Lord Earle said to himself, after his daughters had retired, that both were charming; but, though he hardly owned it to himself, if he had a preference, it was for brilliant, beautiful Beatrice. He had never seen any one to surpass her. After Lady Helena had left him, he sat by the fire dreaming, as his father long years ago had done before him.
It was not too late yet, he thought, to retrieve the fatal mistake of his life. He would begin at once. He would first give all his attention to his estate; it should be a model for all others. He would interest himself in social duties; people who lamented his foolish, wasted youth should speak with warm admiration of his manhood; above all matters he dreamed of great things for his daughters, especially Beatrice. With her beauty and grace, her magnificent voice, her frank, fearless spirit, and piquant, charming wit, she would be a queen of society; through his daughter his early error would be redeemed. Beatrice was sure to marry well; she would bring fresh honors to the grand old race ha had shamed. When the annals of the family told, in years to come, the story of his mistaken marriage, it would be amply redeemed by the grand alliance Beatrice would be sure to contract.
His hopes rested upon her and centered in her. As he sat watching the glowing embers, there came to him the thought that what Beatrice was to him he had once been to the father he was never more to see. Ah! If his daughter should be like himself if she should ruin his hopes, throw down the air castle he had built—should love unworthily, marry beneath her, deceive and disappoint him! But no, it should not be—he would watch over her. Lord Earle shuddered at the thought.
During breakfast on the morning following his return Lady Helena asked what his plans were for the day—whether he intended driving the girls over to Holte.
"No," said Lord Earle. "I wish to have a long conversation with my daughters. We shall be engaged during the morning. After luncheon we will go to Holte."
Ronald, Lord Earle, had made up his mind. In the place where his father had warned him, and made the strongest impression upon him, he would warn his children, and in the same way; so he took them to the picture gallery, where he had last stood with his father.
With gentle firmness he said: "I have brought you here as I have something to say to you which is best said here. Years ago, children, my father brought me, as I bring you, to warn and advise me—I warn and advise you. We are, though so closely related, almost strangers. I am ready to love you and do love you. I intend to make your happiness my chief study. But there is one thing I must have—that is, perfect openness, one thing I must forbid—that is, deceit of any kind, on any subject. If either of you have in your short lives a secret, tell it to me now; if either of you love any one, even though it be one unworthy, tell me now. I will pardon any imprudence, any folly, any want of caution—everything save deceit. Trust me, and I will be gentle as a tender woman; deceive me, and I will never forgive you."
Both fair faces had grown pale—Beatrice's from sudden and deadly fear; Lillian's from strong emotion.
"The men of our race," said Lord Earle, "have erred at times, the women never. You belong to a long line of noble, pure, and high-bred woman; there must be nothing in your lives less high, and less noble than in theirs; but if there had been—if, from want of vigilance, of training, and of caution there should be anything in this short past, tell it to me now, and I will forget it."
Neither spoke to him one word, and a strange pathos came into his voice.