"My darling is dead," he said to himself, "she is dead, and they are afraid to tell me. I can die too!" and opening the door he went in.
At the sight of him Mark turned away, but Mattie went up to him with outstretched hands.
CHAPTER XXXII.
"I AM A MAN, AND I WILL HAVE JUSTICE."
"I know," said Earle, gently. "I know; you are afraid to tell me; Doris is dead."
"It would be better, perhaps," said Mrs. Brace; "death is not always the greatest trouble that can happen to us."
Then Earle drew nearer, and a more terrible fear came over him. There were troubles worse than death! Surely not for him. Great drops stood on his brow, the veins in his hands swelled like huge cords, his lips grew white as the lips of the dead.
"Tell me what it is," cried he, in a hoarse voice. "You are killing me by inches. What is it?"
"She has gone away from us," said Mrs. Brace. "She has gone and left us."
He started back as though the words had stabbed his heart.
Mattie laid her hand on his arm. By the might of her own love she understood his fears.
"Not with any one else, Earle," she said. "Do listen to me, dear. She has not gone away with anyone else; but life here was dull for her; she did not like it; she has gone abroad to teach little children. It is not so dreadful, Earle, after all."
But he looked at her with vague, dull eyes.
"Not like the life!" he repeated. "But I am here! Dull! How could it be dull? I am here!"
"Tell him the truth, Mattie," said Mrs. Brace; "there is no use in deceiving him any more; he has been deceived long enough; tell him the truth."
He looked from one to the other with haggard eyes.
"Yes, tell me," he said; "tell me the worst."
"She did not love you, Earle," said Mattie, with a deep sob; "she has gone away because she did not want to marry you."
"I do not believe it!" he gasped. "I will not believe it! Oh, Heaven! How do you dare to slander her so? She did love me. Why should she pretend? She promised to be my wife; why should she if she did not love me?"
"My poor Earle," said Mattie; and in his hand she placed the letter. "I never thought there was anything wrong," she continued; "but when neither of you returned, I went back into her room to look for something, and found these letters. They were pinned to the toilet cushion. One is for us, one for you. Oh, Earle, if I could but bear your sorrow for you."
He turned away, without one word, and opened the letter. They could never tell how he had read it, how long he was in mastering its contents, what he thought of them, or how he bore the pain. He made no comment as he read, his white lips never moved, no murmur escaped him; but, after a time—it seemed to them endless time—he fell with his face to the ground, as a brave man falls when he receives a death-wound.
"It has killed him," said Mrs. Brace. "Oh! that false, wicked girl! He is dead, Mattie?"
But Mattie, quick as thought, had raised his head and held it in her arms.
"He is not dead, mother," she said. "Run for my father." For one short minute she was left with him alone, then she raised her troubled face, repeated her well-known prayer: "God save Earle! If I could but have borne it for him!" she thought.
Then the farmer came in, utterly useless and incompetent, as men are in the presence of great trouble which they cannot understand. He commenced his assistance by talking loudly against the perfidy of women; and when his daughter sensibly reminded him that that was no longer any use, he began to lament the folly of men in loving women so madly; reminded again that this was still more useless, Mark raised the helpless figure in his strong arms, tears running down his face. He laid Earle on a couch, and then looked helplessly at him.
"I do not know what is to be done for him," he said. "His mother will go distracted. Ah! wife, she would have done a kinder deed, that golden-haired lassie of ours, if she had killed him at once."
Then Mark Brace went away.
"The women must manage it," he said to himself. His tender heart was wrung by the sight of that anguish.
It was Mattie who ministered to him, until Earle opened his eyes, and looked at her with a glance that frightened her.
"I remember it all," he said, hoarsely; "she has gone away because she did not love me—did not want to marry me. Will you leave me alone, Mattie?"
"If you will promise me not to do anything to hurt yourself," she said.
"I shall not do that. Do you know why? She promised to marry me, and she shall do it. To find her I will search the wide world through. I will follow her, even to the valley of the shadow of death, but she shall be my wife as she has promised to be—I swear it to the just high God!"
