"I refuse to answer you," she replied.
"Doris," he said, and there was more of contempt than of pain in his voice. "Doris, has that anything to do with your coldness to me?"
For one moment she looked at him steadily, then she seemed to remember that defiance and denial would be useless—would only cause inquiries. Her only way out of the difficulty lay in untruth. She smiled sweetly in his face.
"My jealous Earle," she said; "who do you think gave me this ring?"
"I cannot tell," he replied, gravely.
"Will you promise, if I tell you, never to mention it?"
"I promise faithfully, Doris."
"Lady Estelle Hereford gave it to me on the day I went to Downsbury Castle. Are you jealous of her, Earle?"
"No, my darling. I hope the time may come when I shall bring you even brighter jewels than this," and he kissed the fair, false hand as he spoke.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LAST HAPPY DAY OF HIS LIFE.
"Earle," said Doris, suddenly, "I hope you will keep your promise, and not mention to any person a word about this ring."
"I have never broken my word in my life," said Earle, proudly.
"Because, when Lady Estelle gave it to me, she wished me not to mention it; they would be so jealous at home. Mattie would want one like it."
Earle was indignant at this insinuation.
"You do not understand Mattie if you think that," he said. "She would be pleased in your pleasure, not envious." Doris laughed.
"You think all women are angels, Earle. I hope you may never find out your mistake."
"I hope not," he said. "Of course I will respect your wishes, and keep the most perfect silence. At the same time, I think you are rather imprudent; and any one, seeing such a valuable ring in your possession, would naturally wonder how you came by it."
"They may wonder," she said indifferently. "I know, and that is quite sufficient. Is it really valuable, Earle? What do you think it is worth?"
"I am no judge of such things," he said. "It is a large stone, full of fire, and without a flaw. I should imagine it to be worth two or three hundred pounds; it may be worth more, certainly not less."
Three hundred pounds. Why, the bare idea of it was fabulous—to have a lover who could give you such jewels; it was like a fairy tale, and he would hang chains of such round her neck and arms.
Earle wondered why she so suddenly grew abstracted and quiet—it was so unlike Doris, this dreamy repose. It had wanted but little to cause her to make up her mind as to her decision—such wealth as that was not to be despised. Earle suddenly grew quite insignificant in her eyes. When would he be able to give her a diamond worth three hundred pounds? Still, she would not let him even guess what were her thoughts; to-morrow she had to see her young lord lover—she would keep good friends with Earle till then; so she threw aside the many thoughts and ideas which haunted her, and turning to him, was once more her own charming self.
Earle was enchanted; she had but to smile at him, to give him a look of kindness, to evince the least sign of affection for him, and all was well; she was so completely mistress of his heart, soul, and mind, that she could do with him just as she would. He surrendered himself to the charm—he was more happy than words can tell; he said to himself that he had been mistaken, there was no coldness in her manner, no change; it had, after all, only been some little shadow of girlish reserve, some little variation of spirit; she was his own love—beautiful, tender, and true.
Seated by her, in the fair June sunshine, he told her all his hopes and his fears; he told her how he had fancied that her love was leaving him, that she was changing to him, that she had been caring less for him. Now he was delighted to find that she was all that was most kind, most amiable, and winning.
None, looking at the bright, happy face, could have guessed what was hidden underneath it—Earle least of all. Those eyes were full of heaven to him; he saw all truth, all honor, all nobility in the matchless features. Earle believed in her; drinking in the marvelous beauty of her face, listening to the sweet voice, he would have gone to death for her; it never entered his mind to doubt her.
So the summer hours passed, and Earle, completely happy, completely reassured, was in the seventh heaven of delight. They went home together. For long afterward did he dwell on the memory of that day, the last happy one of his life!
He remained at the farm until evening; he seemed unable to tear himself away. The moon was shining, and the stars were gleaming in the sky when he went. He asked Doris if she would walk with him just as far as the garden gate. She did not seem willing, but Mark Brace, who had noticed the wistful expression of the young lover's eyes, said:
"Go, Doris; the night is fine; going as far as the gate will not hurt you."
Unwillingly she rose to go. Another time she would have rebelled, but now the consciousness of the treachery she was meditating forbade that; she would do as they liked for the present.
Mattie held out her hand to Earle, with a grave, anxious look. If she could have saved him; if she could have done anything to help him! She seemed to have a foreboding that all was not well, that Doris was deceiving them.
"Good-night, Mattie," said Earle, in a low voice; "you see the sun is shining for me again."
"Heaven grant that it may always so shine!" said sincere Mattie.
Then she turned away from him abruptly. There were times when she could not bear those outward evidences of his love. She said to herself that Doris was quite unworthy of him—quite unworthy; but that if he had only cared for her, she would have made his life so bright for him.
Then the lovers went out together. Mattie, looking after them with a sigh, Mark Brace with a smile. Earle wishing that each moment of the starlight night could be lengthened into years, Doris silently wishing that there was no love in the world—nothing but diamonds.
Doris walked in silence to the garden gate. The picture was a beautiful one. The picturesque old farm-house lying in the soft moonlight, the moonbeams falling full and bright on the flowers, the fields, and the trees. The laburnums shining yellow and pale; the lilacs filling the air with sweet perfume; the starlight touching the golden head and face of the young girl until she looked beautiful and ethereal as an angel—lighting up the spiritual face of the young lover. Doris leaned against the gate, and directly over her head hung the flowers of the syringa tree. There was a deep, dreamy silence over the whole earth, as though the rest of heaven were lying over it. Earle was the first to speak.
"You look so beautiful, my darling," he said. "How am I to tear myself away?"
"Do not look at me," she replied, "then you will go easily enough."
"Do you want me to go?" he asked, bending a spray of syringa until it rested on her head. "Do you want me to go?"
No need to pain him yet. No need to wound with the point of a pin when she was preparing a sharp sword to stab him to the heart.
"Why should I want you to go?" Doris asked, with one of those sweet, subtle smiles which fire the hearts of men.
"I am so happy," he said, after a time, "here with you in the moonlight, my darling; it seems to me that earth and heaven have no higher bliss to give me. I wish you could see yourself, Doris. The moonlight just touches your hair, and makes it something like an aureole of glory round your head; it touches your face, and makes it like a lily leaf; it shines in your eyes, and they are brighter than the stars. Oh, my darling, all the words in the world could not tell how lovely you are!"
"There is something in having a poet for a lover after all," thought Doris.
"How am I to leave you? When I go away my heart clings to you; it is as though I were drawn by cords that I could not loosen; my eyes will not gaze in any other direction. Oh, Doris, if I could tell you how I love you, if but for once I could measure the height and depth of my own wild worship, if but for once I could tell you how dearly I love you, you would be compelled, in sheerest pity, to love me in return."
"Have I not said I love you Earle?" and her voice was sweet as the cooing ring-dove. "Whatever happens to either of us, be quite sure of one thing—whatever love I have to give is given to you."
He bent down and kissed her sweet, false lips, such unutterable happiness shining in his eyes that the great pity was he did not die there and then.
She lifted her face to his.
"It is not in me," she said, "to love as some people do; but, let what may happen, I do love you, and you have all my love."
He drew the lovely face to his own.
"I should like to take you in my arms and run away with you," he said; "to take you to some lonely island or solitary desert, where no one could ever try to take you from me."
She knew perfectly well that on the morrow she had to meet her lordly lover, yet, when Earle clasped her in his arms, and drew her head on his breast, she mutely accepted his caresses.
What she said was true—she might do what she would, she might love the prestige of Lord Vivianne's rank, she might love his wealth, and what it could bring her, but the whole affection of her heart—poor, mean, and false as it was—had been given to Earle.
As she listened to his low-whispered words, she thought to herself that it was most likely for the last time. The story of woman's falseness is never pleasant to write. When Earle thought that he had detained her as long as Mark Brace would wish her to be out, he said:
"I must go, Doris; it would be just as difficult to leave you in an hour's time as now. Good-bye, my love, good-bye."
Then she raised her golden head and fair, flower-like face. She clasped her soft, white arms around his neck, and said:
"Good-bye, Earle."
It was the first voluntary caress that she had ever offered him, and his heart beat with a perfect rapture of happiness.
She turned away; false, fickle, coquette as she was, the sight of his face touched her with no ordinary pain. How he trusted, how he loved her! Heaven help him! how his whole heart, soul, and life seemed wrapped up in her.
Doris went back into the sitting-room, where honest Mark Brace sat waiting for her, and Earle walked home. He hardly knew how he reached there, the glamour of his love was strong upon him, the moonlight was so fair, the whole earth so fragrant and so beautiful; he crushed the sweet blossoms under his feet as he walked along; he had gathered the spray of syringa, and he held it to his lips; shining among the stars he saw the fair face of his love, he heard her voice in the sweet whisper of the wind; he stood bare-headed under the night sky, while he said to himself, "Heaven bless her!" And when he entered his mother's house, the look of rest on his face, the light in his eyes struck her so, that she said:
"You look very well to-night, my son. Is it poetry or love?"
He laughed gayly.
"As though you could separate the two, mother. My love is all poetry, my poetry all love."
She laid her hand on the fair clustering brow.
"I am afraid that your love is your religion, too," she said.
"I am so happy, mother! What have I done that I should win the love of that pure, young heart? Do not say that I have no religion. I feel that I could kneel all night and thank Heaven for the treasure it has sent me. I shall be a thousand times better man for my love."
But Mrs. Moray was not to be convinced. She did not see Doris with the eyes of her son; she saw the girl's faults more plainly than her virtues—her coquetry, her vanity, her pride; whereas Earle saw only that she was exceedingly beautiful, and that he loved her better than he loved his life.
"It is a terrible thing," said Mrs. Moray, slowly, "for a man to give his whole heart into the hands of a creature as you have done, Earle. Why, what would become of you if you were to lose Doris, or anything happen to interfere with your love to separate you?"
She was startled at the expression of his face; he turned to her quickly.
"Do not say anything of that kind to me, mother; the bare idea of it drives me mad! What would the reality do?"
"It is not right, Earle, to love any one after such a fashion."
"But I cannot help it, mother," he replied, with a smile, "and that is where the whole of my excuse lies."
CHAPTER XXVII.
HOW SHE WAS TEMPTED.
The morrow came, but there was no hesitation on the part of Doris. Perhaps Lord Vivianne could not have done a better thing for himself than giving her that diamond ring; the light of it dazzled her; it reminded her, perpetually, of what might be hers; she might have felt some little remorse or sorrow but for that; when she looked at it she forgot everything except that she could have just as many as she liked of them.
It was in the morning when she went out to meet him; she had, adroitly, sent Earle to Quainton, under the pretext that she wanted some silk and wool; no one else would interfere with her. Mrs. Brace never attempted the least interference in her actions, so that she was perfectly safe. The loveliness of her face was not dimmed by one trace of sorrow or regret, yet she had quite decided upon betraying Earle, and leaving him to break his heart, or anything else that despair might urge him to do.
To have seen her walking through the sunlit fields and lanes, no one would have thought that she calmly and coolly contemplated the most cruel treachery of which woman could be guilty.
Across the long green grass fell the shadow of her lordly lover. He was standing by the stile, and on one side lay the dark woods, on the other rose the spire of the old church at Quainton. The whole scene was so fair and tranquil, it seemed almost wonderful that treachery and sin should exist. Doris trembled when Lord Vivianne came hastily to meet her.
"I began to think you would disappoint me," he said; "every minute that I have waited has seemed like an hour to me. What should I have done if you had not come?"
He took her hand as though it belonged to him.
"Shall we go to that shady spot in the woods?" he asked; "I can talk to you more easily there."
They walked on together, she listening to his honeyed compliments, his whispered words, hardly able to decide in her own mind, which was the braver wooer, the poet or the lord. Then they reached the pretty bank where the wild thyme grew. Lord Vivianne seated himself by her side in silence, then, after a few minutes, he said:
"I have so much to say to you I hardly know where to begin. I am not quite sure of my ground with you yet; I may offend you so seriously that you will, perhaps, order me from your presence, and never speak to me again."
She thought of the diamond ring.
"It is not very probable," she said.
"I am what is called a man of the world," continued Lord Vivianne. "I make no great pretensions to principle, but I can honestly say I have never deceived any one. I always start with a clear and straightforward understanding."
"I think it is the best, decidedly," she said. Then he took her hands in his, and with his eyes fixed on her face, he continued:
"I love you; I think you are the fairest and most lovely girl I have ever seen. I think also that, with your keen capacity for enjoyment, it is a sad thing that your life should be wasted here; I think that your beauty and your grace should make you one of the queens of the world—you ought indeed to be out in the world—it is cruel to keep you here, as it would be to bury a brilliant gem in a dark well." Then he paused, studying intently the expression on the downcast face. "I love you," he said. "I should like to be the one to show you the bright, brilliant world. If you honor me with your love, I can give you wealth in abundance, magnificence, such as would gladden the heart of a queen. I will make you the envy of every woman who sees you; you shall hang jewels at each ear that are worth a king's ransom; you shall have servants to wait upon you; you shall have carriages, horses, anything that your heart can desire. You shall not be able to form one wish which shall not be gratified. Doris—dear Doris—can you trust me? Will you go with me—will you be mine?"
The life he had pictured to her was exactly that for which she longed, and the words of her lover delighted her. Yet, as she reflected, there shone from out the glorious vista of the future the face of trusting Earle—the man she was about to betray.
