Lancaster's Choice

"Of course he had—or why should he have gone?" inquired the handsome young fellow, staring at her in amazement.

"I don't know—but I have my suspicions. I half believe that he has run away from me and Lady Adela. If I were quite sure of it, I'd have my revenge," she muttered, irascibly.

"What an old shrew! I don't blame Lancaster for running away. I'm quite sure I should do so, too, if she bullied me as she does Lancaster," said the young fellow to himself, but aloud, he said, with an air of surprise:

"My dear Lady Lancaster, I am sure you wrong my friend. Why should he run away from you, his kind friend, and from the beautiful Lady Adela?"

"Ah, why? I have my suspicions, Lieutenant De Vere, but I shall not impart them to any one—at least not yet. But he has behaved very badly, going off like this. I do not know how to make excuses for him, least of all to Lady Adela. She was jealous last night. I could see that. What will she say now? Clive has been playing fast and loose with me ever since last fall. It can not go on forever. I shall make him understand that."

"Do not be too hard upon him. Give him time, Lady Lancaster. He will not brook harshness, he will break a tight rein and escape from it. You should know that much of all men's natures," said De Vere, pleading for his friend.

"I have not been hard upon him. I have been most patient; but his behavior is inexplicable," cried she. "I have offered a wife and a fortune to him—a beautiful, high-bred, high-born wife, and a splendid fortune—yet he is indifferent to both. All Lady Adela's beauty makes no impression on him. He is barely civil to her. What is the matter with him, Lieutenant De Vere? Is he going to be fool enough to fly in the face of his own good fortune?"

"I hope not," said Lieutenant De Vere, but he looked very anxious. He remembered that "whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad."

Lancaster was mad—mad with love for the beautiful, penniless American girl, Leonora West. De Vere had suspected it all along, he was sure of it now. That song last night had opened his eyes. A pang of bitter, futile jealousy shot through his heart. He believed that his friend was an unacknowledged rival. A vague terror of the end rushed over him. Who would win, Lancaster or himself?

Lady Lancaster came nearer to him—she looked anxiously at him with her small, bead-like black eyes.

"You and Clive are intimate," she said; "you ought to know a great deal about him. Tell me what it is that makes him so blind to his own interests? Is there any one in the way? Is there any woman in the case?"

"I am not in Lancaster's confidence, believe me, Lady Lancaster," he replied. "If there be any woman in the case, he has never told me so. Perhaps you are making a mountain out of a little mole-hill."

She studied him attentively.

"You are his friend. I shall find out nothing from you. I can see that," she said.

"You will never learn anything from me derogatory to his interests—be sure of that," he replied, loyal to his friend in spite of his reawakened jealousy.

"And your own wooing—how does that prosper?" she inquired, with something like a sneer, abruptly changing the subject.

He flushed indignantly.

"You are pleased to jest on delicate subjects, Lady Lancaster," he said, stiffly.

"I beg your pardon," she answered, quickly, "I did not know you were so sensitive, but I assure you that I take a great interest in your love affair."

"Thank you. I understand the origin of your great interest," he answered with a slight smile; and she winced perceptibly. She did not want him to know whither her suspicions tended.

"I dare say you think me a very meddlesome old woman," she said, abruptly; "but you have my best wishes for a successful suit. Miss West is beautiful and accomplished, and with your wealth you can have no difficulty in lifting her to your level."

"She is the most beautiful of women," he answered, forgetting his momentary ill-humor in the pleasure she awoke in him by her artful praise of Leonora.

"And you will lose no time in making her your own? Delays are dangerous," she said, with a subtle meaning in her tone that made his heart beat.

"I know that. But I am a coward; I am almost afraid to ask her for the boon I crave most upon earth," he said, giving her in those few words a glimpse into his full heart.

"Pshaw! you are a coward," said my lady, laughing. "Where is the woman who is going to refuse you with your face and your fortune? You are a prize in the matrimonial market."