"Hush, my dear; your great sorrow drives you mad. You will think differently after a time."
"I shall not," he replied; "she shall be my wife. Listen, Mattie; bend down to me while I whisper. She shall be my wife, or I will kill her!"
"Hush! You do not mean it. Your sorrow has made you mad."
"No, I am not mad, Mattie." He held both her hands tightly in his own. "I am not mad, but I will have my just rights, or my just revenge." His breath flamed hotly upon her face. "You will remember that, on the day she fled from me, I swore never to rest until I found her; never to rest until she was my wife, and if she refused to be that, I swore to murder her!"
Mattie shrank from him, trembling and frightened.
"No wonder," he said, "that men go mad; women make devils of them. No wonder they slay that which they love best; women madden them. What have I done?—oh, Heaven! what have I done that I should suffer this? Listen to me before you go. I gave her my love—she has mocked it, laughed at it. I gave her my genius—she has blighted it, she has crushed it. I gave her my heart—it has been her toy and her plaything for a few short months, she has broken it with her white hands, she has danced over it with her light feet. I gave her my life, and she has destroyed it. I am a man, and I will have justice; she shall give back to me what I have given her, or I will kill her."
She saw that he was growing more wild with every word: his face flushed hotly, his lips burned like fire, his eyes were filled with flame. She was afraid of him; and yet in this, the darkest hour of his need, she could not leave him. Again and again from her lips, as she knelt there trying to console him, came the prayer of which she never tired—"God save Earle."
At last the wild raving—she could only think it raving—ceased; she saw his eyes darken and droop.
"He will sleep now," thought Mattie, "and sleep will save him."
She drew down the blinds, and shut out the bright sunshine; then, with a long, lingering look at the changed, haggard face, she left him.
Mrs. Brace saw her come from the little parlor, looking so white and wan that her mother's heart ached for her. She kissed the pale face.
"That wicked girl is not going to kill you as well as Earle," she said. "I will not have you distressed in this way."
"Oh, mother!" cried Mattie, "never mind my distress, think of Earle. Earle will go mad or die."
"Nothing of the kind, my dear. He was sure to feel very keenly. He loved Doris very much, but he will not die. It takes a great deal to kill. He has too much sense to go mad. He will get over it in time, and be just as fond of some one else."
Mattie had a truer insight into his nature than had Mrs. Brace.
They went in several times that day to look at him; he lay always in the same position, his face shaded with his hand and turned from the light, sleeping heavily they thought, but sleep and Earle were strangers. He lay there—only Heaven knew what he suffered during these hours of silence and solitude—going over and over again in his own mind all that he had ever said or done to Doris. She had been difficult to win; she had been coy, and he thought proud, sensitive; but he did really believe, from the depths of his heart, that she loved him. What motive could she have had in deceiving him if she had not really loved him? It would have been just as easy to have said so as not. There was no need for the deception. She could have rejected him just as easily as she accepted him.
He alternated between hope and despair. At one time he felt quite sure that she loved him, and that this was only a caprice, nothing more; she was determined not to be easily won. Then his mood changed, and he despaired. She had never loved him, and preferred leaving home and every one rather than marry him.
Still, in one thing, he was inflexible; let it be how it might, he was determined to find her. He would search the whole world through, but find her he would.
He was spared, in that hour of anguish, one trial; no pang of jealousy came to him; he felt certain of one thing, at least, if Doris did not love him, she loved no one else. If she would not marry him, she was not going to marry another. He knew quite well that here at Brackenside she had seen no one; thank Heaven at least for that.
Then a deep, heavy, dreamless sleep came over him. When he woke again it was night and honest Mark, with a face full of bewildered pain, was standing over him.
"Come, Earle," he said, "this will never do; you have been here all day without food. You must not give way after this fashion."
But the troubled eyes raised to his had no understanding in them.
