There was never a more brilliant spectacle at Leeholme than the ballroom that evening. There was queenly Cleopatra, with dusky brows; Antony, in mailed armor; Kenelm Eyrle, as Sir Launcelot; Sir Ronald, as King Harry; Clara Seville, as the Queen of Scots, and the magnificent blonde, Miss Monteith, as Queen Guinivere. The belles of the evening were Miss Severn, as Jane Seymour, and Lady Hermione, as Anne Boleyn.
“If I had been King Harry,” said Captain Gordon, “I should not have known which of those two beautiful women I loved best; but I should never have slain one to marry the other.”
“I would rather have been Anne than Jane,” said Queen Guinivere, to whom he was speaking. “If Jane Seymour had any conscience it must have been sorely wounded by Anne’s death—she should never have been really happy afterward.”
Many a happy passage at arms took place between the fair rivals. It was certainly most suggestive. The dead queens had not struggled more for the sole possession of bluff Harry’s heart than these two did most unconsciously for Sir Ronald’s love.
It was growing near the close of the evening when Sir Ronald danced with Lady Hermione. The brilliant ballroom was very warm then, and she laughed as she said:
“I should not like to be a queen always; the weight of my royal robes is great.”
“You are always a queen, though not dressed en reine,” he replied. “You look tired; let us go into the grounds—the cool, sweet air will refresh you.”
Over her queenly costume and crowned head he drew a black lace mantilla, in which she looked inexpressibly beautiful, and they went through the corridor to the moonlit grounds, where many of Lord Lorriston’s guests were enjoying the beauty of the night. Great, fragrant roses sighed out their sweetness, and the lilies gleamed palely. The song of a nightingale in the distant woods was heard plainly, when there came a soft, languid lull in the music. The stars came out like golden lamps in the darkling sky; and they stood, those who loved each other so well, with the first faint pulse of love thrilling each heart, too happy for words; for words, after all, do not tell the heart’s sweetest and deepest thoughts.
Only once—when there was a faint stir in the wind, and the roses all bowed their crimson heads, the white bells of the lilies trembled; then he drew the lace mantle more closely round her—he bent down and looked into her beautiful face.
“My queen,” he whispered, “see, even the flowers know their queen.”