What could she do? If she could but temporize with him, if she could but pacify him, for a time, until she was married, all would be safe. He would not dare to talk of claiming Lady Airlie it would be vain if he did. Besides, she would persuade Lord Airlie to go abroad; and, seeing all pursuit useless, Hugh would surely give her up. Even at the very worst, if Hubert and she were once married, she would not fear; if she confessed all to him, he would forgive her. He might be very angry, but he would pardon his wife. If he knew all about it before marriage, there was no hope for her.
She must temporize with Fernely—write in a style that would convey nothing, and tell him that he must wait. He could not refuse. She would write that evening a letter that should give him no hope, nor yet drive him to despair.
"That is a grand scene, is it not?" said Lord Airlie suddenly; then he saw by Beatrice's startled look that she had not listened.
"I plead guilty at once," she replied. "I was thinking—do not be angry—I was thinking of something that relates to yourself. I heard nothing of what you read, Hubert. Will you read it again?"
"Certainly not," he said, with a laugh of quiet amusement. "Reading does not answer; we will try conversation. Let us resume the subject you ran away from before—where shall we go for our wedding trip?"
Only three days since she would have suggested twenty different places; she would have smiled and blushed, her dark eyes growing brighter at every word. Now she listened to her lover's plans as if a ghostly hand had clutched her heart and benumbed her with fear.
That evening it seemed to Beatrice Earle as though she would never be left alone. In the drawing room stood a dainty little escritoire used by the ladies of Earlescourt. Here she dared not write lest Lord Airlie should, as he often did, linger by her, pretending to assist her. If she went into the library, Lord Earle would be sure to ask to whom she was writing. There was nothing to be done but to wait until she retired to her own room.
First came Lady Earle, solicitous about her health, recommending a long rest and a quiet sleep; then Lillian, full of anxiety, half longing to ask Beatrice if she thought Lionel Dacre handsomer and kinder than any one else; then the maid Suzette, who seemed to linger as though she would never go.
At length she was alone, the door locked upon the outer world. She was soon seated at her little desk, where she speedily wrote the following cold letter, that almost drove Hugh Fernely mad: