She would send him a letter saying she was ill, and begging him to wait yet a little longer. Despite his firm words, she knew he would not refuse it if she wrote kindly. Again came the old hope something might happen in a few days. If not, she must run away; if everything failed and she could not free herself from him, then she would leave home; in any case she would not fall into his hands--rather death than that.
More than once she thought of Gaspar's words. He was so true, so brave--he would have died for her. Ah, if he could but help her, if she could but call him to her aid! In this, the dark hour of her life by her own deed she had placed herself beyond the reach of all human help.
She would write--upon that she was determined; but who would take the letter? Who could she ask to stand at the shrubbery gate and give to the stranger a missive from herself? If she asked such a favor from a servant, she would part with her secret to one who might hold it as a rod of iron over her. She was too proud for that. There was only one in the world who could help her, and that was her sister Lillian.
She shrank with unutterable shame from telling her. She remembered how long ago at Knutsford she had said something that had shocked her sister, and the scared, startled expression of her face was with her still. It was a humiliation beyond all words. Yet, if she could undergo it, there would be comfort in Lillian's sympathy. Lillian would take the letter, she would see Hugh, and tell him she was ill. Ill she felt in very truth.
Hugh would be pacified for a time if he saw Lillian. She could think of no other arrangement. That evening she would tell her sister--there was rest even in the thought.
Long before dinner Lady Helena came in search of Beatrice--it was high time, she said, that orders should be sent to London for her trousseau, and the list must be made out at once.
She sat calmly in Lady Helena's room, writing in obedience to her words, thinking all the time how she should tell Lillian, how best make her understand the deadly error committed, yet save herself as much as she could. Lady Earle talked of laces and embroidery, of morning dresses and jewels, while Beatrice went over in her mind every word of her confession.
"That will do," said Lady Earle, with a smile; "I have been very explicit, but I fear it has been in vain. Have you heard anything I have said, Beatrice?"
She blushed, and looked so confused that Lady Helena said, laughingly:
"You may go--do not be ashamed. Many years ago I was just as much in love myself, and just as unable to think of anything else as you are now."
There was some difficulty in finding Lillian; she was discovered at last in the library, looking over some fine old engravings with Mr. Dacre. He looked up hastily when Beatrice asked her sister to spare her half an hour.
"Do not go, Lily," he said, jestingly; "it is only some nonsense about wedding dresses. Let us finish this folio."
But Beatrice had no gay repartee for him. She looked grave, although she tried to force a smile.
"I can not understand that girl," he said to himself, as the library door closed behind the two sisters. "I could almost fancy that something was distressing her."
"Lily," said Beatrice, "I want you very much. I am sorry to take you from Lionel; you like being with him, I think."
The fair face of her sister flushed warmly.
"But I want you, dear," said Beatrice. "Oh, Lily, I am in bitter trouble! No one can help me but you."
They went together into the little boudoir Beatrice called her own. She placed her sister in the easy lounging chair drawn near the window, and then half knelt, half sat at her feet.
"I am in such trouble, Lily!" she cried. "Think how great it is when I know not how to tell you."
The sweet, gentle eyes looked wonderingly into her own. Beatrice clasped her sister's hands.
"You must not judge me harshly," she said, "I am not good like you, Lily; I never could be patient and gentle like you. Do you remember, long ago, at Knutsford, how I found you one morning upon the cliffs, and told you that I hated my life? I did hate it, Lillian," she continued. "You can never tell how much; its quiet monotony was killing me. I have done wrong; but surely they are to blame who made my life what it was then--who shut me out from the world, instead of giving me my rightful share of its pleasures. I can not tell you what I did, Lily."
She laid her beautiful, sad face on her sister's hands. Lillian bent over her, and whispered how dearly she loved her, and how she would do anything to help her.
"That very morning," she said, never raising her eyes to her sister's face--"that morning, Lily, I met a stranger--a gentleman he seemed to me--and he watched me with admiring eyes.
I met him again, and he spoke to me. He walked by my side through the long meadows, and told me strange stories of foreign lands he had visited--such stories! I forgot that he was a stranger, and talked to him as I am talking to you now. I met him again and again. Nay, do not turn from me; I shall die if you shrink away."
The gentle arms clasped her more closely.
"I am not turning from you," replied Lillian. "I can not love you more than I do now."
"I met him" continued Beatrice, "every day, unknown to every one about me. He praised my beauty, and I was filled with joy; then he talked to me of love, and I listened without anger. I swear to you," she said, "that I did it all without thought; it was the novelty, the flattery, the admiration that pleased me, not he himself, I believe Lily. I rarely thought of him. He interested me; he had eloquent words at his command, and seeing how I loved romance, he told me stories of adventure that held me enchanted and breathless. I lost sight of him in thinking of the wonders he related. They are to blame, Lily, who shut me out from the living world. Had I been in my proper place here at home, where I could have seen and judged people rightly, it would not have happened. At first it was but a pleasant break in a life dreary beyond words; then I looked for the daily meed of flattery and homage. I could not do without it. Lily, will you hold me to have been mad when I tell you the time came when I allowed that man to hold my hands as you are doing, to kiss my face, and win from me a promise that I would be his wife?"
Beatrice looked up then and saw the fair, pitying face almost as white as snow.
"Is it worse than you thought?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," said Lillian; "terrible, irretrievable, I fear!"
