Chapter I: A Perfect Beauty

Hazelmere, June 30, 18--.

Dear Phil--I promised when we were all at home that I would send
for you. We are a gay party, I can tell you--five constitute our
number, and we need only your own jolly self to complete the sextet.
There is pretty Arley Wentworth, my sister’s especial friend and
chum; Fred Vane, Annie’s fiancee, and last, but not least, aside
from your humble servant, my father’s charming ward, the Lady Elaine
Warburton. What shall I say of her?--how give you an idea of her
surpassing loveliness? I will say nothing. I can only quote from
our poet laureate: “Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable! Elaine the
lily-maid,” not of Astolat, but of the house of Mordaunt, and the
daughter not “of a hundred earls,” like the “Lady Clare,” but of the
Duke of Mordaunt, who died abroad about five years ago, having first
committed his only child to the care of my respected paternal, who
was his dearest and most trusted friend. She has been at a convent in
France most of the time since her father’s death, and I have scarcely
seen her since she was a little maid in short clothes; consequently,
I was wholly unprepared for the vision of loveliness which burst upon
my sight, when, on my return from Oxford, I was presented to the
peerless Elaine.

You perceive, old fellow, how it is with me; I have “gone clean
daft.” I see nothing, think of nothing, save a fair, creamy face,
with the faintest flush, like that of a sea-shell, on its rounded
cheeks, while shining bands of gold span the pure, white brow,
beneath which eyes of purple-blue seem to be looking at one through
a golden mist. Then those dainty lips! so sweet, so red, that they
never part with smile or word but they set my heart on fire. She
has a form of faultless symmetry, a hand like a piece of fairest
sculptured marble, and a foot which a fairy might envy.

I said I would not say anything about her, but I’ve written all this
nonsense almost before I knew it. I’m getting decidedly spooney, I’ll
own, but you will not wonder when you see my “lily-maid.” Come down
right away, and we will have gay times for the next month. You will
like Arley Wentworth, who, by the way, is quite an heiress, and just
your style--dark, brilliant, bewitching.

You shall be her cavalier on all occasions. You perceive that I
have done the pairing-off; for I warn you beforehand that I shall
brook no rival for the affections of my peerless Lily of Mordaunt.
I can imagine the curl of amusement, perhaps mingled with something
of scorn, on your handsome lips as you read this, mon ami. You will
remember how indifferent I have always been to the charms of the
gentle sex--you will recall my rank skepticism regarding my ever
losing my heart to any woman, however lovely; but I can’t help
it--it’s all up with me now, though I doubt if the rack would ever
have made me confess as much to any one else. Telegraph when you will
be here, and I will meet you at the station.

Yours ever,
WIL.

Philip Paxton, Esq., a young and rising barrister, sat in his chamber, in Grey’s Inn, one hot, dusty day, when all London seemed gasping for breath, so to speak, and read the above effusion; while his lips did, indeed, curl, but with decided “scorn” rather than with “amusement.”

“I should say he was ‘clean daft,’” he muttered, “poor, foolish Wil!”

“And he will ‘brook no rival for the affections of the fair Elaine!’” he added, a flash of something like defiance for a moment lighting up his dark eyes.

“Bah!” he continued, “the name is enough for me--I never could endure that love-sick tale, where that poor little fool, Elaine, died for love of Lancelot, and the very sound of it is a synonym to me of a sort of milk-and-water beauty, and a weak-minded, silly little girl. Now Arley Wentworth,” he went on, referring to his friend’s letter again, “sounds something like--there is character in it, and, at all events, originality. Let me see, this is Wednesday; I imagine that I can arrange matters and things so that I can run down to Hazelmere on Saturday. I think I’ve earned a rest,” he concluded, with a sigh, while his eyes roved with something of pride over the piles of papers and documents filed so neatly away in the pigeonhole of his great desk, and telling of long days of hard work and well-earned gold.

He took up his pen, and, drawing a sheet of paper toward him, at once wrote a letter of acceptance to the invitation of his friend, and mentioned Saturday afternoon as the time set for his arrival at Hazelmere, the magnificent country seat of Sir Anthony Hamilton, a wealthy baronet, who owned half the township of Horsham, Sussex County, England.

