As he spoke, a burning flush covered her face. She remembered Hugh Fernely. He loved her better for the blush, thinking how pure and guileless she was.

"I fear I shall be a very jealous lover," he continued. "I shall envy everything those beautiful eyes rest upon. Will you ride with me this morning? I want to talk to you about Lynnton--my home, you know. You will be Lady Airlie of Lynnton, and no king will be so proud as I shall."

The breakfast bell rang at last. When Beatrice entered the room, Lady Earle went up to her.

"Your papa has told me the news," she said. "Heaven bless you, and make you happy, dear child!"

Lionel Dacre guessed the state of affairs, and said but little. The chief topic of conversation was the ball, interspersed by many conjectures on the part of Lord Earle as to why the post-bag was so late.

It did not arrive until breakfast was ended. Lord Earle distributed the letters; there were three for Lord Airlie, one to Lady Earle from Dora, two for Lionel, none for Lillian. Lord Earle held in his hand a large common blue envelope.

"Miss Beatrice Earle," he said; "from Brookfield. What large writing!

The name was evidently intended to be seen."

Beatrice took the letter carelessly from him; the handwriting was quite unknown to her; she knew no one in Brookfield, which was the nearest post-town--it was probably some circular, some pet.i.tion for charity, she thought. Lord Airlie crossed the room to speak to her, and she placed the letter carelessly in the pocket of her dress, and in a few minutes forgot all about it.

Lord Airlie was waiting; the horses had been ordered for an early hour.

Beatrice ran upstairs to put on her riding habit, and never gave a thought to the letter.

It was a pleasant ride; in the after-days she looked back upon it as one of the brightest hours she had ever known. Lord Airlie told her all about Lynnton, his beautiful home--a grand old castle, where every room had a legend, every tree almost a tradition.

For he intended to work wonders; a new and magnificent wing should be built, and on one room therein art, skill, and money should be lavished without stint.

"Her boudoir" he said, "should be fit for a queen and for a fairy."

So they rode through the pleasant, sunlit air. A sudden thought struck Beatrice.

"I wonder," she said, "what mamma will think? You must go to see her, Hubert. She dreaded love and marriage so much. Poor mamma!"

She asked herself, with wondering love, what could have happened that her mother should dread what she found so pleasant? Lord Airlie entered warmly into all her plans and wishes. Near the grand suite of rooms that were to be prepared for his beautiful young wife, Lord Airlie spoke of rooms for Dora, if she would consent to live with them.

"I must write and tell mamma today," said Beatrice. "I should not like her to hear it from any one but myself."

"Perhaps you will allow me to inclose a note," suggested Lord Airlie, "asking her to tolerate me."

"I do not think that will be very difficult," laughingly replied his companion.

Their ride was a long one. On their return Beatrice was slightly tired, and went straight to her own room. She wrote a long letter to Dora, who must have smiled at her description of Lord Airlie. He was everything that was true, n.o.ble, chivalrous, and grand. The world did not hold such another. When the letter was finished it was time to dress for dinner.

"Which dress will you wear, miss?" asked the attentive maid.

"The prettiest I have," said the young girl, her bright face glowing with the words she had just written.

What dress could be pretty enough for him? One was found at last that pleased her--a rich, white crepe. But she would wear no jewels--nothing but crimson roses. One lay in the thick coils of her dark hair, another nestled against her white neck, others looped up the flowing skirt.

Beatrice's toilet satisfied her--this, too, with her lover's fastidious taste to please. She stood before the large mirror, and a pleased smile overspread her face as she saw herself reflected therein.

Suddenly she remembered the letter. The morning-dress still hung upon a chair. She took the envelope from the pocket.

"Shall you want me again, Miss Earle?" asked her maid.

"No," replied Beatrice, breaking the seal; "I am ready now."

The girl quitted the room, and Beatrice, standing before the mirror, drew out a long, closely written letter, turning presently, in amazement, to the signature, wondering who could be the writer.

Chapter x.x.xI

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 pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sion.

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 pa.s.sionate 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 n.o.ble-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.