Lord Earle and Hubert Airlie were together. Kindly hearts knew not which to pity the more--the father whose heart seemed broken by his sorrow, or the young lover so suddenly bereft of all he loved best. From far and near friends and strangers gathered to that mournful ceremony; from one to another the story flew how beautiful she was, and how dearly the young lord had loved her, how she had wandered out of the house in her sleep and fallen into the lake.
They laid her to rest in the green church-yard at the foot of the hill--the burial place of the Earles.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The death bell had ceased ringing; the long white blinds of the Hall windows were drawn up; the sunshine played once more in the rooms; the carriages of sorrowing friends were gone; the funeral was over. Of the beautiful, brilliant Beatrice Earle there remained but a memory.
They told afterward how Gaspar Laurence watched the funeral procession, and how he had lingered last of all in the little church-yard. He never forgot Beatrice; he never looked into the face of another woman with love on his own.
It was all over, and on the evening of that same day a quiet, deep sleep came to Lillian Earle. It saved her life; the wearied brain found rest. When she awoke, the lurid light of fever died out of her eyes, and they looked in gratified amazement upon Lady Dora who sat by her side.
"Mamma," she whispered, "am I at home at Knutsford?"
Dora soothed her, almost dreading the time when memory should awaken in full force. It seemed partly to return then, for Lillian gave vent to a wearied sigh, and closed her eyes.
Then Dora saw a little of wild alarm cross her face. She sprang up crying:
"Mamma, is it true? Is Beatrice dead?"
"It is true, my darling," whispered her mother, gently. "Dead, but not lost to us--only gone before."
The young girl recovered very slowly. The skillful doctor in attendance upon her sad that, as soon as it was possible to remove her, she should be carried direct from her room to a traveling carriage, taken from home, and not allowed to return to the Hall until she was stronger and better.
They waited until that day came, and meanwhile Lady Dora Earle learned to esteem Lord Airlie very dearly. He seemed to find more comfort with her than with any one else. They spoke but of one subject--the loved, lost Beatrice.
Her secret was never known. Lord Earle and Lionel Dacre kept it faithfully. No allusion to it ever crossed their lips. To Lord Airlie, while he lived, the memory of the girl he had loved so well was pure and untarnished as the falling snow. Not even to her mother was the story told. Dora believed, as did every one else, that Beatrice had fallen accidentally into the lake.
When Lillian grew stronger--better able to bear the mention of her sister's name--Lord Earle went to her room one day, and, gently enough, tried to win her to speak to him of what she knew.
She told him all--of her sister's sorrow, remorse, and tears; her longing to be free from the wretched snare in which she was caught; how she pleaded with her to interfere. She told him of her short interview with the unhappy man, and its sad consequences for her.
Then the subject dropped forever. Lord Earle said nothing to her of Lionel, thinking it would be better for the young lover to plead his own cause.
One morning, when she was able to rise and sit up for a time, Lionel asked permission to see her. Lady Dora, who knew nothing of what had passed between them, unhesitatingly consented.
She was alarmed when, as he entered the room, she saw her daughter's gentle face grow deathly pale.
"I have done wrong," she said. "Lillian is not strong enough to see visitors yet."
"Dear Lady Dora," explained Lionel, taking her hand, "I love Lillian; and she loved me before I was so unhappy as to offend her. I have come to beg her pardon. Will you trust her with me for a few minutes?"
Lady Dora assented, and went away, leaving them together.
"Lillian," said Lionel, "I do not know in what words to beg your forgiveness. I am ashamed and humbled. I know your sister's story, and all that you did to save her. When one was to be sacrificed, you were the victim. Can you ever forgive me?"
"I forgive you freely," she gently answered. "I have been in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and all human resentment and unkindness seem as nothing to me."
"And may I be to you as I was before?" he asked.
"That is another question," she said. "I can not answer it now.
You did not trust me, Lionel."
Those were the only words of reproach she ever uttered to him.
He did not annoy her with protestation; he trusted that time would do for him what he saw just then he could not do for himself.
He sat down upon the couch by her side, and began to speak to her of the tour she was about to make; of the places she should visit carefully avoiding all reference to the troubled past.
Three days afterward Lillian started on her journey to the south of France insisted upon by the doctor. Lord Earle and his wife took charge of their child; Lord Airlie, declaring he could not yet endure Lynnton, went with them. Lady Helena and Lionel Dacre remained at home, in charge of the Hall and the estate.
One thing the latter had resolved upon--that, before the travelers returned, the lake should be filled up, and green trees planted over the spot where its waters now glistened in the sun.
No matter how great the expense and trouble, he was resolved that it should be done.
"Earlescourt would be wretched," he said, "if that fatal lake remained."
The day after the family left Earlescourt, he had workmen engaged. No one was sorry at his determination. Lady Helena highly approved of it. The water was drained off, the deep basin filled with earth, and tall saplings planted where once the water had glistened in the sun. The boat house was pulled down, and all vestige of the lake was done away with.
Lionel Dacre came home one evening from the works in very low spirits. Imbedded in the bottom of the lake they had found a little slipper--the fellow to it was locked away in Dora's drawer. He saved it to give it to her when she returned.
