"It would make no difference," said Gaspar, "whether I had seen you only once, or whether I met you every day. I am not going to pain you, Miss Earle. Think kindly of me—I do not ask more; only remember that living in this world there is one who would stand between you and all peril—who would sacrifice his life for you. You will not forget?"
"I will not," said Beatrice, firmly. "Never could I forget such words. I am willing to be your friend—I know how to value you."
"I shall be happier with your friendship than with the love of any other woman," said Gaspar, gratefully.
Just then Lord Earle came and took Mr. Laurence away. Beatrice stood where he had left her, half screened from sight by the luxuriant foliage and magnificent flowers of a rare American plant. There was a thoughtful, tender expression on her face that softened it into wondrous beauty. She liked Gaspar, and was both pleased and sorry that he loved her. Very pleasant was this delicious homage of love—pleasant was it to know that strong, brave, gifted men laid all they had in the world at her feet—to know that her looks, smiles, and words moved them as nothing else could.
Yet she was sorry for Gaspar. It must be sad to give all one's love and expect no return. She would be his friend, but she could never be anything more. She could give him her sincere admiration and esteem, but not her love.
The proud, beautiful lips quivered, and the bright eyes grew dim with tears. No, not her love—that was given, and could never be recalled; in all the wide world, from among all men's, Lord Airlie's face stood out clear and distinct. Living or dying, Lord Earle's daughter knew she could care for no other man.
She had taken in her hand one of the crimson flowers of the plant above her, and seemed lost in contemplating it. She saw neither the blossom nor the leaves. She was thinking of Lord Airlie's face, and the last words he had said to her, when suddenly a shadow fell before her, and looking up hastily, she saw him by her side. He appeared unlike himself, pale and anxious.
"Beatrice," said he, "I must speak with you. Pray come with me, away from all these people. I can bear this suspense no longer."
She looked at him, and would have refused; but she saw in his face that which compelled obedience. For Lord Airlie had watched Gaspar Laurence—he had watched the dance and the interview that followed it. He saw the softened look on her face, and it half maddened him. For the first time in his life Lord Airlie was fiercely jealous. He detested this fair-haired Gaspar, with his fund of German romance and poetry.
Could it be that he would win the prize he himself would have died to secure? What was he saying to her that softened the expression on her face? What had he said that left her standing there with a tender light in her dark eyes which he had never seen before? He could not bear the suspense; perhaps a ball room might not be the most appropriate place for an offer of marriage, but he must know his fate, let it be what it might. He went up to her and made his request.