"It will break Earle's heart," she said, slowly.
Lord Vivianne laughed aloud.
"Not at all," he said. "These country lovers do not die of broken hearts; he may feel very angry at first, but he will forget you in a few weeks, and fall in love, all over again, with some rosy-faced milkmaid."
"He will never forget me," said Doris; "and his despair will be terrible."
She shuddered a little as though some bleak, cold wind were blowing over her, then she said:
"If he knew I had betrayed him, and he found me, he would kill me."
Again Lord Vivianne laughed.
"Lovers do not kill their faithless loves in these prosaic days. An action of breach of promise, a good round sum by way of compensation, and all is over."
"You do not know Earle," she said, quietly. "I should be afraid of him if I deceived him."
"Never mind Earle!" said Lord Vivianne, impatiently; "I should say that it was a great impertinence of any one like Earle to think of winning such a beautiful prize as you. What has he to offer you?"
"His name and his fame," she replied, bitterly.
"What is a name?—and all copy-books of the goodly kind will tell you 'Fame is but a breath,'" he replied. "Never mind Earle, rely upon it that I can find some fair house either in sunny France or fair Italy where Earle will never disturb us. If you are really frightened at him, we will have no settled house, but we will roam over every fair land under the sun. Will you go, my darling, and leave this dull place?"
She was quite silent for some minutes. Perhaps the good and bad angels fought then for the weak, tempted soul; perhaps some dim idea of a heaven to be lost or won came to her; perhaps some vague idea of terrible wrong and deadly sin came to her and made her pause.
"Will you go, my darling?" he asked again, in a whisper.
She raised her eyes calmly to his face.
"Yes," she replied, "I will go."
He did not show his triumph in any extraordinary fashion; his dark face for one moment flushed burning red.
"You shall never repent it," he said, "you shall be happier than a queen."
He pressed her close to his breast, and imprinted upon her willing lips the most passionate of kisses.
"Dear Doris," he exclaimed, "you are mine—mine forever!"
For some moments they stood thus, his arm encircling her graceful waist. Then with an anxiety to complete the business in hand, he said:
"I leave the Castle to-morrow—I have already prolonged my visit to the utmost length, and I must go to-morrow. For your sake and mine, it will be better to avoid all scandal, all rumor. When I leave I shall go direct to London. Will you go to-night? Take a ticket for Liverpool, that will throw them all astray. When you reach Liverpool go to this hotel," and he handed her a card, "and I will join you there late to-morrow evening. The instant I reach London, I will take the express for Liverpool. Will you do that?"
"Yes; I do not see why I should not. I am a great hypocrite at times," she said, "and not particularly good; but I declare to you that I could not spend even a day more with Earle, knowing that I was intent upon deceiving him. Yes, I will go to-night."
"Good; that clears all difficulties. Then there is another thing; leave a letter behind you to say that you are tired of the dull life; that you can bear it no longer, and that fearing opposition, you have left home quietly, and have taken a situation as English teacher abroad. No one will suspect the truth of such a letter."
Gentle Mrs. Brace, honest Mark, loving Mattie—something like regret did seize her when she thought how earnestly they would read that letter, and how sincerely they would believe it.
"There is another thing," said this cold-blooded lord; "promise me that you will, at least until I join you, wear a thick veil. You have no idea what a sensation such a face as yours would make; you would easily be traced by it."
She smiled, well pleased with the compliment.
"Once away over the sea," he said, "and my proudest, keenest delight will be to show the whole world the beautiful prize I have won. Mind, the veil must be so thick that not one feature, of the face can be seen through it."
"I will remember," she said, with a smile.
Then he took from his pocket a purse well filled.
"I know you will not be angry," he said. "You cannot ask for money, or people will begin to wonder why you want it. You will take this."
A faint flush rose to her face.
"I must," she replied, "I have none of my own."
Then she rose; it was time to return to the house she was so soon to abandon.
He bent down to kiss her, and drew the beautiful face to his, just as Earle had done.
Thoughts of her treachery again disturbed her, and she shuddered as though with cold.
"You are tired, my darling," he said. "Go home and rest."
They parted under the trees. He went away, and as she walked slowly home, she said to herself:
"I have killed Earle!"
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A WOMAN RESOLVED.
Mattie Brace stood at the farm gate: she was looking impatiently up and down the road, and a sudden light flashed in her face as she caught sight of Doris. The beautiful face seemed to flash like light from beneath the gloom of green trees.
"Doris," cried Mattie, almost impatiently, "I have been looking everywhere for you. There is a whole roll of newspapers from London; they are directed to you, and I know the writing—it is Mr. Leslie's. I am sure they contain notices of your picture. Make haste—I am longing to see them."
Doris looked up with a shyness quite new to her.
"I am coming," she replied. "Where is Earle?"
She hesitated as she asked the question. There were no depths in her nature; she did not even understand regret—of remorse she had not the slightest conception; yet even she felt unwilling to look in the face of the man who loved her.
"Where is Earle?" she repeated.
"He has not returned from Quainton yet," replied Mattie; and the two girls entered the house together.
On the table of the little sitting-room lay a roll of newspapers, addressed to Miss Doris Brace. The beautiful lips curved with scorn as she read the name aloud.
"Doris Brace!" she said. "Fate must have been deriding me to give me such a name."
But Mattie made no reply; she had long since ceased to answer similar remarks.
Then Mrs. Brace, seeing the sitting-room door open, went in to look at what was going on. Doris looked up at her with a bright laugh.
"I am in a newspaper, mother," she said, "only imagine that!"
Mrs. Brace sighed, as she generally did in answer to Doris. The girl was far above her comprehension, and she owned it humbly with a sigh.
"What do they say, I wonder? Oh, there is a letter from Mr. Leslie!" She opened it hastily, then read aloud:
"My Dear Miss Brace,—Need I tell you my picture is the great success of the season? All London is talking about it—the papers are filled with its praise. See how much I have to thank you for! There is even a greater honor than all this praise in store; the queen has signified her gracious desire to purchase my picture! My fortune is made; the face that made sunshine at Brackenside will now shine on the walls of a royal palace. No one admires it more than your sincere friend,
"Gregory Leslie."
"There!" cried the girl, triumphantly, "the queen—even the queen is going to buy me!"
"Not you, child," said Mrs. Brace, rebukingly—"only your picture."
"It is all the same thing; the queen must have admired, or she would not have wished to purchase it."
"Gregory Leslie is a grand artist," said Mattie. "Surely some merit is due to him."
Doris laughed, as she always did at her sister's admonitions.
"If he had painted you, my dear," she said, laughingly, "I do not think the queen would have bought the picture."
Mattie made no reply, knowing well that in all probability it was true.
