Chapter XX
It was a proud moment for Lady Earle when she led the two young girls through the long line of servants assembled to receive them. They were both silent from sheer wonder. They had left Florence at so early an age that they had not the faintest remembrance of the pretty villa on the banks of the Arno. All their ideas were centered in the Elms—they had never seen any other home.
Lady Earle watched the different effect produced upon them by the glimpse of Earlescourt. Lillian grew pale; she trembled, and her wondering eyes filled with tears. Beatrice, on the contrary, seemed instantly to take in the spirit of the place. Her face flushed; a proud light came into her glorious eyes; her haughty head was carried more regally than ever. There was no timidity, no shyly expressed wonder, no sensitive shrinking from new and unaccustomed splendor.
They were deeply impressed with the magnificence of their new home. For many long days Lady Earle employed herself in showing the numerous treasures of art and vertu the house contained. The picture gallery pleased Beatrice most; she gloried in the portraits of the grand old ancestors, "each with a story to his name." One morning she stood before Lady Helena's portrait, admiring the striking likeness. Suddenly turning to the stately lady by her side, she said: "All the Ladies Earle are here; where is my own mamma? Her face is sweet and fair as any of these. Why is there no portrait of her?"
"There will be one some day," said Lady Helena. "When your father returns all these things will be seen to."
"We have no brother," continued Beatrice. "Every baron here seems to have been succeeded by his son—who will succeed my father?"
"His next of kin," replied Lady Earle, sadly—"Lionel Dacre; he is a third cousin of Lord Earle. He will have both title and estate."
She signed deeply; it was a real trouble to Lady Helena that she should never see her son's son, never love and nurse, never bless the heir of Earlescourt.
Lillian delighted most in the magnificent gardens, the thickly wild wooded park, where every dell was filled with flowers and ferns, every knoll crowned with noble trees. The lake, with white lilies sleeping on its tranquil bosom and weeping willows touching its clear surface, pleased her most of all. As they stood on its banks, Beatrice, looking into the transparent depths, shuddered, and turned quickly away.
"I am tired of water," she said; "nothing wearied me so much at Knutsford as the wide, restless sea. I must have been born with a natural antipathy to water."