The Coquette's Victim Part 11

Colonel Mostyn began to think that really matters had been carried quite far enough; all the good he had antic.i.p.ated was done; he did not wish evil to follow, and he was beginning to scheme for his young kinsman's rescue, when he was suddenly summoned to join his regiment, just ordered abroad, and Basil was left to his fate.

He gave him some parting words of advice, but they fell on deaf ears.

Even had Basil quite understood them, he would have asked how was it possible for a matter-of-fact, prosaic soldier like Colonel Mostyn, a man of the world, to understand such transcendental beings as Lady Amelie and himself.

During the whole of this time, believe me, he had no thought of harm or wrong; he never dreamed of being in love with Lady Amelie. What was she to him? His queen, his lode-star, his inspiration to all that was great and glorious, the Lama to his Petrarch; but of anything less exalted, he had no notion. Basil Carruthers, with all his eccentricity, would have shuddered at the bare notion of dishonorable love or sin. He was an enthusiast, a dreamer, a poet in heart and soul, but he was not the man to betray a woman; he scorned the notion of such a sin; it was utterly beneath his lofty nature. How skilfully she managed him! How artfully she contrived to lead him on, to engage his whole thought, time and attention, yet never to lose her influence for one moment!

Take a scene from her life and his. A bright, beautiful summer day, when, with a large party of friends, they had gone down to Richmond.

When dinner was over, and the sweet, soft gloaming lay over the earth, Lady Amelie left the room, where the guests were lingering over the wine and grapes, and went out into the balcony that overlooked the green park and the smooth, clear water.

Seeing that, and feeling tired of the conversation, Basil followed her.

She was leaning over the stone bal.u.s.trade, and the green foliage wreathed round the balcony formed a beautiful frame-work for a lovely picture. He went up to her, and stood in silence by her side.

"How different these two worlds are!" she said. "The world in there, all heat, noise and frivolity; the world out here, so calm, so grand and still. Look at the shadow of the trees in the water! Look at the floating clouds of rose-colored light in the sky!"

But he thought nothing in that outside world so beautiful as she herself.

"Are you found of German stories?" he asked her, suddenly.

"Yes, some of them. I like the mystery and the spirituality, the poetry and the romance."

"I read a book of Fouque's last night that charmed me--Minstrel Love. Do you know it, Lady Amelie?"

"No," she replied; "tell me what it is."

"Only the history of a poet-knight who loved the lofty Lady Alcarda. She lived with her husband, a German warrior, in an old castle, and the poet was her knight.

"Do you know, Lady Amelie," he whispered, "that book made me ambitious?"

"Of what?" she asked.

"Dare I tell you? The Lady Alcarda was beautiful, gifted, pure of heart and soul, lofty and spiritual--like you," he added, pa.s.sionately, "and she accepted the poet's service--she made him her knight."

"There are no knights in these days," she said, half sadly.

"Ah! let me prove to you that you are wrong. You are like Lady Alcarda.

Let me be your knight. I would be content to serve you in all chivalry, and in all honor, until death, if you would reward me with a kind word and a smile."

His handsome young face looked so eager, so wistful, that the coquette's heart smote her for one half moment. Knowing what was before him, was it not too cruel to lead him on? But the short-lived feeling of compunction soon died. She bent her head and the perfume of the flowers she carried reached him.

"Would you be my knight?" she said; "would you go through danger and peril to serve me?"

"I would die for you," he replied, simply; "quite content, if you smiled on me as I died."

"Do you mean it, without any romance or nonsense? Seriously, would you, to serve me?"

"Yes: and count all loss as gain."

"Then you shall be my knight, my friend. I am not a queen. I have no sword to lay on your shoulder, but I place my hand in yours, and I accept your loyal service."

She laid her white hand in his, and the touch of those slender fingers thrilled him as nothing had ever done before.

"I am your sovereign liege," she said, with a smile. "If I come to you in distress you are sworn, remember, to help me. If I require your service, it is mine."

"Yes," he said; "at all times and at all hours."

"I shall go through life the more happily for knowing that I have so true and chivalrous a defender," she replied.

And they sat in the flower-wreathed balcony, watching the sun set over the river, and the simple, dreaming boy believed himself in Paradise.

It seemed to him that the spell was broken when the other guests came out and joined them. As he could no longer talk to Lady Amelie, he was content to stand by himself and think over his own happiness. To him it was like a beautiful page from some old romance, that this lovely lady should have smiled upon him, and have laid her gracious hand upon him, calling him her knight. How insufferable the empty talk of the men around him seemed! Ah, if they knew how he was sworn to do the lady's service!

It was more than an hour afterward when Lady Lisle was free again; then he enjoyed the felicity of helping her with her shawls, and of sitting by her side while they drove home in the moonlight.

Lady Amelie was the very queen of coquettes. In the course of all her long experience, she had never, through all her flirtations, said one word too much. But no other woman living could imply so much by a gesture, a look or an exclamation. One morning Basil had called early, in the hope of escorting her to an exhibition of paintings. He found her alone, and while he was talking to her, a gentleman entered the room--a tall, portly, sensual-looking man, whom Basil disliked at first sight.

Lady Amelie introduced him to her husband, Lord Lisle, who was very cordial in his greeting.

"Lady Lisle has often spoken of you," he said; "but this is, strange to say, the first time I have ever had the pleasure of seeing you. I met your mother, Lady Carruthers, a year ago, and have a most pleasant recollection of her."

Lord Lisle sat down, and Lady Amelie gave a pretty little sigh, expressive of her resignation to something unpleasant.

And truly a conversation with Lord Lisle was about as unpleasant a matter as one could well experience. His language was coa.r.s.e; his ideas coa.r.s.er still. There was very little to redeem it. He mistook slang for wit, told stories that made his wife shudder, and misbehaved himself as only such a man can do.

Basil looked at him in dismay. Could it be possible that this man was the husband of that queen of beauty? What a life for her! No wonder she looked sad as she sat listening to him! The young man's heart ached for her.

"Are you engaged this evening?" asked Lord Lisle; "if not, dine with us.

I expect Sir Harry Vere, and he is the most amusing character I know."

He would have refused, but that he met the imploring glance of Lady Amelie's eyes.

"I will come with pleasure," he replied; and her eyes thanked him.

Then Lord Lisle, thinking he had been most amiable and charming, rose from his chair and quitted the room. In some vague, indistinct way the atmosphere seemed clearer after he had gone.

Lady Amelie made no comment; a woman less gifted than herself might have done so; she merely raised her hands and eyes and gave one deep sigh.

Will you believe me that that sigh meant more than any other woman could have put into words? It meant "Pity me! see how I am wasted on this boor of a man! think how uncongenial he is, how wretched I am."

No one could sigh so effectively as Lady Amelie Lisle; thus it was with difficulty she refrained from smiling. Basil looked so wretchedly anxious and uncomfortable, she saw that he was longing to say something, but dare not.

"I shall not be five minutes," she said, with a graceful little smile; "and then we can spend a long hour with the pictures."

CHAPTER XII.

Caught in the Snare.