Then Doris opened the papers, and read the critiques one after another; they were all alike—one rapture of praise over the magnificent picture. "'Innocence' is the great picture of the day," said one. Another asked: "Where had Mr. Leslie found the ideally beautiful face so gloriously placed on canvas? Had he drawn it from the rich depths of glowing fancy, or had he seen a face like it?" Another paper told how the queen had purchased the picture, and foretold great things for the artist.
"It is really true," said Doris. "I shall be in a palace. Oh, Mattie! I am so sorry that no one will know it is a picture of me; they will admire my portrait, and no one will see me. I should like to go to the queen and say: 'That is my picture hanging on your palace wall.'"
"She would not speak to you," said Mrs. Brace, who took all things literally.
"Hundreds of beautiful faces are placed upon canvas every day," said Mattie; "and I do not suppose any one cares for the models they are painted from."
"I wish I were my own picture," sighed Doris. "I would a thousand times rather hang upon a palace wall than live here."
Then she suddenly remembered how uncertain it was, after all, whether she should be here much longer; in the excitement of reading so much in her own praise, she had almost forgotten Lord Vivianne. As she remembered him her face grew burning red.
"I am glad you have the grace to blush," said Mattie. "You are so vain, Doris, I should be afraid that your vanity would lead you astray."
"No matter where I go my picture will be safe," was the flippant reply.
And then the little council was broken up. Mrs. Brace went away to tell Mark of her fears. Mattie did not care to hear any more self-laudation, and Doris was left alone. Her face flushed, her pulse thrilled with gratified vanity; her heart seemed to expand with the keen, passionate sense of her own beauty.
"If every earthly gift had been offered to me," Doris thought, "I should have chosen beauty. Rank and wealth are desirable; but without a face to charm they would be worth little, and beauty can win them even if one be born without them. I shall win them yet, because men cannot look at me without caring for me."
And as she stood by the little rose-framed window there came to her a passionate longing that her beauty should be seen and known, that it should receive the homage and praise due to it. She, who was fair enough to win the admiration of a queen—she, on whose face royal eyes would dwell so often, and with such great delight!
"I wonder," she thought to herself, "if any of the royal princes will be likely to see that picture. One of them might admire it, and then, if he saw me, admire me."
There was no limit to her ambition, as there was none to her vanity. Had she been asked to share a throne, she would have consented as to a right. Vision after vision of dazzling delight came to her as she stood in the humble sitting-room that was the great delight of Mrs. Brace's heart; life flushed and thrilled in every vein. Doris held out her hands with a yearning cry for that which seemed so near, yet so far from her; the thousand vague possibilities of life rose before her. What could she not win with her beauty—what could not her beauty do for her.
Then Mrs. Brace came in again on business cares intent, holding several pieces of calico in her hands.
"Doris," she said, "I have been thinking that as you will perhaps soon be married to Earle, I may as well order a piece of gray calico for you when I order one for ourselves."
Down went the brilliant vision! The queen who admired her face, the palace where her picture would hang, the glorious prospect, the dream that had no name, the sweet, wild fancies that had filled every nerve—they faded before those prosaic words like snow in the sun!
"Marriage and gray calico! gray calico and Earle!" She turned with a quick, impatient gesture, almost fierce in its anger.
"Oh, mother! you do say such absurd things," she said; "you annoy me."
"Why, my dear? What have I said? You will want gray calico. You cannot be married from a respectable home like this, and not take a store of house linen with you."
"House linen!" repeated Doris. "You are not talking to Mattie, mother."
"I am not, indeed; if I were, I should at least receive a sensible answer. You are above my understanding. If you think that because a gentleman painted your portrait, and people admire it, you will never need to be sensible again, you make a great mistake."
Doris made no reply; a great flame of impatience seemed to burn her heart. How could she bear it, this prosaic, commonplace life? Gray calico and marriage all mingled in one idea! Kindly Mrs. Brace mistook her silence, and really thought she was making an impression on her.
"We have had but this one chance of giving the order; if it is not done now, it cannot be done until next year. Mrs. Moray is such a respectable woman herself that I should not like——"
Doris held up her hands with a passionate cry.
"That will do, mother! Order what you like, do as you like, but do not talk to me; I will not hear another word."
"You will grow more sensible as you grow older," said Mrs. Brace, composedly, as she went away with the calico in her hand, leaving Doris once more alone.
"How have I borne it all this time?" she asked herself, with a flush of anger on her fair face. "Yet, why should I be angry, and in what differ from them? Why should I be vexed or angry? Mattie would have talked for an hour—would have given a sensible answer, while I feel as though I had been insulted. They are my own mother and sister—why am I so different from them? Why does a bird of paradise differ from a homely linnet? Why does a carnation differ from a sun-flower? I cannot tell."
She could not tell. It was not given to her to know that all the characteristics of race were strong within her. But that little scene decided her; there had been some faint doubt in her mind, some little leaning toward Earle, and his great wealth of poetry and love—some lingering regret as to whether she was not forsaking the certain humble paths of peace and virtue for a brilliant but uncertain career.
"If I do this," she had thought to herself, "I shall kill Earle," and the idea had filled her mind with strange pathos. But all that vanished under one unskillful touch. Writing her story, knowing her faults, I make no excuses for her; but if she had had more congenial surroundings the tragedy of her life might have been averted.
She stood by the open window and thought it all over. The rich scent of the roses came in and clung to her dress and her hair; the blue sky had no cloud; the birds sang sweetly and clearly in the far distance; she heard the lowing of the cattle and the voices of the laborers.
Then her whole heart turned in disgust from her quiet home; it had no charm for her; she wanted none of it—she wanted life, warmth, glitter, perfume, jewels, the praise of men, the envy of women; she wanted to feel her own power, and to be followed by homage. What was her bright loveliness for if not for this? Stay here, where all the people were persecuting her about marrying Earle, having a respectable home, and buying gray calico! No, not for such a commonplace life. The beauty of hill and sky, and quaint meadow and shady lane, of blooming flowers and green trees, was not for her; it was dull, tame and uninteresting.
The greatest queen in all the wide world had admired her face. Was she to remain hidden in this humble, lowly house, where no one saw her but Earle and the few men whom business brought to the farm? It was not to be imagined. She raised her beautiful head with a clear, defiant gaze.
"I do not care," she said to herself, "whether it is right or wrong; I do not care what the price or penalty may be, I will go and take my share of what men and women call life."
And from that resolution, taken on a calm, bright summer day, under the golden light of heaven, with the song of the birds in her ears, she never once swerved or departed, let it cost her what it might.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE FLIGHT AT MIDNIGHT.
"It will be a fine moonlight night," said honest Mark Brace. "If this weather lasts, Patty, we shall have a good balance in the bank by the end of the year."
"Thank Heaven!" said his wife, "a little money is a comfortable thing, Mark; there is always a blessing on honest industry."
