CHAPTER XXXIV
It was quite likely that De Vere would see the difference between his lowly born love and the real ladies in the room, as Lady Adela had said, but that he would be disenchanted was quite another matter. There certainly appeared to be no chance of it now. He was charmed with the splendid musical talent she had evinced. He felt a glow of pride in her as if she belonged to him already.
"You have done splendidly," he whispered, as he hung delightedly over her. "There is not a lady in the room who can do half so well."
"Thank you," she replied, demurely. "But you had better give me another piece. I am here to play, not to talk."
He longed to say, "Give me the right to place you on an equality with these women as my wife," but he was afraid to venture yet. Something in her cold, careless manner forbade the thought. He said to himself that he must wait until he knew her longer and had wooed her more. She was not to be lightly won, this beautiful gifted girl. She was proud and sensitive. He would have to bide his time.
So with a smothered sigh he placed before her several pieces, and while she played he stood silently by her side, turning the leaves of her music, and gazing into the beautiful, soulful face, proud and glad in the privilege he enjoyed of being so near her.
When she had played several instrumental pieces brilliantly, he placed another song before her.
"Let me hear if you can sing as well as you can play," he pleaded.
She glanced at the song. It was Longfellow's "Bridge."
"Yes, I will sing it," she said; and again there fell a hush of silence as the sweet and well-trained voice filled the room with its melody. De Vere was fain to acknowledge that she sung as well as she played.
When she had sung the last line she looked up into his face.
"Will you play or sing something now while I rest?" she asked.
"I never knew how unfortunate I was before in having no talent for music," he said, ruefully. "I should like to oblige you so much, but I have no more voice than a raven, Miss West. I will call Lancaster. He can sing like a seraph."
"Oh, pray don't!" she cried; but he had already turned around.
"Lancaster," he called, "won't you come and sing something while Miss West has a breathing-spell?"
He came forward at once. He thought it would be very pleasant to displace De Vere for a moment, to stand by her side and watch her exquisite face and the glancing white hands as they moved over the shining pearl keys.
"Pray do not rise," he said, bending over her, hurriedly; "I will sing, but I shall want you to play my accompaniment."
She bowed silently, and he selected a piece of music and placed it before her. It was that beautiful song, "My Queen."
"He is going to sing to Lady Adela," the girl said to herself, a little disdainfully, but her touch was firm and unfaltering as she struck the chords while Lord Lancaster sung:
"Where and how shall I earliest meet her?
What are the words she first will say?
By what name shall I learn to greet her?
I know not now, but 'twill come some day.
With the self-same sunlight shining upon her,
Streaming down on her ringlets' sheen,
She is standing somewhere, she I would honor,
She that I wait for, my Queen, my Queen!
I will not dream of her tall and stately,
She that I love may be fairy light;
I will not say she should walk sedately,
Whatever she does it will surely be right.
And she may be humble or proud, my lady,
Or that sweet calm that is just between;
But whenever she comes she will find me ready
To do her homage, my Queen, my Queen!
But she must be courteous, she must be holy,
Pure in her spirit, that maiden I love—
Whether her birth be noble or lowly,
I care no more than the angels above.
And I'll give my heart to my lady's keeping,
And ever her strength on mine shall lean;
And the stars shall fall, and the angels be weeping,
Ere I cease to love her, my Queen, my Queen!"
De Vere did not like his friend's selection much. He regretted that he had asked him to sing.
"It sounds like he was singing to her," he said, discontentedly to himself as he watched the couple at the piano. "What does the fellow mean, and what will Lady Adela think?" he wondered; and glancing toward her he saw that she was looking very cross over the top of her fan. Truth to tell, she was very much in doubt whether to appropriate the song to herself.
When the song was ended De Vere, who had lingered jealously near the piano, went up to Leonora's side.
"I thought you were going to rest while some one else sung," he said, reproachfully.
She glanced up with a smile at Lord Lancaster.
"So I was," she replied, lightly, "but Captain Lancaster wished me to play while he sung for Lady Adela. So of course I could not refuse."
Lancaster gazed into her face with amazement. Was she indeed so blind, or did she purposely slight the tribute he had paid to her, and which he had believed she could not fail to understand? Angered and chagrined, he bowed his thanks coldly, and retired from the piano, leaving a fair field for his rival.
He went out through the open window and wandered into the grounds, driven from her presence by the pain of her coldness, her studied indifference. There was a gulf between them that grew wider and wider at every effort he made to bridge it.
