The Bride of the Tomb and Queenie's Part 21

Enjoying the possession of an almost princely fortune, which precluded the need of work, one would have thought him liable to be whirled into the maelstrom of vice and dissipation, and engulfed in its fatal whirlpool forever.

But such was not the case. He was only twenty-three when he met and loved the beautiful Lily Lawrence, and her love had been to him a talisman and safeguard against evil.

Even now, amid the total wreck of all his hopes, and the despair that filled his own being, he was no less the pure-hearted man and perfect gentleman than when the happiness of Lily's love had crowned his life with bliss.

As he stood there on the marble steps he did not note the many admiring glances that fell on him from pa.s.sers-by--the appreciative looks of women whose gaze lingered on the tall, elegant figure and handsome face, nor the approving nod of men who, while they made no endeavor to reach his lofty standard, could yet admire him as a gentleman "_sans peur et sans reproche_."

While he stood thus abstracted a boy approached, and placing in his hand a delicate envelope, scented with heliotrope, turned away.

Lancelot turned the envelope in his hand for a moment in some surprise, for the writing was unfamiliar. In a moment he tore it open, however, and read these few lines on the perfumed sheet:

"MY DEAR FRIEND:--I enclose a list of some new songs which I wish to try. Will you do me the favor to select them for me, and bring them up this afternoon?

"Yours faithfully,

"ETHEL VANCE."

This was a bold move on the part of the fascinating widow. She knew perfectly well that she could have sent the boy to a music store and secured the songs at less trouble than by entrusting the commission to Lancelot Darling.

The young man was aware of the fact also; but in the integrity of his own heart he suspected no art in her, and made an excuse for her in his mind.

"How tender-hearted she is," he thought. "She knows how wretched and forlorn I am, and charitably devises schemes for drawing me away from my gloomy retrospections, and cheering me with her gentle society."

Thus thinking Lancelot turned away and proceeded to execute the widow's commission. And punctually he appeared at Mr. Lawrence's drawing-room that afternoon.

The artful woman was alone, and rose to greet him with a beaming smile of welcome.

She had laid aside her usual dress of half mourning, and appeared in a becoming costume of costly black velvet and cream-colored brocade, profusely trimmed with rich lace. Diamonds twinkled in her ears and on her breast, and a bunch of vivid scarlet roses was fastened in the jetty braids of her beautiful hair.

"It is _so_ kind of you to come," she said, pressing his hand in her soft, pink palm as he bowed before her. "Ada has gone riding with her father, and I am very lonely."

"It is not much kindness on my part," said he, bluntly: "for I am aware that I am not very cheerful company for anyone these days. I only came because you asked me."

"And not at all that you wished to see me," said she, with a very becoming pout of her rich, red lip.

"Oh, pardon my rudeness," said Lance, contritely. "You know I did not mean that. Of course I like to see you. You are very kind to me always.

I meant that I would not presume to inflict my sad countenance and heavy heart upon you unless you insisted I should do so."

"You are very sad, certainly," answered she, with a pensive air.

"Indeed, I sometimes wonder, Lance, that the natural light-heartedness of youth does not begin to a.s.sert itself within you. It is almost five months since your bereavement, and we do not grieve forever for the dead."

"Do we not?" he asked, with a heavy sigh. "Ah, Mrs. Vance, my grief does not lessen with time. My love was deeper than a common love, and my regret will be eternal!"

"That is all romantic nonsense," she answered, impatiently. "It is not the nature of any human creature to cherish the memory of one dead forever. 'Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness; love's presence warm and near.' You will be happy again, Lance, and you will love again."

"You judge me wrongly, Mrs. Vance, and under-rate the constancy of a heart like mine. You used a quotation just now, Permit me to reply with another one."

In a voice like saddest music he repeated those exquisite lines from Leigh Hunt:

"The world buds every year, But the heart, just once, and when The blossom falls off sere, No new blossom comes again.

Ah! the rose goes with the wind But the thorns remain behind!"

"Your poetry reminds me of the new songs," said she, dropping the argument. "It was very kind of you to bring them. Will you come to the piano and turn the leaves while I try them?"

"Certainly," he answered, rising and attending her.

It was the hardest thing she could have asked of him, but Lance was very unselfish. He put down the throb of pain that rose at the remembrance of the new songs he and Lily had been wont to practice at the same piano, and turned the leaves with a steady hand while her fingers flew over the keys. But one thing she had asked more than once. It was that he should sing with her. This he always quietly declined to do.

"That is rude of you," she would say, in a voice of chagrin. "Your tenor is so perfectly splendid, why should you refuse?"

"I shall never sing again," he would answer, quietly but firmly, and no persuasion on her part could induce him to change his mind.

It was agony for him to stand there and turn the leaves, looking down upon that dark head instead of the golden one he had been wont to gaze upon so fondly. When the face was lifted with a smile to his, and instead of Lily's soft, blue eyes he met the gaze of the black ones, his heart thrilled with pain. Perhaps she guessed it, but she kept him there all the same, thinking that time would blunt the keenness of his remembrance and teach him to adore the brunette as fondly as he had loved the blonde.

She played at him, she sung at him, lifting her pa.s.sionate glance to his whenever some appropriate sentiment in the song seemed to warrant such expressiveness. Lance never dreamed of the reason for her pantomime. He had seen the same thing practiced by ladies in society. He deemed it a harmless kind of flirting, but never thought of responding to it.

She kept him there perhaps an hour patiently waiting on her pleasure, and pa.s.sing his opinion only as it was called for on the various pieces she was practicing. At last, to his great relief, she grew weary of her amus.e.m.e.nt, and left the piano.

"Come and read to me, Lance," said she, with a pretty tone of proprietorship in him; "I am tired of the music, I do not like the songs. There is not a pa.s.sable one in the whole selection."

She threw herself down half-reclining on a rich divan and settled herself to listen. Lance selected a volume of Tennyson, and seating himself near her, began to read quite at random the celebrated poem of Lady Clara Vere De Vere.

"Lady Clara Vere De Vere, Of me you shall not win renown; You thought to break a country heart For pastime ere you went to town.

At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired; The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired."

"Oh! no more of that," she cried, as he paused after the first verse. "I have never fancied that poem--try something else."

Patiently he turned the leaves and came upon the exquisite little poem of "Edward Gray"--a dainty bit of versification admired by all women.

"This will please her fancy," he thought, and began again:

"Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, 'And have you lost your heart?' she said; 'And are you married yet, Edward Gray?'

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me; Bitterly weeping I turned away: 'Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray.'"

"You need not finish that one," said she, impatiently. "Pray excuse me, Lance, but I do not think you make very pretty selections, or perhaps I am not in the humor for listening. Put the book aside--let us talk instead."

"As you will, fair lady," said he, gallantly. "I shall listen to you with pleasure; but I must warn you that my conversational powers are not great."

"Perhaps the will is wanting," said she, trying hard to repress all signs of vexation. It was terribly hard to lead him on, this frank-spoken young ideal of hers.

"Oh, no," said he, smiling slightly. "It is a real inability for which I ought to be excusable."

"And so you are excusable," said she, with a tender glance. "There are but few things I would not excuse in you, Lance."

"You are very good to say so," he answered, quite gravely. "I am very faulty, I know, and it needs the eyes of a true friend indeed to overlook my manifold imperfections."

"A true friend," she sighed, softly. "Ah! would that I might find such an one."