, the deadly pallor? The roses she wore were but a ghastly contrast.
"I must bear it better," she said to herself. "Such a face as this will betray my secret. Let me feel that I do not care that it will all come right in the end."
She said the words aloud, but the voice was changed and hoarse.
"Women have faced more deadly peril than this," she continued, "and have won. Is there any peril I would not brave for Hubert Airlie's sake?"
Beatrice Earle left the room. She swept, with her beautiful head erect, through the wide corridors and down the broad staircase. She took her seat at the sumptuous table, whereon gold and silver shone, whereon everything recherche and magnificent was displayed. But she had with her a companion she was never again to lose, a haunting fear, a skeleton that was never more to quit her side, a miserable consciousness of folly that was bringing sore wretchedness upon her. Never again was she to feel free from fear and care.
"Beatrice," said Lady Earle when dinner was over, "you will never learn prudence."
She started, and the beautiful bloom just beginning to return, vanished again.
"Do not look alarmed, my dear," continued Lady Helena; "I am not angry. I fear you were out too long today. Lord Airlie must take more care of you; the sun was very hot, and you look quite ill. I never saw you look as you do tonight."
"We had very little sun," replied Beatrice, with a laugh as she tried to make a gay one; "we rode under the shade in the park. I am tired, but not with my ride."
It was a pleasant evening, and when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, the sunbeams still lingered on flower and tree. The long windows were all open, and the soft summer wind that came in was laden with the sweet breath of the flowers.
Lord Airlie asked Beatrice to sing. It was a relief to her; she could not have talked; all the love and sorrow, all the fear and despair that tortured her, could find vent in music. So she sat in the evening gloaming, and Lord Airlie, listening to the superb voice, wondered at the pathos and sadness that seemed to ring in every note.
"What weird music, Beatrice!" he said, at length. "You are singing of love, but the love is all sorrow. Your songs are generally so bright and happy. What has come over you?"
"Nothing," was the reply, but he, bending over her, saw the dark eyes were dim with tears.
"There," cried Lord Airlie, "you see I am right. You have positively sung yourself to tears."
He drew her from the piano, and led her to the large bay window where the roses peeped in. He held her face up to the mellow evening light, and looked gravely into her beautiful eyes.
"Tell me," he said, simply, "what has saddened you, Beatrice you have no secrets from me. What were you thinking of just now when you sang that dreamy 'Lebenwold?' Every note was like a long sigh."
"Shall you laugh if I tell you?" she asked.
"No," he replied; "I can not promise to sigh, but I will not smile."
"I was thinking what I should do if—if anything happened to part us."
"But nothing ever will happen," he said; "nothing can part us but death. I know what would happen to me if I lost you, Beatrice."
"What?" she asked, looking up into the handsome, kindly face.
"I should not kill myself," he said, "for I hold life to be a sacred gift; but I should go where the face of no other woman would smile upon me. Why do you talk so dolefully, Beatrice? Let us change the subject. Tell me where you would like to go when we are married—shall it be France, Italy, or Spain?"
"Would nothing ever make you love me less, Hubert?" she asked. "Neither poverty nor sickness?"
"No," he replied; "nothing you can think of or invent."
"Nor disgrace?" she continued; but he interrupted her half angrily.
"Hush!" he said, "I do not like such a word upon your lips; never say it again. What disgrace can touch you? You are too pure, too good."
She turned from him, and he fancied a low moan came from her trembling lips.
"You are tired, and—pray forgive me, Beatrice—nervous too," said Lord Airlie; "I will be your doctor. You shall lie down here upon this couch. I will place it where you can see the sun set in the west, and I will read to you something that will drive all fear away. I thought during dinner that you looked ill and worn."
Gently enough he drew the couch to the window, Lady Earle watching him the while with smiling face. He induced Beatrice to lie down, and then turned her face to the garden where the setting sun was pleasantly gilding the flowers.
"Now, you have something pleasant to look at," said Lord Airlie, "and you shall have something pleasant to listen to. I am going to read some of Schiller's 'Marie Stuart.'"
He sat at her feet, and held her white hands in his. He read the grand, stirring words that at times seemed like the ring of martial music, and again like the dirge of a soul in despair.
His clear, rich voice sounded pleasantly in the evening calm. Beatrice's eyes lingered on the western sky all aflame, but her thoughts were with Hugh Fernely.
