Only a Girl's Love by Charles Garvice (the rosie project TXT) 📕

to know. He must be asked no questions. Lord Charles brought him. I always loved Charles Guildford."

"So you ought, out of pity," said the earl, grimly, "seeing that your son has almost led him to ruin."

Then the countess fired up.

"There must be no talk of that kind," she said. "You do not want to see him go again? No word must be said unless you want to drive him away. He has been ill."

"I am not surprised," said the earl, still a little grimly, "a man can't lead the life he has been leading and keep his health, moral or physical."

"But that is all past," said the countess confidently. "I feel that is all past. If you do not worry him he will stay, and all will go well."

[246]

"Oh, I won't worry his Imperial Highness," said the earl, with a smile, "that is what you want me to say, I suppose. And the girl—what about her?"

"I don't know," said the countess with all a mother's supreme indifference for the fate of any other than her son. "She is past, too. I am sure of that. How thankful I am that Lenore is here."

"Ah," said the earl who could be sarcastic when he liked. "So she is to be sacrificed as a thank-offering for the prodigal's return, is she? Poor Lenore, I am almost sorry for her. She is too good for him."

"For shame," exclaimed the countess, flushing; "no one is too good for him. And—and she will not deem it a sacrifice."

"No, I suppose not," he said, fumbling at his necktie. "It is well to be born with a handsome face, and a dare-devil temper, because all women love you then, and the best and fairest think it worth while to offer themselves up. Poor Lenore! Well, I'll be civil to his Highness, notwithstanding that he has spent a small fortune in two months, and declined to honor my house with his presence. There," he added, touching her cheek and smiling, "don't be alarmed. We will kill the fatted calf and make merry—till he goes off again."

The countess was satisfied with this, and went down to find Leycester and Lord Charles standing near the fire. Though they had only rented the place for a month, curtains were up on all the doors, and there was a fire in all the sitting-rooms, and in the earl's apartments.

The countess held out her hand to Lord Charles.

"I am very glad to see you, Charlie," she said, with her rare smile. "You can give me a kiss if you like," and Charlie, as he blushed and kissed the white forehead, knew that she was thanking him for bringing her son back to her.

"But we've got to go back at once," he said, with a laugh.

"We can't sit down in this rig out," and he looked ruefully at his riding suit.

The countess shook her head.

"You shall sit down in a smock frock if you like," she said. "But there is no occasion. I have brought Leycester's things down, and—it's not the first time you have borrowed suits from each other, I expect."

"Not by a many!" laughed Lord Charles. "I'll go and dress. Where is Ley?"

Leycester had gone out of the room quietly, and was then sitting beside Lilian, his hand in hers, her head upon his breast.

"You have come back to us, Ley?" she said, caressing his hand. "It has been so long and weary waiting! You will not go again?"

He paused a moment, then he looked at her.

"No," he said, in a low voice. "No, Lil, I shall not go again."

She kissed him, and as she did so, whispered, anxiously:

"And—and—Stella, Ley?"

His face contracted with a frown of pain and trouble.

[247]

"That is all past," he said, using his mother's words; and she kissed him again.

"How thin and worn you look. Oh, Ley!" she murmured, with sorrowful, loving reproach.

He smiled with a touch of bitterness.

"Do I? Well, I will wax fat and grow mirthful for the future," he said, rising. "There is the dinner bell."

"Come to me afterward, Ley," she pleaded, as she let him go, and he promised.

There was to be no fuss, but it was noteworthy that several of Leycester's favorite dishes figured in the menu, and that there was a special Indian curry for Lord Charles.

Leycester did not descend to the dining-room till ten minutes after the time, and the greeting between father and son was characteristic of the two men. The earl put out his thin, white hand, and smiled gravely.

"How do you do, Leycester," he said. "Will you have the Lafitte or the Chateau Margaux? The weather is fine for the time of year."

And Leycester said, quietly:

"I hope you are well, sir. The Margaux, I suppose, Charles? Yes, we have had some good weather."

That was all.

He went to his place and sat down quietly and composedly, as if he had dined with them for months without a break, and as if the papers had not been chronicling his awful doings.

The earl could not suppress a pang of pity as he glanced across at the handsome face and saw how worn and haggard it looked, and he bent his head over his soup with a sigh.

Leycester looked round the table presently, and then turned to the countess.

"Where is Lenore?" he asked.

The countess paused a moment.

"She has rather a bad headache, and begged to be excused," she said.

Leycester bent his head.

"I am sorry," he remarked.

Then the countess talked, and Lord Charles helped her. He was in the best of spirits. The dinner was excellent, and the curry admirable, considering the short notice; and he was delighted with the success of his maneuver. He rattled on in his humorous style, told them all about the hut, and represented that they lived somewhat after the manner of savages.

"Eat our meals with a hunting knife, don't we, Leycester? I hope you'll excuse us if we don't hold our forks properly. I daresay we shall soon get into the way of it again."

All this was very well, and the earl smiled and grew cheerful; but the countess, watching the haggard, handsome face beside her, saw that Leycester was absorbed and pre-occupied. He passed dish after dish, and the Margaux stood beside him almost untouched. She was still anxious and fearful, and as she rose she threw a glance at the earl, half of entreaty, half of command, that he would not "say anything."

