Dora Thorne [95]
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
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