CHAPTER VII.
THE RIVAL BEAUTIES.
The neighborhood of Leeholme was essentially an aristocratic one; in fact, Leeholme calls itself a patrician country, and prides itself on its freedom of all manufacturing towns. It is essentially devoted to agriculture, and has rich pasture lands, fertile meadows and luxuriant gardens.
The Aldens of Aldenmere were, perhaps, the oldest family of any. Aldenmere was a magnificent estate; the grounds were more extensive and beautiful than any other in the country. Nature had done her utmost for them; art had not been neglected. The name was derived from a large sheet of water formed by the river Lee—a clear, broad, deep mere, always cool, shaded by large trees, with water lilies lying on its bosom. The great beauty of the place was the mere.
Holme Woods belonged to the estate; they bordered on the pretty, picturesque village of Holme—the whole of which belonged to the lords of Alden—quaint homesteads, fertile farms and broad meadows, well-watered, surrounded the village. Not more than five miles away was the stately and picturesque mansion of Mount Severn, built on the summit of a green, sloping hill. Its late owner, Charles Severn, Esq., had been one of the most eminent statesmen who of late years had left a mark upon the times. He had served his country well and faithfully; he had left a name honored by all who knew it; he had done good in his generation, and when he died all Europe lamented a truly great and famous man.
He had left only one daughter, Clarice Severn, afterward Lady Alden, whose tragical death filled the whole country with gloom. His widow, Mrs. Severn, had been a lady of great energy and activity; but her life had been a very arduous one. She had shared in all her husband’s political enterprises. She had shared his pains and his joys. She had labored with her whole soul; and now that he was dead she suffered from the reaction. Her only wish and desire was for quiet and repose; the whole life of her life was centered on her beautiful daughter.
Clarice Severn was but sixteen when her father died. His estate was entailed, and at his widow’s death was to pass into possession of his heir-at-law. But the gifted statesman had not neglected his only child. He had saved a large fortune for her, and Clarice Severn was known as a wealthy heiress.
She was also the belle and beauty par excellence of the country. At all balls and fêtes she was queen. Her brilliant face, lighted by smiles, her winning, haughty grace drawing all eyes, attracting all attention. Wherever she was she reigned paramount. Other women, even if more beautiful, paled into insignificance by her side.
She was very generous, giving with open, lavish hands. Proud in so far as she had a very just appreciation of her own beauty, wealth and importance. She was at times haughty to her equals, but to her inferiors she was ever gentle and considerate, a quality which afterward, when she came to reign at Aldenmere, made her beloved and worshiped by all her servants.
She had faults, but the nature of the woman was essentially noble. What those faults were and what they did for her will be seen during the course of our story.
Mount Severn, even after the death of its accomplished master, was a favorite place of resort. Mrs. Severn did not enjoy much of the quiet she longed for. She would look at her daughter sometimes with a smile, and say:
“It will always be the same until you are married, Clarice; then people will visit you instead of me.”
So, little when she dreamed of the brilliant future awaiting that beautiful and beloved child, did she dream of the tragedy that was to cut that young life so terribly short.
Leeholme Park was the family seat of the Earl of Lorriston, a quiet, easy, happy, prosperous gentleman, who had never known a trouble or shadow of care in his whole life.
“People talk of trouble,” he was accustomed to say; “but I really think half of it is their own making; of course there must be sickness and death, but the world is a bright place in spite of that.”
He was married to the woman he loved; he had a son to succeed him; his estates were large; his fortune vast; he had a young daughter, who made the sunshine and light of his home. What had he to trouble him? He had never known any kind of want, privation, care or trouble; he had never suffered pain or heartache. No wonder he looked around on those nearest and dearest, on his elegant home, his attached friends, and wondered with a smile how people could think the world dull or life dreary. Yet on this kindly, simple, happy man a terrible blow was to fall.
I do not know who could properly describe Lady Hermione Lorriston, the real heroine of our story. It seems to me easier to paint the golden dawn of a summer morning, the transparent beauty of a dewdrop, to put to music the song of the wind or the carol of a bird, or the deep, solemn anthem of the waves, as to describe a character that was full of light and shade, tender as a loving woman, playful as a child, spiritual, poetical, romantic, a perfect queen of the fairies, whose soul was steeped in poetry as flowers are in dew.
By no means a perfect woman, though endowed with woman’s sweetest virtues; she was inclined to be willful, with a delicious grace that no one could resist. She liked to have her own way, and generally managed it in the end. She delighted rather too much in this will of her own. She owned to herself, with meek, pretty contrition, that she was often inclined to be passionate, that she was impatient of control, too much inclined to speak her mind with a certain freedom that was not always prudent.
Yet the worst of Lady Hermione’s faults was that they compelled you to love her, and even to love them, they were so full of charms. When she was quite a little child Lord Lorriston was accustomed to say that the prettiest sight in all the world was Hermione in a passion.
She was completely spoiled by her father, but, fortunately, Lady Lorriston was gifted with some degree of common sense, and exerted a wholesome control over the pet of the household.
The earl’s son and heir, Clement Dane Lorriston, was at college, and Lady Hermione, having no sister of her own, was warmly attached to Clarice Severn.
There were several other families—the Thrings of Thurston, the Gordons of Leyton, and, as may be imagined, with so many young people, there was no inconsiderable amount of love-making and marriage.
Sir Ronald Alden was, without exception, the most popular man in the neighborhood. The late Lord of Aldenmere had never married; to save himself all trouble he adopted his nephew, Ronald, and brought him up as his heir; so that when his time came to reign he was among those with whom he had lived all his life.
He was very handsome, this young lord of Alden. The Alden faces were all very much the same; they had a certain weary, half-contemptuous look; but when they softened with tenderness or brightened with smiles, they were simply beautiful and irresistible.
They were of the high-bred, patrician type—the style of face that has come down to us from the cavaliers and crusaders of old. The only way in which Sir Ronald differed from his ancestors was that he had a mouth like one of the old Greek gods—it would of itself have made a woman almost divinely lovely—it made him irresistible. Very seldom does one see anything like it in real life. A smile from it would have melted the coldest heart—a harsh word have pierced the heart of one who loved him.
He had something of the spirit that distinguished the crusaders; he was brave even to recklessness—he never studied danger; he was proud, stubborn, passionate. A family failing of the Aldens was a sudden impulse of anger that often led them to words they repented of.
So that he was by no means perfect, this young lord of Alden; but it is to be imagined that many people liked him all the better for that.