Dora Thorne [108]
said Lionel to Lillian, "we may seek refuge in cards; at present music and moonlight are preferable, Lily. You never sing to me; come to the piano now."
But she remembered the dreaded hour was drawing near.
"Pray excuse me," she begged; "I will sing for you presently."
He looked surprised; it was the first time she had ever refused him a favor.
"Shall we finish the folio of engravings?" he asked.
Knowing that, when once she was seated by his side, it would be impossible to get away, she again declined; but this time the fair face flushed, and the sweet eyes drooped.
"How guilty you look," he said. "Is there any mystery on hand? Are you tired of me? Or is there to be another important consultation over the wedding dresses?"
"I have something to attend to," she replied, evasively. "Get the folio ready--I shall not be long."
Beatrice, who had listened to the brief dialogue in feverish suspense, now came to the rescue, asking Lionel to give them the benefit of his clear, ringing tenor in a trio of Mendelssohn's.
"My 'clear, ringing tenor' is quite at your service," he said with a smile. "Lily is very unkind to me tonight."
They went to the piano, where Lord Airlie awaited them; and Lillian, looking at her small, jeweled watch--Lord Earle's present--saw that it wanted three minutes to nine.
She at once quitted the room, unobserved, as she thought; but Lionel saw her go.
No words can tell how distasteful and repugnant was the task she had undertaken. She would have suffered anything almost to have evaded it. She, who never had a secret; she, whose every word and action were open as the day; she, who shrank from all deceit and untruth as from a deadly plague, to be mixed up with a wretched clandestine love affair like this! She, to steal out of her father's house at night, to meet a stranger, and plead her sister's cause with him! The thought horrified her; but the beautiful face in its wild sorrow, the sad voice in its passionate anguish, urged her on.
Lillian went hastily to her own room. She took a large black shawl and drew it closely round her, hiding the pretty evening dress and the rich pearls. Then, with the letter in her hand, she went down the staircase that led from her rooms to the garden.
The night was dark; heavy clouds sailed swiftly across the sky, the wind moaned fitfully, bending the tall trees as it were in anger, then whispering round them as though suing for pardon. Lillian had never been out at night alone before, and her first sensation was one of fear. She crossed the gardens where the autumn flowers were fading; the lights shone gayly from the Hall windows; the shrubbery looked dark and mysterious. She was frightened at the silence and darkness, but went bravely on. He was there. By the gate she saw a tall figure wrapped in a traveling cloak; as she crossed the path, he stepped hastily forward, crying with a voice she never forgot:
"Beatrice, at last you have come!"
"It is not Beatrice," she said, shrinking from the outstretched arms. "I am Lillian Earle. My sister is ill, and has sent you this."
Chapter XXXVI
Hugh Fernely took the letter from Lillian's hands, and read it with a muttered imprecation of disappointment. The moon, which had been struggling for the last hour with a mass of clouds, shone out faintly; by its light Lillian saw a tall man with a dark, handsome face browned with the sun of warm climes, dark eyes that had in them a wistful sadness, and firm lips. He did not look like the gentlemen she was accustomed to. He was polite and respectful. When he heard her name, he took off his hat, and stood uncovered during the interview.
"Wait!" he cried. "Ah, must I wait yet longer? Tell your sister I have waited until my yearning wish to see her is wearing my life away."
"She is really ill,"returned Lillian. "I am alarmed for her. Do not be angry with me if I say she is ill through anxiety and fear."
"Has she sent you to excuse her?" he asked, gloomily. "It is of no use. Your sister is my promised wife, Miss
But she remembered the dreaded hour was drawing near.
"Pray excuse me," she begged; "I will sing for you presently."
He looked surprised; it was the first time she had ever refused him a favor.
"Shall we finish the folio of engravings?" he asked.
Knowing that, when once she was seated by his side, it would be impossible to get away, she again declined; but this time the fair face flushed, and the sweet eyes drooped.
"How guilty you look," he said. "Is there any mystery on hand? Are you tired of me? Or is there to be another important consultation over the wedding dresses?"
"I have something to attend to," she replied, evasively. "Get the folio ready--I shall not be long."
Beatrice, who had listened to the brief dialogue in feverish suspense, now came to the rescue, asking Lionel to give them the benefit of his clear, ringing tenor in a trio of Mendelssohn's.
"My 'clear, ringing tenor' is quite at your service," he said with a smile. "Lily is very unkind to me tonight."
They went to the piano, where Lord Airlie awaited them; and Lillian, looking at her small, jeweled watch--Lord Earle's present--saw that it wanted three minutes to nine.
She at once quitted the room, unobserved, as she thought; but Lionel saw her go.
No words can tell how distasteful and repugnant was the task she had undertaken. She would have suffered anything almost to have evaded it. She, who never had a secret; she, whose every word and action were open as the day; she, who shrank from all deceit and untruth as from a deadly plague, to be mixed up with a wretched clandestine love affair like this! She, to steal out of her father's house at night, to meet a stranger, and plead her sister's cause with him! The thought horrified her; but the beautiful face in its wild sorrow, the sad voice in its passionate anguish, urged her on.
Lillian went hastily to her own room. She took a large black shawl and drew it closely round her, hiding the pretty evening dress and the rich pearls. Then, with the letter in her hand, she went down the staircase that led from her rooms to the garden.
The night was dark; heavy clouds sailed swiftly across the sky, the wind moaned fitfully, bending the tall trees as it were in anger, then whispering round them as though suing for pardon. Lillian had never been out at night alone before, and her first sensation was one of fear. She crossed the gardens where the autumn flowers were fading; the lights shone gayly from the Hall windows; the shrubbery looked dark and mysterious. She was frightened at the silence and darkness, but went bravely on. He was there. By the gate she saw a tall figure wrapped in a traveling cloak; as she crossed the path, he stepped hastily forward, crying with a voice she never forgot:
"Beatrice, at last you have come!"
"It is not Beatrice," she said, shrinking from the outstretched arms. "I am Lillian Earle. My sister is ill, and has sent you this."
Chapter XXXVI
Hugh Fernely took the letter from Lillian's hands, and read it with a muttered imprecation of disappointment. The moon, which had been struggling for the last hour with a mass of clouds, shone out faintly; by its light Lillian saw a tall man with a dark, handsome face browned with the sun of warm climes, dark eyes that had in them a wistful sadness, and firm lips. He did not look like the gentlemen she was accustomed to. He was polite and respectful. When he heard her name, he took off his hat, and stood uncovered during the interview.
"Wait!" he cried. "Ah, must I wait yet longer? Tell your sister I have waited until my yearning wish to see her is wearing my life away."
"She is really ill,"returned Lillian. "I am alarmed for her. Do not be angry with me if I say she is ill through anxiety and fear."
"Has she sent you to excuse her?" he asked, gloomily. "It is of no use. Your sister is my promised wife, Miss