"Heaven help me! I am a fool to waste my heart on one who laughs at my love," he said to himself. "I will tear her from my heart. I will never show her again the tenderness of a heart she chooses to trample. She will choose De Vere. That is wise. He is rich, I have nothing but Lancaster. Yet, if she would love me, I could bear poverty without a sigh, deeming myself rich in her affection."
His aimless walk led him to the Magic Mirror, where he had come upon her so suddenly and with such irrepressible joy that night. If only she had listened to him then, she would have known the whole story of that passionate love wherewith he loved her—she did not even care to hear, he said to himself with bitter pain and humiliation as he gazed into the clear pool from which her face had shone on him that night, and fooled him with the love he thought he saw on the lips and in the eyes.
He had always been gay and light-hearted until now, but an hour of profound bitterness came to him to-night alone in the odorous moonlit stillness. The words of Leonora's song seemed to echo in his brain:
"For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear."
"I wish that I could go back to my regiment to-morrow," he thought. "Why should I linger on here, and how will it all end, I wonder? Will De Vere marry Leonora? shall I marry Lady Adela? What will fate do with the tangled thread of our lives, I wonder?"
He went back to the house, and he found that Leonora was gone, and that De Vere had gone over to the fauteuil, and was talking to the earl's daughter. Several of the men had formed a coterie around Lady Lancaster, and were good-naturedly upbraiding her because she had declined to present them to the beautiful musician.
"I could not do it, really," said the dowager. "She is not in our set at all. She is a mere nobody, the dependent niece of my housekeeper."
"Well, but Lancaster and De Vere were quite hand-in-glove with her," objected one.
"A mere accidental acquaintance. She came over from America with them," said the dowager, carelessly.
In fact, she was inwardly raging with vexation. Her clever plan for annihilating Leonora had failed. The girl had appeared to much more advantage than she had expected—had created a sensation, in fact. The men were all in raptures, the women were all angry and jealous, and Leonora's modest withdrawal from the scene as soon as she arose from the piano was felt by all as a relief.
Lieutenant De Vere had gone with her as far as the door. He had held her hand a minute in saying good-night.
"May I come into Mrs. West's room and see you to-morrow?" he asked, with an entreating glance into the bright eyes, and he saw a gleam of mischief shining in them.
"Will Lady Lancaster permit you to do so?" she inquired, demurely.
"Yes," he replied, "I have told her quite frankly the reason why I came to Lancaster Park, and she had nothing to say against it. If you will let me see you to-morrow, I will tell you what I told her," he continued, with his heart beating fast as he gazed at her fresh young beauty.
She was very thoughtful for an instant. She seemed to be making up her mind.
"You must not say no," he said, hastily. "I assure you that Lady Lancaster will have no objection to my doing so, if your aunt will permit me. May I come?"
Leonora raised her eyes gravely to his face.
"Yes, you may come," she answered, and then turned quickly away.
CHAPTER XXXV
The impulses of men in love are as various as their natures. Where one will linger around the fatal charmer and hug his pain, another will fly from
"The cruel madness of love,
The honey of poison-flowers, and all the measureless ill."
Lancaster, being wise, chose the latter part. He had an innate conviction that Leonora would accept Lieutenant De Vere. He did not feel strong enough to witness his friend's happiness just yet. He felt that if he remained he might betray his passion and be laughed at for his pains. He sought safety from himself in ignominious flight.
What was Lady Lancaster's dismay next morning, when she arose to her late breakfast, to find a note awaiting her from that troublesome nephew. She was in a great rage when she read it. She pushed back her dainty, untasted repast, which had been served in the privacy of her own room, and rang her bell violently.
"Present my compliments to Lieutenant De Vere, and ask him to come to me for ten minutes," she said, sharply, to the servant who answered the summons.
He came immediately, full of wonder at this abrupt summons, and found her pacing up and down the floor in a great rage which she did not take any pains to conceal.
"Did you know of any reason Lord Lancaster could have for going up to London this morning?" she asked him, after they had gone through the preliminaries of a hasty good-morning.
"No," he replied, gazing at her in surprise.
"Well, he has gone—did you know that?" she demanded.
"Yes, I heard from his groom that he went at daylight this morning," he replied.
"Here is a note he left for me," she said, angrily. "He says he has been suddenly called away by urgent business—may be detained a week or more, and wishes me to present excuses and regrets to you and the rest of the company."