* * * * *

Saturday afternoon, when the half-past four express from London stopped for a moment at the station of Horsham, a tall, well-proportioned young man of about twenty-five, sprang upon the platform and looked about him as if expecting to see some one whom he knew awaiting him.

There was a stately air about him which at once attracted attention, a certain poise of the handsome head, a look of character and decision about his attractive face, a certain gravity and dignity of manner, and a fire in his dark blue eye which impressed the beholder at once with an idea of superiority and power.

And yet, a closer scrutiny of that face by those who were skillful in reading human nature, always engendered a feeling of distrust, as if underneath all that ability, power and culture there was an element which was liable, under certain circumstances, to work mischief for both himself and others.

His clothing was of the finest texture and most fashionable make, yet there was not the least suspicion of the dandy about him; everything was immaculate, yet in perfect taste.

“Aha! here you are, old boy, and now I am happy,” cried a genial voice near by, and the next moment his hand was eagerly taken and heartily shaken by a young man about his own height, but of slighter build, with a frank, laughing face, clear, honest blue eyes, waving auburn hair, and a voice whose heartiness and cordiality rang out like a rich strain of music on the summer air.

This was Wilton, or, as he was more familiarly called, Wil Hamilton, only son of Sir Anthony and heir to his title and large estates.

“If you had disappointed me,” he ran on, in a gay tone, and still shaking the hand that he held, “I should have given you the ‘cut direct’ the next time we met. We are all here after you--the three graces, attended by Fred and myself. Come this way and I’ll introduce you; but, beware!”--with a mock tragic air--“don’t you dare to lift covetous eyes to the fair Elaine, or I shall throw my gauntlet at your feet on the spot. Arley Wentworth, by the way, is on tiptoe to see you; thinks you must be something extra; rather above the common run, you know; for I’ve rung your praises unceasingly in her ears--of course I had an object in view--during the last few days.”

“Thank you,” returned Philip Paxton, in a slightly sarcastic tone, which caused his light-hearted friend to laugh outright.

“There! none of your grandiloquent airs, Phil, if you please. You know they never did disturb me in the least, so they will do no good now. We are all bound for a good time, and if your backbone gets too stiff, it will be uncomfortable, not only for yourself, but for the rest of us.

“Here we are,” he added, as they came around to one end of the station, where there stood a handsome pair of bays attached to a wagonette, in which two ladies and a gentleman were seated.

“Annie,” he said, leading his friend toward them and addressing a pretty girl, with a fair complexion and hazel eyes, “you do not need to be introduced to Phil, but you shall give him a grip of welcome before I present the others. Mr. Vane, this is my friend, Mr. Paxton; Miss Wentworth, Mr. Paxton.”

Mr. Paxton, after greeting Annie Hamilton, shook hands with Mr. Vane and lifted his hat to Miss Wentworth and was instantly impressed that she was a “mighty pretty girl.”

Then he glanced about him in some curiosity, wondering where the “fair Elaine” could be.

Wil Hamilton noticed it, and colored slightly.

“Come this way a moment, Phil, and I’ll finish all the introductions at once,” he said; and slipping his arm within that of his friend, he turned him about and led him toward an elegant phaeton, to which two pretty, gray ponies were attached, and in which a slight, graceful girl was seated.

“I could not drive any nearer, for the ponies are a trifle skittish,” Wil explained, as he led him forward.

“Good Heavens! how beautiful she is!” the young man said to himself when at last they stood beside the phaeton; and he never could remember afterward how he conducted himself during the ceremony of introduction.

“The Lily of Mordaunt,” he repeated to himself, as he gazed upon her exquisite loveliness, and, for the moment, was oblivious of everything else.

He was conscious only of looking into eyes of liquid blue--eyes which seemed to him to have fathomless depths, and through which some sweet spirit was gazing up at him, thrilling his very soul with a strange delight.

He saw a fair, low brow, over which rings of sunny hair lay in careless grace; a delicate mouth, proud, yet sweet, sensitive, yet strong. He noticed the dainty fairness of her skin, upon which there was not the slightest blemish; the small ears, which seemed like molded wax, and the rich, heavy rolls of golden hair, which shone like bands of smoothed satin. He saw, too, the slight, perfect, yet stately figure, with its beautifully-fitting dress of russet brown; the small hand so daintily gloved; the soft ruching encircling her white throat, and which was fastened with some costly and curiously-carved stone.