What could she do? If she could but temporize with him, if she could but pacify him, for a time, until she was married, all would be safe. He would not dare to talk of claiming Lady Airlie it would be vain if he did. Besides, she would persuade Lord Airlie to go abroad; and, seeing all pursuit useless, Hugh would surely give her up. Even at the very worst, if Hubert and she were once married, she would not fear; if she confessed all to him, he would forgive her. He might be very angry, but he would pardon his wife. If he knew all about it before marriage, there was no hope for her.
She must temporize with Fernely—write in a style that would convey nothing, and tell him that he must wait. He could not refuse. She would write that evening a letter that should give him no hope, nor yet drive him to despair.
"That is a grand scene, is it not?" said Lord Airlie suddenly; then he saw by Beatrice's startled look that she had not listened.
"I plead guilty at once," she replied. "I was thinking—do not be angry—I was thinking of something that relates to yourself. I heard nothing of what you read, Hubert. Will you read it again?"
"Certainly not," he said, with a laugh of quiet amusement. "Reading does not answer; we will try conversation. Let us resume the subject you ran away from before—where shall we go for our wedding trip?"
Only three days since she would have suggested twenty different places; she would have smiled and blushed, her dark eyes growing brighter at every word. Now she listened to her lover's plans as if a ghostly hand had clutched her heart and benumbed her with fear.
That evening it seemed to Beatrice Earle as though she would never be left alone. In the drawing room stood a dainty little escritoire used by the ladies of Earlescourt. Here she dared not write lest Lord Airlie should, as he often did, linger by her, pretending to assist her. If she went into the library, Lord Earle would be sure to ask to whom she was writing. There was nothing to be done but to wait until she retired to her own room.
First came Lady Earle, solicitous about her health, recommending a long rest and a quiet sleep; then Lillian, full of anxiety, half longing to ask Beatrice if she thought Lionel Dacre handsomer and kinder than any one else; then the maid Suzette, who seemed to linger as though she would never go.
At length she was alone, the door locked upon the outer world. She was soon seated at her little desk, where she speedily wrote the following cold letter, that almost drove Hugh Fernely mad:
"My dear Hugh,—Have you really returned? I thought you were lost in the Chinese Seas, or had forgotten the little episode at Knutsford. I can not see you just yet. As you have heard, Lord Earle has peculiar notions—I must humor them. I will write again soon, and say when and where I can see you. Yours sincerely, Beatrice Earle."
She folded the letter and addressed it as he wished; then she left her room and went down into the hall, where the post-bag lay open upon the table. She placed the missive inside, knowing that no one would take the trouble to look at the letters; then she returned, as she had come, silently.
The letter reached Brookfield at noon the following day. When Hugh Fernely opened it he bit his lips with rage. Cold, heartless lines! Not one word was there of welcome. Not one of sorrow for his supposed death; no mention of love, truth, or fidelity; no promise that she would be his. What could such a letter mean?
He almost hated the girl whom he had loved so well. Yet he could not, would not, believe anything except that perhaps during his long absence she had grown to think less kindly of him. She had promised to be his wife, and let come what might, he would make her keep her word.
So he said, and Hugh Fernely meant it. His whole life was centered in her and he would not tamely give her up.
The letter dispatched, Beatrice awaited the reply with a suspense no words can describe. A dull wonder came over her at times why she must suffer so keenly. Other girls had done what she had done—nay, fifty times worse—and no Nemesis haunted them. Why was this specter of fear and shame to stand by her side every moment and distress her?
It was true it had been very wrong of her to meet this tiresome Hugh Fernely in the pleasant woods and on the sea shore; but it had broken the monotony that had seemed to be killing her. His passionate love had been delicious flattery; still she had not intended anything serious. It had only been a novelty and an amusement to her, although to him perhaps it had been a matter of life or death. But she had deceived Lord Earle. If, when he had questioned her, and sought with such tender wisdom to win her confidence, if she had told him her story then, he would have saved her from further persecution and from the effects of her own folly; if she had told him then, it would not have mattered there would have been no obstacle to her love for Lord Airlie.
It was different now. If she were to tell Lord Earle, after his deliberate and emphatic words, she could expect no mercy; yet, she said to herself, other girls have done even worse, and punishment had not overtaken them so swiftly.
At last she slept, distressed and worn out with thought.
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