"I am very sorry he had to go," said the lieutenant.
"But do you believe that he really has business?" she inquired, peevishly.
"Of course he had—or why should he have gone?" inquired the handsome young fellow, staring at her in amazement.
"I don't know—but I have my suspicions. I half believe that he has run away from me and Lady Adela. If I were quite sure of it, I'd have my revenge," she muttered, irascibly.
"What an old shrew! I don't blame Lancaster for running away. I'm quite sure I should do so, too, if she bullied me as she does Lancaster," said the young fellow to himself, but aloud, he said, with an air of surprise:
"My dear Lady Lancaster, I am sure you wrong my friend. Why should he run away from you, his kind friend, and from the beautiful Lady Adela?"
"Ah, why? I have my suspicions, Lieutenant De Vere, but I shall not impart them to any one—at least not yet. But he has behaved very badly, going off like this. I do not know how to make excuses for him, least of all to Lady Adela. She was jealous last night. I could see that. What will she say now? Clive has been playing fast and loose with me ever since last fall. It can not go on forever. I shall make him understand that."
"Do not be too hard upon him. Give him time, Lady Lancaster. He will not brook harshness, he will break a tight rein and escape from it. You should know that much of all men's natures," said De Vere, pleading for his friend.
"I have not been hard upon him. I have been most patient; but his behavior is inexplicable," cried she. "I have offered a wife and a fortune to him—a beautiful, high-bred, high-born wife, and a splendid fortune—yet he is indifferent to both. All Lady Adela's beauty makes no impression on him. He is barely civil to her. What is the matter with him, Lieutenant De Vere? Is he going to be fool enough to fly in the face of his own good fortune?"
"I hope not," said Lieutenant De Vere, but he looked very anxious. He remembered that "whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad."
Lancaster was mad—mad with love for the beautiful, penniless American girl, Leonora West. De Vere had suspected it all along, he was sure of it now. That song last night had opened his eyes. A pang of bitter, futile jealousy shot through his heart. He believed that his friend was an unacknowledged rival. A vague terror of the end rushed over him. Who would win, Lancaster or himself?
Lady Lancaster came nearer to him—she looked anxiously at him with her small, bead-like black eyes.
"You and Clive are intimate," she said; "you ought to know a great deal about him. Tell me what it is that makes him so blind to his own interests? Is there any one in the way? Is there any woman in the case?"
"I am not in Lancaster's confidence, believe me, Lady Lancaster," he replied. "If there be any woman in the case, he has never told me so. Perhaps you are making a mountain out of a little mole-hill."
She studied him attentively.
"You are his friend. I shall find out nothing from you. I can see that," she said.
"You will never learn anything from me derogatory to his interests—be sure of that," he replied, loyal to his friend in spite of his reawakened jealousy.
"And your own wooing—how does that prosper?" she inquired, with something like a sneer, abruptly changing the subject.
He flushed indignantly.
"You are pleased to jest on delicate subjects, Lady Lancaster," he said, stiffly.
"I beg your pardon," she answered, quickly, "I did not know you were so sensitive, but I assure you that I take a great interest in your love affair."
"Thank you. I understand the origin of your great interest," he answered with a slight smile; and she winced perceptibly. She did not want him to know whither her suspicions tended.
"I dare say you think me a very meddlesome old woman," she said, abruptly; "but you have my best wishes for a successful suit. Miss West is beautiful and accomplished, and with your wealth you can have no difficulty in lifting her to your level."
"She is the most beautiful of women," he answered, forgetting his momentary ill-humor in the pleasure she awoke in him by her artful praise of Leonora.
"And you will lose no time in making her your own? Delays are dangerous," she said, with a subtle meaning in her tone that made his heart beat.
"I know that. But I am a coward; I am almost afraid to ask her for the boon I crave most upon earth," he said, giving her in those few words a glimpse into his full heart.
"Pshaw! you are a coward," said my lady, laughing. "Where is the woman who is going to refuse you with your face and your fortune? You are a prize in the matrimonial market."
"But I want to be accepted for myself, and not for my fortune, Lady Lancaster," he answered, proudly, and yet not without a sense of satisfaction over these worldly advantages of his. It was very pleasant to be his own master, to be able to do as he pleased, to ask no one's leave to marry whom he wished.
Lady Lancaster laughed a very disagreeable laugh.