He took in every detail of her toilet--all her exquisite loveliness in those few, brief moments, during which he stood bowing before her, and exchanged polite greetings.

“She is like the matchless Calla lily,” he said to himself, “as pure, as stately, as perfect. I do not wonder now at Wil’s rhapsodies, or that he lost his heart when he saw her. But I wish her name was not Elaine--I never liked it; though if this lily-maid of Astolat was one-half so fair, I doubt if Queen Guinevere, even though she were called the ‘pearl of beauty,’ could ‘hold a candle to her’--to quote a common phrase; and Lancelot, that flower of bravery, made the greatest mistake of his life when he turned the cold shoulder to her pleading. Who could look upon such beauty unmoved? It is not in human nature.”

“Mr. Paxton will make our circle complete,” Lady Elaine said, turning with a smile, and a slight blush, from his admiring eyes to speak to Wil.

That smile disclosed the prettiest teeth--small, white, even; and in vivid contrast to the sweet, scarlet lips.

Philip Paxton bowed his appreciation of this compliment, and a deeper color tinged his own cheek.

“Yes,” Wil Hamilton answered, “we shall make a capital party, and now, Phil, if you’ll take a seat in the wagonette with Miss Wentworth, I’ll swing your portmanteau in forward under the driver’s seat, and then we’ll be off for Hazelmere, where we shall doubtless find dinner waiting.”

Philip lifted his hat to Lady Elaine, and turned away to comply with his friend’s request.

But he was loath to go; and his eye lingered enviously upon the vacant seat by her side.

How like a poem it would have been to be able to drive those spirited ponies over the two miles to Hazelmere, with that peerless face so near, and that sweet voice making music in his ears!

But he was, of course, obliged to submit to the arrangements already made; and, springing to his post by Miss Wentworth’s side, they were soon trotting along at a spanking rate over the beautiful moors, while, before they had accomplished half the distance to Hazelmere, his admiration was turned into a new channel, and he was compelled to confess that Wil had certainly given him no “milk-and-water” beauty for a companion, for Miss Arley Wentworth proved herself to be both brilliant and interesting.

Half an hour’s drive brought them to Hazelmere’s hospitable doors, where a cordial reception was accorded to the newcomers by Sir Anthony Hamilton and his genial, motherly wife, and the gay party separated to dress for dinner, which would soon be served.

“I will give you just twenty minutes, young ladies, so bestir yourselves,” Lady Hamilton said, playfully, as the three girls came trooping into the hall; “if you cannot make yourselves pretty enough in that time, you will have to suffer the consequences.”

“What do you think of my ‘Lily of Mordaunt?’” Wil asked of Philip, as he went to show him the room which had been prepared for him.

“Your Lily of Mordaunt!” he repeated, with a keen glance into the young man’s face; “do you claim possession already?”

Wil flushed.

“Well,” he said, with a laugh, “I suppose I have no right to do that, but, between you and me, I hope it will come to that before long. Is she not lovely?”

“Very; and your name for her is very appropriate; but Miss Wentworth is exceedingly beautiful, too,” Philip answered.

“Yes, Arley is very brilliant, and a fascinating little thing; besides, she has twenty thousand pounds in her own right.”

“That is a snug little sum, to be sure; but, I suppose Lady Elaine is very wealthy, also,” Philip remarked, with a side glance at his friend.

“Yes; the Duke of Mordaunt left an immense property--the income, I believe is about as much as Arley’s whole fortune.”

“Indeed!” Mr. Paxton said, with a peculiar emphasis. “You will be a lucky fellow, Wil, if you succeed in winning her peerless ladyship and her immense fortune, also.”

“I have scarcely thought of the money,” Wil Hamilton replied, eagerly, and flushing hotly. “She would be just the same to me if she hadn’t a penny.”

“Nevertheless, a plethoric purse is a very convenient thing to possess in the long run,” quoth Philip Paxton, dryly.

“Twenty thousand pounds a year!” he repeated, meditatively to himself, after Wil had gone below. “How would a man feel, I wonder, to have the handling of that amount, to say nothing of the privilege of sitting _vis-a-vis_ three or four times a day with such a beauty as Lady Elaine Warburton.”