It was nearly nine o'clock; a late hour for Mark and his simple industrious habits; but after supper he had taken his pipe and found the conversation of his wife and daughter very delightful. Doris was not with them; she had letters to write to an old schoolfellow; she said she wanted to attend to them that very evening.
Insensibly, the absence of Doris was something of a relief to the honest farmer and his wife. When Doris was present, she kept them in a continual turmoil. They honestly believed themselves bound to correct her, to admonish her, to check her wild flow of words, the careless and often irreligious speech, and she never brooked the correction; so that most evenings in the old homestead were of a stormy nature. It was something of a relief, therefore, to have his homely wife on one side, and his daughter on the other. Honest Mark could indulge in that which his soul loved best; a few homely jests and solemn assurances of his own prosperity, while the bright, beautiful girl who puzzled him, was beyond the reach of his understanding, was busied in her own affairs.
"It is after nine," said Mark, "and I am tired. How was it that Earle did not return?"
"He knew that he could not see Doris," said Mattie, with a smile that was half a sigh.
Mark laughed when he was at a safe distance from her. There was nothing that Mark enjoyed more than what he called Doris' airs and graces.
"She keeps him in order," he said, slyly. "Mattie, if ever you think of being married, take a lesson from your sister, my dear."
"I hope she will not," said Mrs. Brace. "The true secret of being a good wife, Mattie, is to love your husband better than yourself; and though Doris is beautiful as a day-star, she will never do that."
Then Mark looked out into the quiet, white moonlight, and said:
"I shall begin to work in the Thorpe Meadows to-morrow, I hope the birds will wake me when the sun rises." And as he passed Doris' room he saw the light underneath the door. "Good-night," he said; "do not sit up late, writing, or you will spoil your eyes, and then Earle will grumble at me."
"I shall not be late," said Doris.
And Mark Brace, without a thought of the tragedy looming, went on.
Mrs. Brace saw the light, but she had not yet forgotten the cruel reception of her advice about the gray calico.
"Good-night, Doris," she said, without entering.
But Mattie went into the room. The excuse had been a perfectly true one. Doris sat writing still, with a tired look on her face, her round, white arms on the table, and two letters by her side.
"I have finished," she said, looking at Mattie.
"What can I do for you, Doris—shall I stay and talk to you?"
"No," she interrupted; "I am tired, and I would rather be alone."
"Good-night," said Mattie, not particularly liking the rebuff.
Then Doris went to her, and clasped her arms round her sister's neck.
"Good-night, little Mattie—good, simple Mattie. Kiss me."
The brown eyes were raised slowly to her face.
"You have never asked me to kiss you before, Doris."
"Have I not? Perhaps I never may ask you again. Perhaps if I asked you for a kiss this time next year, you would refuse to give it to me."
"No, I should never do that, Doris."
And the two faces—one so brilliantly beautiful, the other so good in its intelligent kindness—touched each other.
Long afterward Mattie remembered that the warm arms had seemed to tighten their clasp round her neck; then Doris drew away, with a little mocking laugh.
"What a sentimental scene!" she said; "the world must be coming to an end."
Mattie wondered a little at her sister's manner, then remembered that she never ought to be surprised, let Doris do what she might.
"Good-night," she repeated as she quitted the room, so little dreaming of all that would pass before she saw that face again.
Then Doris re-read her letters.
"Kindness in this case would only be cruelty," she said to herself. "Better for Earle to know at once. I should prefer sudden death to lingering torture." The beautiful lips curved in a smile that had in it much of pity. "Poor Earle!" she murmured, as she placed the letter written to him on the table. It ran as follows:
"Dear Earle,—I have thought it all over—my promise to marry you, and your great wish that I should become your wife. I have thought it all over, and feel convinced that it will not do—we should not be happy. What I want, in order to be happy, you cannot give me. You will have to work hard for money, then you will have but little of it. We are better apart. I love you, and it will be a sorrow to leave you; but it is all for the best. I have gone away where it will be useless to follow me. I am going abroad as governess to some little children, and that will give me a chance to see the world I am longing to behold.
"You will try to forget me, will you not, Earle? Is it any use suggesting to you that Mattie would be a far more sensible wife for you than I could ever make? Do not try to find me; I am going abroad under another name, and it would not please me to see you. I say good-bye to you with sorrow. As far as I can love any one, I love you. Doris."
It was a cold, heartless, decided letter; but it was twenty times better, she thought, in its decisive cruelty, than if she had lingered over soft farewell phrases. There was a second letter, even more cruel and more curt. It was addressed "To Father, Mother, and Mattie," and ran thus:
"I write to you all together as I have not time for three separate letters. You will be surprised in the morning not to see me. I have borne this kind of life as long as it was possible for me to do so, and now I am going away. I hope you will not make any effort to find me; I do not want to return to Brackenside—I do not want to marry Earle. I am going to teach some little children; and though it may not be quite the life I should like, it will be better than this."
It was not a kind letter. She placed them both together and pinned them to the cushion of the toilet-table.
"Mattie will see them the first thing in the morning," she said, "and ah, me, what a sensation they will make!"
Then she looked at her little watch; it was but just ten; she had to go to the railway station at Quainton, and catch the mail train for Liverpool—it would pass there at midnight. She had to walk some distance through the fields and on the high-road.
"I am sorry the moon shines so clearly, it will be light as day."
The moon had looked down on many cruel deeds, perhaps on none more cruel than the flight of this young girl from the roof that had so long sheltered her, the home that had been hers. Her path lay over a broken heart, and as she set her fair feet on it no remorse or regret came to her as the crimson life-blood flowed.
When she had crossed the meadows that led from the farm, she stood still and looked back at the pretty homestead; the moonbeams glistened in the windows, the great roses looked silvery, the ivy and jasmine clung to the walls, the flowers lay sleeping in the moonlight; there was the garden where she had spent the long, sunny days with Earle, there was the path which lead to the woods, the spreading tree underneath whose shades Earle had told of his great love. She looked at it all with a smile on her lips; no thought of regret in her heart.
"It is a dull, dreary place," she said to herself; "I never wish to see it again." Then she added: "I have killed Earle."
Good-bye, sweet, soft moonlight; good-bye, white-robed purity, girlish innocence—all left behind with the sleeping roses and the silent trees!
She turned away impatiently: perhaps the moonbeams had, after all, a language of their own that stirred some unknown depths in the vain, foolish heart.
Then she hastened down the high-road, thinking how fortunate it was that the country side was so deserted. The town of Quainton rose before her, the church, the market hall, and last of all the railway station. It wanted a quarter of an hour yet to midnight, and she remembered her lover's injunction that her face was not to be seen. She was careful enough never to raise the veil.
"I wonder," she thought to herself, "why he disliked the idea of my being seen?"
Then she laughed a little mocking laugh.
"It would be inconsistent," she said, "for the model of 'innocence' to be seen at a railway station at midnight."
There were few passengers for the mail train; she managed to get her ticket first-class for Liverpool without attracting much attention, or exciting any comment or surprise. During the few moments she stood there, she told the porter that she was going to meet her husband, whose ship had just reached the shore. Her face had flushed as she took out Lord Vivianne's purse and Lord Vivianne's money to pay for her ticket; then the mail train came thundering into the station: there was a minute or two of great confusion. She took her seat in a first-class carriage, then left Earle and Brackenside far behind.
"That is all done with," said Doris. "Those quiet pastoral days are ended, thank Heaven!"
No warning came to her of how she should return to the home she was in such haste to quit.
The journey was a long one. A flush of dawn reddened the sky, and the dew was shining, the birds beginning to sing, as she reached the great bustling city of Liverpool. She was half bewildered by the noise and confusion. A porter found a cab for her, and she gave the address of the hotel Lord Vivianne had given her. There was a long drive through the wilderness of streets, then she reached the hotel.
She felt, in spite of all her courage, some little timidity, when she found herself in those rooms alone. Her thoughts turned involuntarily to Earle—Earle, always tender and true, considerate of her comfort. What if this new lover, this rich young lord, should fail her, after all?
She looked in a large mirror. Ah, no! he would not fail her; though she had been traveling all night, the dainty coloring of her exquisite face was unfaded. The light flashed in her eyes, in her golden hair; the smooth satin skin was fair as ever. There was not the faintest trace of fatigue on that radiant beauty, and then she started from her reverie.
One of the servants brought her a card, she read on it the name of "Mr. Conyers," and she knew that Lord Vivianne was there.
CHAPTER XXX.
A THORN IN THE GARDEN OF ROSES.
"I do not think anything could have been more cleverly managed," said Lord Vivianne. "You have brought nothing with you?"
"No," she replied; and the thought rose in her mind, "I have left all I ought to value most behind;" but prudently enough refrained from speaking.
"I do not see how it can be possible to trace us," he continued, "even should any one try."
"Earle will try," she said, with a slight shudder. "He will look the world through, but he will find me in the end."
Her face grew slightly pale as she spoke, and Lord Vivianne drew near to her.
"You are not frightened at Earle, nor any one else, while you are with me, Dora?" He preferred this name to Doris, and the fanciful change pleased her greatly. "You need not be frightened, Dora," He continued. "You do not surely imagine that I am unable to take care of you?"
"I was not thinking of you, but of Earle," she said, simply. "I am always rather frightened when I think of him: he loved me so very much, and losing me will drive him mad."
An expression of impatience came over Lord Vivianne's face; he was passionately in love with the beautiful girl before him, but he had no intention to play the comforter in this the moment of his triumph.
"Say no more of Earle, Dora; if he annoys you, so much the worse for him. Now we will order breakfast, then take the ten o'clock express for London. I had even thought of crossing over to Calais to-day, if you are not too tired."
Her face brightened at the thought—Earle was already forgotten.
"That will be charming," she replied, all graver thoughts forgotten in the one great fact that she was going where she would be admired beyond all words.
Then, for the first time in her life, Doris sat down to a dainty and sumptuous breakfast. It was all novel to her, even this third-rate splendor of a Liverpool hotel. The noiseless, attentive servants—the respect and deference shown to them delighted her.
"After all," she thought to herself, "this is better than Brackenside."
Then Lord Vivianne turned to her with a smile.
"You are so sensible Dora," he said, "that I can talk to you quite at my ease; and that is a great treat after listening to the whims and caprices of the women of the fashionable world."
With artful sophistry he stated that for family reasons it would be inadvisable, if not really rash, to have a marriage ceremony—that at the present time it would utterly blight his prospects. When two loving hearts were joined by their own free consent, and vowed to live for each other, the union was just as binding, he argued, as though a clergyman had united them. To prevent recognition and gossip, it would be necessary for him to change his name; "and for the future," he added, "we shall travel and be known as Mr. and Mrs. Conyers."
This plan did not please Doris. It was not what she had anticipated.
"Being a farmer's daughter," she thought, "he thinks me unfit to associate with his titled friends. But, for all that, I shall show him that I am their equal. Yes, he shall change his mind. I shall so fascinate him that he will yet be glad to proclaim me his wife, the Lady Vivianne."
She now began to realize that she had made the first false steps in deceiving the trusting poet, Earle Moray, and in consenting to a secret departure from her humble home and loving parents. Yet the die was cast; ambition and a determination to accomplish her wishes forced her forward. She had great confidence, as we have seen, in the influence of her beauty. Therefore, after some half-hearted objections, which he adroitly overcame by his specious arguments, she consented to all his plans.
"Trust me, dear Dora," he said, delightedly, "and you shall have everything your heart can desire."
By this time breakfast was over, and it was time to leave the hotel, if they wished to catch the morning train for London. With no fuss or excitement, just as if he was paying for a cigar; Lord Vivianne settled his bill, gave a liberal fee to the waiter—a golden guinea—and half an hour later "Mr. and Mrs. Conyers" were in a first-class compartment, on the train for the great metropolis.
When they reached London, Lord Vivianne said, looking with a smile at his companion's plain dress:
"You cannot go to Paris in that fashion, Dora. You must have some suitable dresses. It will not be too late for Madame Delame's; you had better go there at once."
She desired nothing better. She held out her white hand to him with a charming gesture.
"You must advise me," she said; "I shall not know what to buy. This was the most extensive purchase of my life," and she pointed to a plain, dark silk dress which Mrs. Brace thought much too good for a farmer's daughter.
"I know what will suit your fair style of beauty," he said; "a rich costume of purple velvet."
Her eyes shone with delight—purple velvet! her ambition was realized. For a few moments she was speechless with joy. She forgot altogether, in that, the first realization of her dream, the price she had paid for it.
In the next hour Doris was standing, flushed and beautiful, in Madame Delame's room. If madame had any idea who her aristocratic customer was she made no sign. When he said that Mrs. Conyers was going abroad, and that she wanted to begin with an elegant traveling costume, the lady blandly acquiesced. Even Madame Delame, accustomed as she was to aristocratic beauty, marveled at the high-bred loveliness of the girl before her. Very young to be Mrs. Conyers—very young to be married.
She looked involuntarily at the small white hand; a gold ring shone there—was it a wedding-ring? Madame Delame knew the world pretty well, but she sighed as she gazed.
Her artistic talents were called into play; she had not often so lovely a patron to dress, nor carte blanche as to the number and price of the dresses. She took a positive pleasure in enhancing the girl's beauty, in finding rich, delicate lace for the white neck and rounded arms, in finding shining silks and rich velvets; and when Doris stood arrayed in marvelous costume, the graceful, slender figure shown to the greatest advantage by the dress—the dainty coloring of the face made more beautiful by contrast with the rich purple, then madame raised her hands in silent admiration, then trusted she should again have the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Conyers.
