By this time some of Miss L'Estrange's admirers had come to the conclusion that there was no truth in the report of the engagement between herself and Lord Arleigh. Among these was his grace the Duke of Hazlewood. He loved the beautiful, queenly girl who had so disdainfully refused his coronet--the very refusal had made him care more than ever for her. He was worldly-wise enough to know that there were few women in London who would have refused him; and he said to himself that, if she would not marry him, he would go unmarried to the grave. He was one of the first to feel sure that there was no truth in the rumors that had grieved him so the previous year. Miss L'Estrange and Lord Arleigh were by force of circumstances great friends--nothing more, and this season he determined to make a friend of the man he had detested as a rival.
When the Duke of Hazlewood made up his mind, he generally accomplished his desire; he sought Lord Arleigh with such assiduity, he made himself so pleasant and agreeable to him, that the master of Beechgrove soon showed him his most cordial and sincere liking. Then they became warm friends. The duke confided in Lord Arleigh--he told him the whole story of his love for Miss L'Estrange.
"I know," he said, "that no one has so much influence over her as you. I do not believe in the absurd stores told about an engagement between you, but I see plainly that she is your friend, and that you are hers; and I want you to use your influence with her in my favor."
Lord Arleigh promised to do so--and he intended to keep his promise; they were on such intimate and friendly terms that he could venture upon saying anything of that kind to her. She would not be displeased--on the contrary, she would like his advice; it might even be that before now she had wished to ask for it, but had not liked to do so--so completely did these two play at cross-purposes and misunderstand each other.
It was easier to say to himself that he would speak to her as the duke wished than to do it. He saw that any allusion to her lovers or admirers made her ill at ease--she did not like it; even his laughing comments on the homage paid to her did not please her.
"I do not like lovers," she said to him one day, "and I am tired of admirers--I prefer friends."
"But," he opposed, laughingly, "if all that wise men and philosophers[[2]] tell us is correct, there are no true friends."
He never forgot the light that shone in her face as she raised it to his.
"I do not believe that," she returned; "there are true friends--you are one to me."
The tenderness of her manner struck him forcibly. Something kinder and softer stirred in his heart than had ever stirred before for her; he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.