Almost as though in answer to her thought, Gaspar Laurence began to tell them of an incident that had impressed him. A gentleman, a friend of his, after making unheard-of sacrifices to marry a lady who was both beautiful and accomplished, left her suddenly, and never saw her again, the reason being that he discovered that she had deceived him by telling him a willful lie before her marriage. Gaspar seemed to think she had been hardly used. Lord Airlie and Lionel differed from him.
"I am quite sure," said Lord Airlie, "that I could pardon anything sooner than a lie; all that is mean, despicable, and revolting to me is expressed in the one word, 'liar.' Sudden anger, passion, hot revenge--anything is more easily forgiven.
When once I discover that a man or woman has told me a lie, I never care to see their face again."
"I agree with you," said Lionel; "perhaps I even go further. I would never pardon an air of deceit; those I love must be straightforward, honest, and sincere always."
"Such a weight of truth might sink the boat," said Beatrice, carelessly; but Lord Airlie's words had gone straight to her heart. If he only knew. But he never would. And again she wished that in reply to her father's question she had answered truthfully.
The time came when Lillian remembered Mr. Dacre's words, and knew they had not been spoken in vain.
Beatrice had taken off her glove, and drew her hand trough the cool, deep water; thinking intently of the story she had just heard--of Undine and the water-sprites--she leaned over the boat's side and gazed into the depths. The blue sky and white fleecy clouds, the tall green trees and broad leaves, were all reflected there. There was a strange, weird fascination in the placid water--what went on in the depths beneath? What lay beneath the ripples? Suddenly she drew back with a startled cry a cry that rang out in the clear summer air, and haunted Lord Airlie while he lived. He looked at her; her face had grown white, even to the very lips, and a nameless, awful dread lay in her dark eyes.
"What is it?" he asked, breathlessly. She recovered herself with a violent effort, and tried to smile.
"How foolish I am!" she said; "and what is worse you will all laugh at me. It was sheer fancy and nonsense, I know; but I declare that looking down into the water, I saw my own face there with such a wicked, mocking smile that it frightened me."
"It was the simple reflection," said Lionel Dacre. "I can see mine. Look again, Miss Earle."
"No," she replied, with a shudder; "it is only nonsense, I know, but it startled me. The face seemed to rise from the depths and smile--oh, oh, such a smile! When shall I forget it?"
"It was only the rippling of the water which distorted the reflection," said Lord Airlie.
Beatrice made no reply, but drew her lace shawl around her as though she were cold.
"I do not like the water," she said presently; "it always frightens me. Let us land, Mr. Laurence, please. I will never go on the lake again."
Gaspar laughed, and Mr. Dacre declared Beatrice had had too strong a dose of Undine and the water-sprites. Lord Airlie felt her hand tremble as he helped her to leave the boat. He tried to make her forget the incident by talking of the ball and the pleasure it would bring. She talked gayly, but every now and then he saw that she shuddered as though icily cold.
When they were entering the house she turned round, and, in her charming, imperious way, said:
"None of you must tell papa about my fright. I should not like him to think that an Earle could be either fanciful or a coward.
I am brave enough on land."
The heat had tried both girls, and Lady Helena said they must rest before dinner. She made Beatrice lie down upon the cosy little couch in her dressing room. She watched the dark eyes close, and thought how beautiful the young face looked in repose.
But the girl's sleep was troubled. Lady Earle, bending over her, heard her sigh deeply and murmur something about the "deep water." She awoke, crying out that she saw her own face, and Lady Earle saw great drops of perspiration standing in beads upon her brow.
"What have you been dreaming of, child?" she asked. "Young girls like you ought to sleep like flowers."
"Flowers never quite close their eyes," said Beatrice, with a smile. "I shut mine, but my brain is active, it seems, even in sleep. I was dreaming of the lake, Lady Helena. Dreams are very wonderful; do they ever come true?"