Lord Vivianne said to Doris in a low voice:
"I think you have all that you require here; you can get more in Paris, when you have a maid."
Madame Delame said to herself, as they left the place, that no matter how long she lived, she should never forget the face of Mrs. Conyers.
Once more they were driving through London streets, and this time Doris was too happy to think of anything except her dresses. Lord Vivianne could not take his eyes off that beautiful face. He congratulated himself, over and over again on his wonderful good fortune.
"Who could have thought," he said to himself, "that so fair a flower blossomed in that obscure place."
And while he looked at her, it seemed to him, as it had done to Gregory Leslie, that there was something familiar in the face; that he had either seen that or one very like it before.
A few more days, and they were settled in one of the most luxurious mansions near the Tuileries. Then, indeed, was every wish of Doris' heart fulfilled. Well-trained servants waited upon her; the magnificent rooms were carpeted with velvet pile, the hangings were of the richest silks and lace; wherever she went large mirrors showed the beautiful figure from head to foot; she had a carriage and a pair of horses that were the admiration of all Paris; she had jewels without number, and more dresses than she could wear; she had a maid whose business it seemed to be to anticipate every wish. What more could she desire?
Lord Vivianne was kind, but he did not treat her with any great amount of deference. There was, however, one very good characteristic, as she thought it—he was unboundedly generous; if she expressed a wish he never hesitated about gratifying it; he never counted either trouble or expense.
Enhanced by the aid of dress, of perfume, by the skill of a Parisian maid, her beauty became dazzling. He was very proud of her; he liked to drive out with her, and see all the looks of admiration cast upon her; he liked to feel himself envied. She was, without exception, the fairest woman in Paris; and his pride in her was proportionately great.
The opera was then in full tide of success, and Doris never wearied of going there. It was not that she was particularly fond of music, but she enjoyed the triumph of her own bright presence; she was the observed of all observers. The sensation that her fair loveliness created was not to be surpassed.
One asked another, "Who is it?"
"The beautiful Englishwoman, Mrs. Conyers."
"Who is Mrs. Conyers?"
No one knew, and there lay the sting; there was the one thorn in her garden of roses; she drained the cup of pleasure to the dregs; she missed no fete, no opera; she was introduced to gentlemen, but never to ladies; she had pleasant little dinners, where some of the wittiest conversation took place, but no ladies came near; and she would fain have seen herself envied by women as well as admired by men; that was the one thing she desired above all others. But there was no one to envy her.
She asked Lord Vivianne one day why it was. He looked at her and laughed a most peculiar laugh.
"I am afraid, Dora, that you must learn to be content with the society of gentlemen."
She understood, then, it was one of the penalties of her sin.
Another thing annoyed her and made the gayeties of Paris unpleasing to her. She was walking with Lord Vivianne in the Champs Elysees, and suddenly she saw him start, and looking at him, his face flushed hotly.
"How unfortunate!" he muttered to himself.
Then she saw in the distance a little group of English people; a young gentleman, who was talking to an elderly lady, with a mild, sad face, and a tall, dark girl with proud, bright eyes. The gentleman saw Lord Vivianne first, but instead of stopping to speak his lordship turned quickly away, much to Doris' disappointment.
"I would not have missed seeing these people on any account," he said impatiently.
"Why did you not speak to them?" she asked wonderingly.
"How could I," he retorted, "while you were here?"
She made no reply, but the words struck her with a terrible pain.
She, the fairest woman in Paris, she whom Earle called his queen—it was not to be borne.
She went home, resolved if possible, to alter this state of things, and if she could not, to go away from Paris.
"We will go to Italy," she thought, "where he will not meet English people whom he knows."
Her desire was granted. Five days after that little scene she was with Lord Vivianne in one of the prettiest villas near Naples.
CHAPTER XXXI.
"I COULD SOONER PLUNGE A DAGGER IN HIS HEART."
Such a beautiful morning! The golden sunbeams falling like blessings on the earth; the birds singing in a delirium of happiness. The sweet, warm air brooding over the fragrant flowers; all nature seemed awake, happy and smiling; the sky gave its fairest colors; earth yielded its richest fragrance.
Earle woke with the earliest singing of the birds. He smiled at his own impatience. He had not seen Doris since yesterday morning, and it seemed to him a whole week. She had asked him to go to Quainton under the pretext of fulfilling some little commission, and he had not caught one glimpse of her afterward. He was impatient to behold her. The glory of the morning sun, the rapturous music of the birds, was nothing to him, who longed for one look at her face—for one sound of her voice.
It was so early, he hardly dared venture on going to Brackenside, yet he could not rest away. He walked across the fields, little dreaming whose light footsteps had passed over there last. He lingered by the stiles and in the lanes until it struck eight, then he felt sure that Doris would be down-stairs.
At the farm all was activity; the men were at work; the rosy-faced dairy-maid was tripping along with her well-filled cans. He saw Mark Brace in the distance, deeply intent on driving a very comfortable pig where it sternly refused to go. The air was filled with pleasant sounds—the busy hum of work, the song of birds, the ripple of the stream, the murmur of the wind. Earle, the poet, heard it all. He laughed aloud when he saw Mark wiping his brow, and nodding at him as though he would fain say that all conversation would be useless until the struggle was ended. Comedy and tragedy always go hand in hand. Earle's hearty, genial laugh rang out clear on the morning air, and while he lived he never so laughed again.
"Thank Heaven!" he said to himself, "that I am not to be a farmer."
Then when he came through the garden, one of the prettiest scenes in the world met his eye.
There was a large porch before the house, cool, roomy, and shady, overhung with jasmine and roses. The morning was very warm, and the day gave promise of being intensely hot. A white table had been placed in the porch, and on it stood a quantity of ripe, delicious fruit. Mrs. Brace and Mattie were busily engaged in preparing it for preserving; their fingers were stained crimson with the juice. Both faces looked up as Earle entered, and smiled, while Earle thought he had never seen a prettier picture than the sunlit garden with its gay flowers. The shady porch, the luxurious fruit, the kindly faces, yet he looked anxiously around. Without Doris it was like the world without the sun. The bright, beautiful face was sure to be smiling at him from the flower-wreathed windows, or from beneath the trees.
"You are looking for your love, Earle," said Mrs. Brace, in her kindly way. "She is a lazy love this morning. She is not down yet."
"I am glad she is resting," said Earle, too loyal to allow even the faintest suspicion of idleness.
Mrs. Brace laughed.
"Doris leads a life very much like the lilies in the field," she said. "She neither toils nor spins. Mattie shall call her if you like."
"No," said Earle. "I will wait until she comes."
Then Mattie joined in the conversation.
"Doris is tired this morning, Earle," she said, quietly. "She sat up quite late last night writing letters."