"As I am such an old woman, you will forgive me for telling you not to be a fool, Lieutenant De Vere," she said. "There are very few men who are married for themselves alone in these days, and, let me add, there are very few who deserve it. The average woman looks out for money and position now. Be sensible, and thank your lucky stars that when you go to court Miss West you can carry a fortune in your hand, as well as a heart."
"What a very disagreeable old woman!" he said to himself, reddening with vexation. "She is full of spleen and venom. I must go out or I shall be tempted to say something sharp to her."
He went, and as he was leaving, she fired a last shot at him:
"Take my advice, and don't delay the proposal, young man. Don't let excessive modesty deter you. Remember that faint heart never won fair lady."
CHAPTER XXXVI
Sitting in the quiet little room of Mrs. West that morning, with the golden sunlight of June shining in through the screen of flowers at the window, the pretty American girl listened to the story of the grande passion told in as eloquent phrases as the young soldier could command—a story as old as the world, but ever sweet and new.
Leonora listened with dewy eyes and flushing cheeks. She knew the value of all that he was offering to her—knew that he was wealthy, that he was heir to a title, that he had a warm, true, manly heart, and that in his affection for her he was running counter to the wishes and desires of all his friends. It was but natural that she should feel proud of his homage. She wished that she might have loved him in return. A sense of shame and embarrassment stole over her at the thought that while he offered her so much she could give him nothing save the calm regard of a friend.
She drew away the hand of which he had possessed himself, and the rich roses mantled her cheeks as she said, gently and sadly:
"I thank you very much for the honor you have done me, and I wish that I could love you, but—"
"But what? Oh, Leonora, you are not going to be cruel to me—you are not going to refuse me?" he cried, anxiously, and he looked so handsome and so ardent that her heart ached for him, and she wished again that she might have loved him, and said yes instead of no to his manly proposal.
"I am very sorry," she said, and the pretty face looked so shy and troubled, that he longed to gather her in his arms and kiss the sweet lips into smiles again. "I am very sorry, and I don't mean to be cruel, Lieutenant De Vere—but I must refuse, because I do not love you."
"Let me teach you," he cried, ardently. "I know I have been too premature. I have asked you to love me too soon; but I have been so afraid of a rival, my darling."
Leonora smiled pensively and bitterly.
"A rival," she said, with a quickly suppressed sigh. "Ah, you need not have feared that! No one would sacrifice anything for my sake but you."
He thought he understood the allusion, and his heart sunk. He gently touched the small hand that lay on her black dress.
"Do not judge any one hardly, Miss West," he said. "There are many who would love you and make sacrifices for you if they had the chance. And you know I should not have to make any sacrifice at all. I am rich in my own right. I could lift you at once from the level you now occupy to one more worthy of you—one you would adorn, and where your beauty and accomplishments would be rated at their full value. Oh, Leonora! do not say no just yet. Let me woo you a little longer—a month, a year. In time you might learn to love me. Let me still hope on. I love you so dearly I can not give you up yet!"
She blushed deeply, and the long lashes drooped over her cheeks, but she answered, firmly:
"It would be very cruel for me to let you keep on hoping like that, Lieutenant De Vere. I could never be yours if you waited months and years. I will tell you the truth. There is"—a gasp—"some one—some one else that I love."
A moment's dead silence. The girl drops her shamed face in her hands. Presently he says huskily, yet with manly courage:
"It is some fortunate suitor you have left in America. Let me congratulate you, Miss West."
But she answers, in a sad, shamed voice:
"No, you need not congratulate me. I am not any happier than you are. He—he does not love me."
"Does not love you? Then he must be a stock or a stone," De Vere says, indignantly.
"He is neither," says Leonora, with the pretty pensive smile she has worn throughout their interview. "But let us speak no more of it. I should not have confessed to you only to show you how futile it would be for you to go on loving me. I thought it but justice to you. It may make it easier for you to forget me."
"I shall never do that," he answers, with conviction.
"You think so now, but time will console you," smiling. "I shall be gone out of your life forever in a few weeks."
"Gone?" he echoes, blankly.
"Yes; I am going away in three weeks' time. Aunt West goes with me to America."
He starts.
"Is it possible?"
"Yes, we are going to seek a home in my own land. Bid me bon voyage, Lieutenant De Vere. You are the only friend I have made in England, that is, if I may call you my friend," wistfully.
He gulps down a great sigh of disappointment, regret, and pain, and holds out his hand.
"Yes, I am your friend, if I can not be your lover," he said, manfully.