Lillian had her own secret—one she had as yet hardly whispered to herself. From her earliest childhood she had been accustomed to give way to Beatrice. Not that there was any partiality displayed, but the willful young beauty generally contrived to have her own way. By her engaging manners and high spirits she secured every one's attention; and thus Lillian was in part overlooked.
She was very fair and gentle, this golden-haired daughter of Ronald Earle. Her face was so pure and spirituelle that one might have sketched it for the face of a seraph; the tender violet eyes were full of eloquence, the white brow full of thought. Her beauty never dazzled, never took any one by storm; it won by slow degrees a place in one's heart.
She was of a thoughtful, unobtrusive nature; nothing could have made her worldly, nothing could have made her proud.
Sweet, calm, serene, ignorant alike of all the height of happiness and the depths of despair—gifted, too with a singularly patient disposition and amiable temper, no one had ever seen Lillian Earle angry or hasty; her very presence seemed full of rest and peace.
Nature had richly endowed her. She had a quick, vivid fancy, a rare and graceful imagination; and perhaps her grandest gift was a strong and deep love for things not of this world. Not that Lillian was given to "preaching," or being disagreeably "goody," but high and holy thoughts came naturally to her. When Lord Earle wanted amusement, he sent for Beatrice—no one could while away long hours as she could; when he wanted comfort, advice, or sympathy, he sought Lillian. Every one loved her, much as one loves the sunbeams that bring bright light and warmth.
Lionel Dacre loved her best of all. His only wonder was that any one could even look at Beatrice when Lillian was near. He wondered sometimes whether she had not been made expressly for him—she was so strong where he was weak, her calm serene patience controlled his impetuosity, her gentle thoughtfulness balanced his recklessness, her sweet, graceful humility corrected his pride.
She influenced him more than he knew—one word from her did wonders with him. He loved her for her fair beauty, but most of all for the pure, guileless heart that knew no shadow of evil upon which the world had never even breathed.
Lionel Dacre had peculiar ideas about women. His mother, who had been a belle in her day, was essentially worldly. The only lessons she had ever taught him were how to keep up appearance, how to study fashionable life and keep pace with it.
She had been a lady of fashion, struggling always with narrow means; and there were times when her son's heart grew sick, remembering the falseness, the meanness, the petty cunning maneuvers she had been obliged to practice.
As he grew older and began to look around the world, he was not favorably impressed. The ladies of his mother's circle were all striving together to get the foremost place. He heard of envy, jealousy, scandal, untruth, until he wondered if all women were alike.