“I almost wish I did; but you have explained the reason yourself. If for every one there is what the Germans call an alter ego, another soul—ah, Kenelm, I do not wish to hurt you—but you are not that to me. It is not my fault.”
He looked long and earnestly at her.
“No,” he said; “God help me. It is not your fault, Clarice; but I shall hope on until you tell me that you love some one else.”
CHAPTER X.
SIR RONALD’S ERROR.
Perhaps if any man or woman were asked if they were willing to tell a lie they would most indignantly deny it. Perhaps most people, even though they be guilty of some trifling act of deceit or insincerity that can hardly merit a harsher name, would shrink with horror from an actual lie.
Clarice Severn bore the reputation of being very truthful. It would be right to say that she had never deliberately soiled her lips with a willful lie. Little social deceits pass by another name; but there was no doubt that she acted falsehoods. She did all in her power to lead Sir Ronald to believe that Kenelm Eyrle and Lady Hermione were attached to each other. She remembered of old Sir Ronald’s keen, passionate sense of honor, how scrupulously he always avoided any interference with what he believed belonged to another. She knew that if he thought Kenelm loved Lady Hermione he would avoid her.
It was but a feeble chance, yet it was her only one, for she could not disguise from herself that Sir Ronald began to show every sign of deepest interest in Lord Lorriston’s daughter.
Like a mountain torrent her love grew in its force and vehemence; that which opposed it only added to its strength. It was resistless, hurrying her along, with its impulsive, irresistible current; yet do not let her character be misunderstood. She was not capable of anything that the world calls unladylike or wrong; she was not capable of anything unwomanly or forward; that which she wished to win must be won by most gentle means.
There was a picnic in the Lorriston Woods, a species of summer entertainment in which Lady Lorriston took great delight. Near to the keeper’s cottage there was a large, open space of smooth, green grass. Lady Hermione had named it the Fairy Ring, and it never lost the appellation.
All the young people in the neighborhood were there. Sir Ronald thought he had never seen Lady Hermione look so lovely. She never dressed in accordance with the dictates of fashion. “She always looked like a picture.” Higher praise could not be given to any woman.