CHAPTER 1 “AT LAST I HAVE MET MY FATE.”
“How ridiculously provoking you can be, Harold!”d
“I do not think my remarks are ridiculous, Elaine.”
“Your society is decidedly unpleasant when your conversation takes this morbid strain,” replied Lady Elaine Seabright.
“I only asked you a natural question, darling,” said Sir Harold Annesley, an anxious light in his blue eyes. “I am your accepted lover—your future husband.”
“And in consequence my life is to be made a burden to me!” the beautiful Elaine exclaimed, pettishly.
“Heaven forbid. Every moment of my waking thoughts shall be devoted to the happiness of my peerless darling!” He pressed her to him in sudden rapture.
“Harold, you foolish fellow, I wish that you were less demonstrative. The people on the lawn will see us. I am sure that papa is looking this way!”
“No, no! We are safe in this bower of beauty,” laughed Sir Harold.
He pressed another kiss upon her ripe lips, and thanked Heaven in his heart for the great gift of this girl’s love.
Two short months before, neither dreamt of the other’s existence. Sir Harold had just returned from an exploring expedition, and his name was mentioned in the papers. He was eulogized for his bravery in forcing a passage to some outlandish place in Africa, and at the risk of his life rescuing a well-meaning but foolish missionary. He had been away from home for five long years, and it was hoped that he would now stay in England for good. He represented a grand old line; he was young, handsome, and wealthy. With all these advantages, it is easy for a man to become popular anywhere.
Lady Elaine Seabright had read this item of news with languid interest, and immediately forgot it. A week later it again recurred to her, for at the county ball she found herself being introduced to Sir Harold Annesley.
She thought that she had never before seen so perfect a man, and he remarked to his companion, Colonel Greyson, an hour later, that she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world.
“Did I not tell you so, Mr. Skeptic?” laughed the colonel. “Lady Elaine has carried all hearts by storm from the hour she was launched upon society. She has had a score of lovers.”
Sir Harold sighed and echoed: “A score of lovers!”
“Yes; all hearts that beat in manly bosoms pay homage to the most beautiful girl in England. But she has come scathless out of the ordeal, and is free as air after two seasons.”
“I am glad of it,” replied Sir Harold; and Colonel Greyson smiled, meaningly.
“Why should you be glad?” he said. “Why should you be glad? A confirmed woman-hater! Beware, Sir Harold!”
The young baronet blushed.
“I am not ashamed to tell you, old friend, that with me it is love at first sight. I have never loved before; I have never breathed words of love into any woman’s ear. At last I have met my fate.”
“Go in and win, my boy. You are worthy of any woman,” the colonel said; then he looked away, adding, “this pleasure is only tempered with one regret.”
“One regret, colonel? I do not understand you. Be frank with me, as you have ever been, my more than father.”
“Boy, are you not aware that your cousin Margaret loves you? I believe that she has worshiped you from her very childhood.”
A shade of annoyance passed over Sir Harold’s face, but it immediately brightened again.
“Of course, Margaret loves me in a cousinly—a sisterly way, but it is nothing more, colonel, I assure you. Besides, I could not marry Margaret Nugent if she were the only choice left to me. I believe that it is wrong for cousins to marry.”
Just then he caught sight of Lady Elaine, and he had eyes for none else.
“Come,” said Greyson, “we must not hide in this recess like a pair of conspirators. You are the lion of the evening, Sir Harold, and people will be inquiring for you.”
They left the conservatory, and a deep sigh, that was almost a sob, fluttered in the scented air. From behind a mass of sub-tropical plants emerged the figure of a woman—young and exquisitely beautiful—a woman with a face that would have sent Titian into ecstasies of delight. She was of medium height, and her form was outlined in graceful, rounded curves. There was not an angle or a movement to offend the eye of an artist. Her face was oval, her lips red and full, her eyes dark and luminous, her hair as black as the raven’s wing. Among the coils of these matchless tresses was a red rosebud; about her snowy throat a necklet of rubies, and her dress was of amber silk.