"Letters!" repeated Earle, with a touch of pardonable jealousy. "To whom was she writing, Mattie?"
And the girl who loved him so deeply and so silently detected the pain in his voice. She looked up at him with a smile.
"To some schoolmates. She liked some of the girls very much."
Then Earle was quite at ease. He sat for some time watching the sunlit scene, and the busy fingers among the scarlet fruit. At last, while the bees hummed drowsily, they heard the clock strike nine; and the sound seemed to die away over the flowers.
"Nine," said Mrs. Brace, laughingly. "Mattie, you may be sure that Doris does not want to stain her fingers with the fruit. Go and tell her she need not touch it."
Earle felt deeply grateful toward the woman. It was all very well, but even he did not like the idea of those sweet white hands all crimsoned with ripe fruit.
"Tell her from me, Mattie," he added, "that the whole world will be dark and cold until I see her."
Mattie hastened away with a low laugh on her lips at the extravagant words. She was absent some little time, and kindly Mrs. Brace, seeing that Earle looked anxious, entertained him in her simple fashion with many little anecdotes about Doris, her beauty and wit as a child, her pretty, imperious fashion of managing Mark.
When Mattie returned she did not look anxious but surprised.
"See how we have all misjudged Doris," she said; "she must have been up and out for some time."
"Out!" repeated Earle.
"Yes; she is not in her room, nor in the house. The morning is so fine, and so sweet, it has very probably tempted her."
"But where can she have gone?" asked Earle. "I did not see her."
"No; you came from Lindenholm, while she is most probably gone to post the letters she wrote last night; gone to Quainton."
"Then I will go and meet her," said Earle. "But what a strange idea of her to go to Quainton alone. Why did she not wait for me?" He looked at Mattie as he spoke.
She answered him with a smile.
"When I can tell you what the birds are singing about," she said, "I shall be able to explain the caprices of Doris. Go and meet her; then you will understand."
Once more Earle hurried off in the sunshine, leaving mother and daughter busy with the fruit.
Mrs. Brace looked after him with a sigh.
"Poor Earle," she said. "Doris might be a little more civil to him. Although they are going to be married, Mattie, I do not think she cares for him a bit."
Mattie made no answer. She had long since arrived at the same conclusion. Whatever Doris might be going to marry Earle for, it certainly was not for love.
An hour passed. The sunshine grew warmer, the bees hummed, the butterflies with bright wings hovered round the roses; but neither Earle nor Doris returned.
Earle hurried on the road to Quainton. As he crossed the high-road he saw a man breaking stones. He went up to him and asked him if he had seen a young lady pass by.
"No; he had been to work there since five in the morning, but no one had passed by."
"Strange," thought Earle; "but he is old and half blind—most probably he did not see her; yet, with her bright, lovely face, and hair like threads of gold, how could he miss her?"
He walked on until he came to the toll-bar. Outside the pretty, white-gabled cottage a woman sat knitting in the sunshine. To her Earle went, with the same question—"Had she seen a young lady pass by?"
"No." She had been there since seven, knitting and keeping the gate. There had been gentlemen on horseback, farmers' wagons, but no young lady had passed by that gate since seven.
He did not understand it, and a vague uneasiness came over him. Still he walked on to Quainton. The post-office was in the principal street, and if she were there at all, he should be sure to see her. But at the post-office he found men busily repairing the outer wall—they had been at work some hours. From them he asked the same question—"Had they seen a young lady who had come to post letters?"
"No." They had been to work since six, but they had not seen any young lady.
"Then Mattie must have been mistaken," thought Earle; "my darling has not been near Quainton at all; perhaps she is waiting for me now at home."
He returned by the woods, and when he came to any favorite nook of hers, he stopped and cried aloud: "Doris."
The only answer that came to him was the rustling of the sweet western wind in the leaves, and the song of the birds.
The church clock struck eleven as he came in sight of Brackenside. He raised his eager eyes—Heaven help him!—expecting to see Doris in the garden or in the porch; but she was not there.
The sun was slanting over the flowers, the busy murmur of the farm grew louder. Mattie and Mrs. Brace still sat at their work, but of Doris there was no sign.
"My darling!" he said to himself, "where is she?"
"You have not met her, Earle?" said the loud, cheery voice of Mark Brace.
"No, she has not been to Quainton," he replied, "and I do not know where to look for her."
"Do not look anywhere," said Mark; "the longer you look for her the less likely you are to find her. Girls are so uncertain in their ways. Sit down and drink a glass of cider, she will come soon enough then. It seems to me," continued the honest farmer, "that she is having a game of hide-and-seek with you."
Earle thought that very probable. He drank the foaming cider, but he would not sit down.
"I must find her," he said. "If it be her sweet will and pleasure that I should look for her, I will do so."
The farmer laughed, Mrs. Brace felt sorry for him, Mattie was indignant, and Earle went through the pretty garden and all the little nooks she loved best.
He never glanced under the shade of a spreading tree, or turned aside the dense green foliage, without expecting that the bright face would turn to him with a smile; he never looked where the ferns grew most thickly, and the tall grass waved in the wind, without expecting the laughing eyes to meet him, and the gay, clear voice to ring out in sunshiny laughter. No fear, no doubt, no suspicion came to him. It was a bright morning, fair and sweet enough in itself to inspire any desire of frolic, and she liked to tease him. She had hidden away—hidden among the flowers; but he would find her, and when he did find her, he would imprison the sweet, white hands in his—he would kiss the laughing lips and beautiful face—he would take a lover's revenge for the jest she had played him.
He looked until he was tired; he called aloud, over and over again, "Doris!" until it seemed to him that the birds took up the refrain and chanted "Doris!"
He gave it up; he could not find her; he must own himself conquered; and, tired with the sultry heat and his hard morning's work, he walked back to the farm.
It seemed to him, as he drew near, that there was a strange stillness over the place. He looked in vain for Mark's honest face. The porch, too, was empty, although the fruit still stood upon the table.
"Where are they all?" thought Earle. "What a strange morning this has been!"
He looked through the rose-wreathed window of the little sitting-room, and there he saw a group that filled his very heart with dismay. Mark, Mrs. Brace, and Mattie, all standing close together, and bending over an open letter.
He watched them in silence, fighting, with a terrible courage, with this first foreboding—a chill, stern presentiment of coming evil that, man as he was, robbed him of his strength and clutched at his heart with an iron hand.
Then he heard a sob from Mrs. Brace. He saw the farmer clinch his strong hand, while he cried out:
"In Heaven's name, who is to tell Earle? I cannot."
"You must!" said Mrs. Brace.
But Mark drew back pale and trembling.
"I tell you, wife," he said, "I love the boy so well that I could sooner take him out in the sunshine and plunge a dagger in his heart than tell him this."
A great calm seemed to come over Earle as he heard.