He went to the long French window, wondering at the rich collection of roses, and there he saw a picture that never forsook his memory again—­there he met his fate—­saw the ideal woman of his dreams at last.  He had treated all notions of love in a very off-hand, cavalier kind of manner; he had contented himself with his own favorite axiom—­“Love is fate;” if ever it was to come to him it would come, and there would be an end of it.  He had determined on one thing—­this same love should be his slave, his servant, never his master; but, as he stood looking out, he was compelled to own his kingship was over.

Standing there, his heart throbbing as it had never done before, every nerve thrilling, his face flushed, a strange, unknown sensation filling him with vague, sweet wonder, Lord Arleigh met his fate.

This was the picture he saw—­a beautiful but by no means a common one.  In the trellised arbor, which contained a stand and one or two chairs, was a young girl of tall, slender figure, with a fair, sweet face, inexpressibly lovely, lilies and roses exquisitely blended—­eyes like blue hyacinths, large, bright, and starlight, with white lids and dark long lashes, so dark that they gave a peculiar expression to the eyes—­one of beauty, thought, and originality.  The lips were sweet and sensitive, beautiful when smiling, but even more beautiful in repose.  The oval contour of the face was perfect; from the white brow, where the veins were so clearly marked, rose a crown of golden hair, not brown or auburn, but of pure pale gold—­a dower of beauty in itself.

The expression of the face was one of shy virgin beauty.  One could imagine meeting it in the dim aisles of some cathedral, near the shrine of a saint, as an angel or a Madonna; one could imagine it bending over a sick child, lighting with its pure loveliness the home of sorrow; but one could never picture it in a ball-room.  It was a face of girlish, saintly purity, of fairest loveliness—­a face where innocence, poetry, and passion all seemed to blend in one grand harmony.  There was nothing commonplace about it.  One could not mistake it for a plebeian face; “patrician” was written on every feature.

Lord Arleigh looked at her like one in a dream.

“If she had an aureole round her head, I should take her for an angel,” he thought to himself, and stood watching her.

The same secret subtle harmony pervaded[4] every action; each new attitude seemed to be the one that suited her best.  If she raised her arms, she looked like a statue.  Her hands were white and delicate, as though carved in ivory.  He judged her to be about eighteen.  But who was she, and what had brought her there?  He could have stood through the long hours of the sunny day watching her, so completely had she charmed him, fascinated his very senses.

“Love is fate!” How often had he said that to himself, smiling the while?  Now here his fate had come to him all unexpectedly—­this most fair face had found its way to the very depths of his heart and nestled there.