CHAPTER X.
SIR RONALD’S ERROR.
Perhaps if any man or woman were asked if they were willing to tell a lie they would most indignantly deny it. Perhaps most people, even though they be guilty of some trifling act of deceit or insincerity that can hardly merit a harsher name, would shrink with horror from an actual lie.
Clarice Severn bore the reputation of being very truthful. It would be right to say that she had never deliberately soiled her lips with a willful lie. Little social deceits pass by another name; but there was no doubt that she acted falsehoods. She did all in her power to lead Sir Ronald to believe that Kenelm Eyrle and Lady Hermione were attached to each other. She remembered of old Sir Ronald’s keen, passionate sense of honor, how scrupulously he always avoided any interference with what he believed belonged to another. She knew that if he thought Kenelm loved Lady Hermione he would avoid her.
It was but a feeble chance, yet it was her only one, for she could not disguise from herself that Sir Ronald began to show every sign of deepest interest in Lord Lorriston’s daughter.
Like a mountain torrent her love grew in its force and vehemence; that which opposed it only added to its strength. It was resistless, hurrying her along, with its impulsive, irresistible current; yet do not let her character be misunderstood. She was not capable of anything that the world calls unladylike or wrong; she was not capable of anything unwomanly or forward; that which she wished to win must be won by most gentle means.
There was a picnic in the Lorriston Woods, a species of summer entertainment in which Lady Lorriston took great delight. Near to the keeper’s cottage there was a large, open space of smooth, green grass. Lady Hermione had named it the Fairy Ring, and it never lost the appellation.
All the young people in the neighborhood were there. Sir Ronald thought he had never seen Lady Hermione look so lovely. She never dressed in accordance with the dictates of fashion. “She always looked like a picture.” Higher praise could not be given to any woman.
On this, the day of the picnic, she wore a dress of white, shining material, on which the sunbeams gleamed like gold, made full, so that it fell in flowing folds, and gathered round the white neck. For all ornament she wore a band of black velvet round her white throat, to which was fastened a diamond cross. Her golden hair, in all its waving, luxuriant abundance, lay in beautiful waves, and the graceful head was crowned with a coquettish little hat with a white plume.
A perfect contrast to Clarice, though both were fair. Miss Severn liked magnificence, and her favorite color was blue. On this day she wore a dress of rich blue velvet and a white lace mantle. They generally divided the honors fairly between them. Miss Severn was more easily understood than Lady Hermione. It was not every one who knew the tenderness, the heroism, the poetry hidden beneath the gay, graceful manner. Sir Ronald did.
Lady Hermione could have led a forlorn hope. She would prove to be a heroine, if ever occasion required it, easily as she now dances and sings. Many women have their virtues on the surface; hers were half hidden by lighter charms.
On this bright summer day, when the woods were all aglow with beauty, and the birds filled the air with song, Sir Ronald had almost determined to tell Lady Hermione how dearly he loved her.
“I must see if my queen be propitious,” he said. “In some moods all wooing would be useless. I know how difficult it will be; she will be like some beautiful, strange, bright forest bird that is difficult to catch.”
He was not well versed in the lore of woman’s looks, or he would have read the story told by those sweet, frank eyes, that never met his own, and the fair face turned so coyly away.
When Lady Hermione talked to any one else she was not sparing of her glances, she was not sparing of her bright, defiant words; but with Sir Ronald it was different. She used only monosyllables, and those only when it was necessary. A man better read in woman’s ways would have understood; he did not.
He had looked forward to the picnic with great pleasure.
“We shall be free and easy in the woods,” he thought; “she will not escape me there.”
He asked her for the first dance—she was engaged.
“I do not care about a quadrille,” he said, “but I should like a waltz with you, Lady Hermione.”
She knew in her mind there was nothing she would like so much as a waltz with him; but the natural perversity innate in women came to her now. She looked up at the handsome face, so eloquent with love, the eyes with a love-light shining in them, and she owned to herself that it would be pleasant to have that strong arm thrown around her, and to float with him through fairyland. He looked so tall, so strong, so brave and handsome. Then, to punish herself for the thought, and perhaps with the same delight a cat takes in torturing a mouse, she cast down her eyes and said she was engaged, she feared, for all the waltzes she should be able to dance.
He was forced to be content with the quadrille. Half an hour afterward, lingering under the spreading shade of an oak tree, he saw Miss Severn. Sir Ronald hastened to her. The music was enchanting.
“How can you stand here so quietly, Miss Severn?” he asked. “That music would put a soul even in the leaves of a tree.”
She looked at him with a bright smile.
“The truth is, Sir Ronald, I am forsaken; my partner has forgotten me.”
She looked, still with smiling eyes, to a little group in the small glade—Lady Hermione and Kenelm Eyrle. She would not have told the lie; but her eyes said plainly Kenelm was her partner, and had forgotten her in Lady Hermione’s smiles—a fact that was perfectly untrue, for she was engaged to dance with Captain Langham, who had not forgotten her, but had been suddenly summoned to another part of the grounds.
The impression on Sir Ronald’s mind remained the same. He believed Lady Hermione and Kenelm to be so deeply engrossed in each other as to forget everything else; the consequence of which belief was that he resolved to delay the question he had intended to ask her.
“If Kenelm loves her I will not mar his happiness,” he said to himself, “and yet it seemed to me he liked Miss Severn far the best.”
He remained with Clarice, who rejoiced in the success of her small maneuver. After all, she thought, she had really done no wrong; she had only looked at Mr. Eyrle, and if Sir Ronald chose to misunderstand that look, he must do so—she could not help it.
So easily are misunderstandings brought about. The beauty of that bright summer’s day was all marred for Sir Ronald, because he thought his friend loved the girl whom he himself loved. He did not go near her again until the day was almost ended; and then Lady Hermione in her turn was piqued and would not give him one smile.
Before they parted Lady Lorriston had told Sir Ronald that her daughter’s birthday was on the Wednesday following, and, as it was always kept up with great festivity, she pressed him to spend three days at least at Leeholme Park.
“If you are fond of charades,” she said, “you will be amused, for we really get up some very good ones.”
Sir Ronald was only too delighted, and another act in the tragedy began.