It seemed as though the sun loved her, for it had never shone so bright or so warm as when it peeped into her chamber to wake my lady on her birthday. The flowers loved her, for they bloomed fresher, sweeter, more fragrantly that morning than they had ever done before. Surely the sweet songbirds knew it, for the music that rose through the clear, sweet summer air was never so jubilant and clear.
The sunshine and the song of the birds awoke her, and her maid was already standing there, her arms filled with fragrant bouquets, roses with dewdrops gleaming on them, rich crimson leaves, lilies, whose white cups were moist and fair; but the loveliest bouquet there had been sent by Sir Ronald.
Talk of a floral love letter; every flower had its story. If they could but have raised their beautiful heads and told her how he loved her, this story had never been written.
Then when she was alone in the midst of her flowers and saw the costly gifts spread out on every side, her heart swelled with happiness. She raised her sweet eyes to the smiling heavens.
“If you were to ask a gift from there,” she said, “I know what it would be—it would be that my love might love me.”
For she knew now that the highest boon life could offer her, the richest prize earth held for her, was Sir Ronald’s love.
The fête was brilliant. Never had Leeholme Park been so gay. Lord Lorriston spared neither expense nor trouble to do homage to this, his beloved child.
With evening came the crowning glory of the entertainment—the charades and the tableaux. The little theatre was most charmingly decorated. The velvet hangings were drawn aside, and revealed a beautiful little corridor, lighted by pearly lamps that were half hidden among green trees; it led to the grounds, that were also illuminated, so as to resemble fairyland.
“If any one finds the theatre warm, they can seek the refreshment of cool air and moonlight,” said Lord Lorriston, when he planned this little surprise.
The tableaux were a wonderful success; no one will ever forget the bright, marvelous beauty of “Sunshine” or the starlike beauty of “Evening.” The historical picture was greatly admired, but the star of the evening was Anne Boleyn the night before her execution; a picture that half-maddened Sir Ronald by its wondrous loveliness and sorrow.