"But I want to be accepted for myself, and not for my fortune, Lady Lancaster," he answered, proudly, and yet not without a sense of satisfaction over these worldly advantages of his. It was very pleasant to be his own master, to be able to do as he pleased, to ask no one's leave to marry whom he wished.

Lady Lancaster laughed a very disagreeable laugh.

"As I am such an old woman, you will forgive me for telling you not to be a fool, Lieutenant De Vere," she said. "There are very few men who are married for themselves alone in these days, and, let me add, there are very few who deserve it. The average woman looks out for money and position now. Be sensible, and thank your lucky stars that when you go to court Miss West you can carry a fortune in your hand, as well as a heart."

"What a very disagreeable old woman!" he said to himself, reddening with vexation. "She is full of spleen and venom. I must go out or I shall be tempted to say something sharp to her."

He went, and as he was leaving, she fired a last shot at him:

"Take my advice, and don't delay the proposal, young man. Don't let excessive modesty deter you. Remember that faint heart never won fair lady."

CHAPTER XXXVI

Sitting in the quiet little room of Mrs. West that morning, with the golden sunlight of June shining in through the screen of flowers at the window, the pretty American girl listened to the story of the grande passion told in as eloquent phrases as the young soldier could command—a story as old as the world, but ever sweet and new.

Leonora listened with dewy eyes and flushing cheeks. She knew the value of all that he was offering to her—knew that he was wealthy, that he was heir to a title, that he had a warm, true, manly heart, and that in his affection for her he was running counter to the wishes and desires of all his friends. It was but natural that she should feel proud of his homage. She wished that she might have loved him in return. A sense of shame and embarrassment stole over her at the thought that while he offered her so much she could give him nothing save the calm regard of a friend.

She drew away the hand of which he had possessed himself, and the rich roses mantled her cheeks as she said, gently and sadly:

"I thank you very much for the honor you have done me, and I wish that I could love you, but—"

"But what? Oh, Leonora, you are not going to be cruel to me—you are not going to refuse me?" he cried, anxiously, and he looked so handsome and so ardent that her heart ached for him, and she wished again that she might have loved him, and said yes instead of no to his manly proposal.

"I am very sorry," she said, and the pretty face looked so shy and troubled, that he longed to gather her in his arms and kiss the sweet lips into smiles again. "I am very sorry, and I don't mean to be cruel, Lieutenant De Vere—but I must refuse, because I do not love you."

"Let me teach you," he cried, ardently. "I know I have been too premature. I have asked you to love me too soon; but I have been so afraid of a rival, my darling."

Leonora smiled pensively and bitterly.

"A rival," she said, with a quickly suppressed sigh. "Ah, you need not have feared that! No one would sacrifice anything for my sake but you."

He thought he understood the allusion, and his heart sunk. He gently touched the small hand that lay on her black dress.

"Do not judge any one hardly, Miss West," he said. "There are many who would love you and make sacrifices for you if they had the chance. And you know I should not have to make any sacrifice at all. I am rich in my own right. I could lift you at once from the level you now occupy to one more worthy of you—one you would adorn, and where your beauty and accomplishments would be rated at their full value. Oh, Leonora! do not say no just yet. Let me woo you a little longer—a month, a year. In time you might learn to love me. Let me still hope on. I love you so dearly I can not give you up yet!"

She blushed deeply, and the long lashes drooped over her cheeks, but she answered, firmly:

"It would be very cruel for me to let you keep on hoping like that, Lieutenant De Vere. I could never be yours if you waited months and years. I will tell you the truth. There is"—a gasp—"some one—some one else that I love."

A moment's dead silence. The girl drops her shamed face in her hands. Presently he says huskily, yet with manly courage:

"It is some fortunate suitor you have left in America. Let me congratulate you, Miss West."

But she answers, in a sad, shamed voice:

"No, you need not congratulate me. I am not any happier than you are. He—he does not love me."

"Does not love you? Then he must be a stock or a stone," De Vere says, indignantly.