[248]

"It is nice to get back to the old wine," said Charlie, leaning back in his chair, and eying his glass with complacent approval. "Whisky and water is a fine drink, but one tires of it; now this——" and he reached the claret jug expressively.

The earl talked of politics and the coming hunting season, and still Leycester was silent, eying the white cloth and fingering the stem of his wine glass.

"Will you hunt this year, Leycester?" said the earl, addressing him at last.

He looked up gravely.

"I don't know, sir; only a day a week if I do."

"We shall go to Leicestershire, of course," said the earl. "I shall have to be up for the season, but you can take charge if you will."

Leycester inclined his head.

"Will you see to the horses?" asked the earl.

Leycester thought a moment.

"I shall only want two," he said; "the rest will be sold."

"Do you mean the stud?" asked the earl, with a faint air of surprise.

"Yes," said Leycester, quietly. "I shall sell them all. I shall not race again."

The earl understood him; the old wild life was to come to an end. But he put in a word.

"Is that wise?" he said.

"I think so," said Leycester. "Quite enough money has been spent. Yes, I shall sell."

"Very well," assented the earl, who could not but agree with the remark respecting money. "After all, I imagine one tires of the turf. I always thought it a great bore."

"So it is—so it is," said Lord Charles, cheerfully. "Everything is a bore."

The earl smiled.

"Not everything," he said. "Leycester, you are not touching the wine," he added, graciously.

Leycester filled his glass and drank it, and then, to Charles' surprise, refilled it, not once only, but twice and thrice, as if he had suddenly become thirsty.

Presently the earl, after vainly pushing the decanter to them, rose, and they followed him into the drawing-room.

The countess sat at her tea-table, and beside her was Lenore. She was rather paler than usual, and the beautiful eyes were of a deep violet under the long sweeping lashes. She was exquisitely dressed, but there was not a single jewel about her; a spray of white orchid nestled on her bosom and shone in her golden hair, showing the exquisite delicacy of the fair face and throat. Leycester glanced at her, but took his cup of tea without a word, and Lord Charles made all the conversation, as at the dinner-table.

Presently Leycester put down his cup and walked to the window, and drawing the curtain aside, stood looking out at the night. There was a flush of color in his face, owing perhaps to the Margaux, and a strange light in his eyes. What did he see in the darkness? Was it the spirit of Stella to whom he had said[249] farewell? He stood wrapt in thought, the buzz of conversation and the occasional laugh of Charlie behind him; then suddenly he turned and went up to the silent figure with the while flower in its bosom and its hair, and sat down beside her.

"Are you better?" he asked.

She just glanced at him, and smiled slowly.

"Yes, I am quite well. It was only a headache."

"Are you well enough to come on to the terrace—there is a terrace, is there not?"

"A balcony."

"Will you come? It is quite warm."

She rose at once, and he took up a shawl and put it round her, and offered her his arm.

She just laid her finger-tips on it, and he led her to the window. She drew back, and smiled over her shoulder.

"It is a capital offence to open a window at night."

"I forgot," he said. "You see, I am so great a stranger, that I fail to remember the habits of my own people. Will you show me the way round?"

"This way," she said; and opening a small door, she took him into a conservatory, and thence to the balcony.

They were silent for a moment or two—he looking at the stars, she with eyes bent to the ground. He was fighting for resolution and determination, she was silently waiting, knowing what was passing in his heart, and wondering, with a throbbing heart, whether her hour of triumph had come.

She had stooped to the very dust to win him, to snatch him from that other girl who had ensnared him; but as she stood now and glanced at him—at the tall, graceful figure, and the handsome face, all the handsomer in her eyes for its haggardness—she felt that she could have stooped still lower if it had been possible. Her heart beat with expectant passion—she longed for the moment when she could rest upon his breast and confess her love. Why did he not speak?

He turned to her at last, and spoke.

"Lenore," he said, and his voice was deep and earnest, almost solemn, "I want to ask you a question. Will you answer me?"

"Ask it," she said, and she raised her eyes to his with a sudden flash.

"When you saw me to-night, when I came in unexpectedly, you were—moved. Was it because you were glad to see me?"

She was silent a moment.

"Is that a fair question?" she murmured.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, Lenore; we will not trifle with each other, you and I. If you were glad to see me, do not hesitate to say so; it is not idle vanity that prompts the question."

She faltered and turned her head away.

"Why will you press me?" she murmured in a low, tremulous voice. "Do you wish to see me ashamed?" Then she turned to him suddenly, and the violet eyes met his with a light of passionate[250] love in their depths. "But I will answer it," she said. "Yes, I was glad."

He was silent for a moment, then he drew closer to her and bent over her.

"Lenore, will you be my wife?"

She did not speak, but looked at him.

"Will you be my wife?" he repeated, almost fiercely; her supreme loveliness was telling upon him; the light in her eyes was sinking to his heart and stirring his pulses. "Tell me, Lenore, do you love me?"

Her head drooped, then she sighed.

"Yes, I love you," she said, and almost imperceptibly swayed toward him.

He took her in his arms, his heart beating, his brain whirling, for the memory of that other love seemed to haunt him even at that moment.

"You love me!" he murmured, hoarsely, looking back on the night