Lionel Dacre stood for some minutes stunned with the shock and surprise. He could not be mistaken; unless his senses played him false, it was Lillian Earle whom he had mistaken for a maid meeting her lover. It was Lillian he had believed so pure and guileless who had stolen from her father's home under the cover of night's darkness and silence--who had met in her father's grounds one whom she dared not meet in the light of day.
If his dearest friend had sworn this to Lionel he would not have believed it. His own senses he could not doubt. The faint, feeble moonlight had as surely fallen on the fair face and golden hair of Lillian Earle as the sun shone by day in the sky.
He threw away his cigar, and ground his teeth with rage. Had the skies fallen at his feet he could not have been more startled and amazed. Then, after all, all women were alike. There was in them no truth; no goodness; the whole world was alike. Yet he had believed in her so implicitly--in her guileless purity, her truth, her ******* from every taint of the world. That fair, spirituelle form had seemed to him only as a beautiful casket hiding a precious gem. Nay, still more, though knowing and loving her, he had begun to care for everything good and pure that interested her. Now all was false and hateful.
There was no truth in the world, he said to himself. This girl, whom he had believed to be the fairest and sweetest among women, was but a more skillful deceiver than the rest. His mother's little deceptions, hiding narrow means and straitened circumstances, were as nothing compared with Lillian's deceit.
And he had loved her so! Looking into those tender eyes, he had believed love and truth shone there; the dear face that had blushed and smiled for him had looked so pure and guileless.
How long was it since he had held her little hands clasped within his own, and, abashed before her sweet innocence, had not dared to touch her lips, even when she had promised to love him? How he had been duped and deceived! How she must have laughed at his blind folly!
Who was the man? Some one she must have known years before.
There was no gentleman in Lord Earle's circle who would have stolen into his grounds like a thief by night. Why had he not followed him, and thrashed him within an inch of his life? Why had he let him escape?
The strong hands were clinched tightly. It was well for Hugh Fernely that he was not at that moment in Lionel's power. Then the fierce, hot anger died away, and a passion of despair seized him. A long, low cry came from his lips, a bitter sob shook his frame. He had lost his fair, sweet love. The ideal he had worshiped lay stricken; falsehood and deceit marked its fair form.
While the first smart of pain was upon him, he would not return to the house; he would wait until he was calm and cool. Then he would see how she dared to meet him.
His hands ceased to tremble; the strong, angry pulsating of his heart grew calmer. He went back to the drawing room; and, except that the handsome face was pale even to the lips, and that a strange, angry light gleamed in the frank, kindly eyes, there was little difference in Lionel Dacre.
She was there, bending over the large folio he had asked her to show him; the golden hair fell upon the leaves. She looked up as he entered; her face was calm and serene; there was a faint pink flush on the cheeks, and a bright smile trembled on her features.
"Here are the drawings," she said; "will you look over them?"
He remembered how he had asked her to sing to him, and she refused, looking confused and uneasy the while. He understood now the reason why.
He took a chair by her side; the folio lay upon a table placed in a large room, lighted by a silver lamp. They were as much alone there as though they had been in another room. She took out a drawing, and laid it before him. He neither saw it nor heard what she remarked.
"Lillian," he said, suddenly, "if you were asked what was the most deadly sin a woman could commit, what should you reply?"
"That is a strange question," she answered. "I do not know, Lionel. I think I hate all sin alike."
"Then I will tell you," he said bitterly; "it is false, foul deceit--black, heartless treachery."
She looked up in amazement at his angry tone; then there was for some moments unbroken silence.
"I can not see the drawings," he said; "take them away. Lillian Earle, raise your eyes to mine; look me straight in the face.
How long is it since I asked you to be my wife?"
Her gentle eyes never wavered, they were fixed half in wonder on his, but at his question the faint flush on her cheeks grew deeper.
"Not very long," she replied; "a few days."
"You said you loved me," he continued.
"I do," she said.
"Now, answer me again. Have you ever loved or cared for any one else, as you say you do for me?"
"Never," was the quiet reply.
"Pray pardon the question--have you received the attentions of any lover before receiving mine?"
"Certainly not," she said, wondering still more.
"I have all your affection, your confidence, your trust; you have never duped or deceived me; you have been open, truthful, and honest with me?"
"You forget yourself, Lionel," she said, with gentle dignity;
"you should not use such words to me."
"Answer!" he returned. "You have to do with a desperate man.
Have you deceived me?"
"Never," she replied, "In thought, word, or deed."
"Merciful Heaven!" he cried. "That one can be so fair and so false!"
There was nothing but wonder in the face that was raised to his.
"Lillian," he said, "I have loved you as the ideal of all that was pure and noble in woman. In you I saw everything good and holy. May Heaven pardon you that my faith has died a violent death."
"I can not understand you," she said, slowly. "Why do you speak to me so?"
