Lord Airlie muttered something that was not a benediction when, on the morning following, Gaspar Laurence made his appearance at Earlescourt.
"We can not receive visitors this morning," said Beatrice, half impatiently. "Mr. Laurence must have forgotten the ball tonight."
But Mr. Laurence had forgotten nothing of the kind. It was a delicious morning, the sun shining brightly and clearly, the westerly breeze blowing fresh and cool. He had thought it likely that the young ladies would spend the morning out-of-doors, and begged permission to join them.
Lady Earle was pleased with the idea. Lord Airlie mentioned something about fatigue, but he was overruled.
"Stroll in the grounds," said Lady Helena; "go down by the lake;
I will join you there afterward. A few hours in the fresh air will be the best preparation for the ball."
They went together. Gaspar's preference soon became apparent he would not leave Beatrice, and Lord Airlie devotedly wished him at the antipodes.
They sat down under the shade of a tall lady-birch, the deep, sunlit lake shining through the trees. Then Gaspar, taking a little book in his hands, asked:
"Have you read 'Undine,' Miss Earle--Fonque's 'Undine?'"
"No," she replied; "I am half ashamed to say so."
"It is the sweetest, saddest story ever written," he continued.
"This is just the morning for it. May I read it to you?"
There was a general and pleased murmur of assent. Lord Airlie muttered to himself that he knew the fellow would air his German sentiment--at their expense.
Still it was very pleasant. There was a gentle ripple on the deep lake, the water washed among the tall reeds, and splashed with a faint, musical murmur on the stones; the thick leafy branches rustled in the wind; the birds sang in the trees.
Gaspar Laurence read well; his voice was clear and distinct; not a word of the beautiful story was lost.
Beatrice listened like one in a dream. Her proud, bright face softened, her magnificent eyes grew tender and half sad. Gaspar read on--of the fair and lovely maiden, of the handsome young knight and his love, of the water sprite, grim old Kuhlehorn, and the cottage where Undine dwelt, of the knight's marriage, and then of proud, beautiful Bertha.
The rippling of the lake and the singing of the birds seemed like an accompaniment to the words, so full of pathos. Then Gaspar came to Bertha's love for the knight--their journey on the river to the huge hand rising and snatching the jewel from Undine's soft fingers, while the knight's love grew cold.
Even the waters of the lake seemed to sob and sigh as Gaspar read on of sweet, sad Undine and of her unhappy love, of Bertha's proud triumph, her marriage with the knight, and the last, most beautiful scene of all--Undine rising from the unsealed fountain and going to claim her love.
"How exquisite!" said Beatrice, drawing a long, deep breath. "I did not know there was such a story in the world. That is indeed a creation of genius. I shall never forget Undine."
Her eyes wandered to the sweet spirituelle face and fair golden hair of her sister. Lionel Dacre's glance followed hers.
"I know what you are thinking of," he said--"Miss Lillian is a perfect Undine. I can fancy her, with clasped hands and sad eyes, standing between the knight and Bertha, or rising with shadowy robes from the open fountain."
"It is a beautiful creation," said Beatrice, gently. "Lillian would be an ideal Undine--she is just as gentle, as fair, as true. I am like Bertha, I suppose; at least I know I prefer my own way and my own will."
"You should give some good artist a commission to paint a picture," said Lord Airlie. "Choose the scene in the boat Undine bending over the water, a dreamy expression on her fair face; Bertha sitting by the knight, proud, bright, and half scornful of her companion. Imagine the transparent water Undine's little hand half lost in it, and the giant fingers clasping hers. I wonder that an artist has never painted that scene."
"Who would do for the knight?" said Beatrice. "Lillian and I will never dispute over a knight."
"Artists would find some difficulty in that picture," said Lillian. "How could one clothe a beautiful ideal like Undine?
Sweeping robes and waving plumes might suit Bertha; but how could one depict Undine?"
"The knight is the difficulty," laughed Lionel.
"Why should we not go out on the lake now?" said Gaspar; "I will row."
"I have been wishing for the last ten minutes," replied Beatrice, "to be upon the lake. I want to put my hand in the water and see what comes."
Gaspar was not long in getting a pleasure boat out of the boat house. Lionel managed to secure a seat near his Undine, and Lord Airlie by his Beatrice.
It was even more pleasant on the water than on the land; the boat moved easily along, the fresh, clear breeze helping it.
"Steer for those pretty water lilies," said Beatrice, "they look so fresh and shining in the sun."
And as they floated over the water, her thoughts went back to that May morning when Lillian sat upon the cliffs and sketched the white far-off sails. How distant it seemed! She longed then for life. Now every sweet gift which life could bestow was here, crowned with love. Yet she sighed as Hugh Fernely's face rose before her. If she could but forget it! After all it had been on her side but a mockery of love. Yet another sigh broke from her lips, and then Lord Airlie looked anxiously at her.
"Does anything trouble you, Miss Earle?" he asked. "I never remember to have seen you so serious before."
She looked for a moment wistfully into his face. Ah, if he could help her, if he could drive this haunting memory from her, if ever it could be that she might tell him of this her trouble and ask him to save her from Hugh Fernely! But that was impossible.