"Remember," continued Mark, with his simple eloquence, "you are the only son of your mother, and she is a widow."
The words, in their simple pathos, struck Earle. He rose from his couch, and Mark saw, as he did so, that he shuddered and trembled like one seized with mortal cold.
"What do you wish me to do, Mark?" he said.
"Take something to eat, then go home to your mother. The world is not all ended because a golden-haired lassie has chosen to run away from you. Women are all very well," continued Mark, with an air of oracular wisdom, "but the man who trusted his whole heart in them would not be a wise man."
"Then I have been foolish," said Earle, "for I trusted my life and my love together."
He was standing up then, looking around him with vague, bewildered eyes.
"I am to go home, Mark?" he said at last.
And the farmer, believing that air and exercise would be best for him, said "Yes."
But Earle turned away with a sick shudder from the food that was offered to him.
"I could sooner eat ashes," he said.
And they forebore to press him.
"You will feel better to-morrow," said Mark. "A night's sleep makes a wonderful difference in our way of looking at matters."
But Mattie and her mother followed him with wistful eyes.
"She has spoiled his life," said Mrs. Brace.
"She has broken his heart," said Mattie.
Then they seemed to remember that all their sympathy was given to Earle, and they had not thought of being sorry for themselves.
Mattie had lost, as she believed, her sister, yet her thoughts were all for Earle.
The three sat in silence. It was Mark who broke it first:
"So, after all, it was to Earle and to us she was writing," he said, "and not to her school-fellows. I wish I had gone in the room and looked over her shoulder; I should have known, then, what she was doing."
"It would not have prevented it," said Mrs. Brace. "Doris has always had her own way, no matter who suffered by it; if she had not gone now, she would have gone another time."
Then Mark looked up with a puzzled face.
"She has seen no one, to my knowledge," he said, "since she left school. How did she manage, I wonder, to get this situation?"
The solution of that problem occupied the remainder of the evening. They could not imagine how she had contrived it. To them it was another proof of her indomitable will, proving that she would accomplish her ends, no matter what they were, or at what cost.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THERE IS NO TRUE LOVE EXCEPT THE LOVE OF A MOTHER.
Out once more under the pale light of the stars, repassing the same road that he had trodden a few hours since, so full of hope and love.
Earle walked like one dizzy from a great blow; the silent, pitiful stars, with their great golden eyes, shone down from the depths of the blue sky; the night wind seemed to hush, the birds were silent, the birds were asleep.
"Doris!" he cried, in a loud, passionate voice, "have you really gone from me, Doris?"
It seemed to him that the force of his love, the might of his affection, must call her back—she could not resist him. Surely the most pitiful cry that rose to the clear heavens that night was the cry of this broken heart.
"Doris!" sounded so distinctly that it startled the birds from their sleep; but no answer came to his call.
How he reached home he never knew. The stars were shining when he left Brackenside—they were shining when he reached Lindenholm; but he never knew how long he had been coming.
His mother, looking pale and tired, was waiting for him. She had felt impatient with him before, thinking that as he saw Doris every day, it was surely not needful to prolong his wooing until late at night, knowing that she must sit up for him; but one look at his face took away all thought of self. Wonder and alarm shone in her eyes as she gazed at his drawn, haggard features.
Then, as he had often done when he was a boy, he knelt at her feet and laid his head on her knee.
"Doris has gone away, mother," he said.
When she heard that she knew all. They sat talking, mother and son, far into the night; and then Mrs. Moray learned something of the passionate love of her son for the girl who had promised to be his wife. In that hour his whole heart was opened to her, and she listened in wondering fear. To love anything created, any human being after this wild fashion, seemed to her most wonderful and most sinful. It was a volcano, this poet's love. She laid her hand on the fair, bowed head of her son.
"It is the old story, Earle," she said, "of worshiping an idol, then finding it clay. You think your pain intolerable, impossible to bear; yet it is but the same as every man, and woman, too, who sets his or her heart upon a creature has to endure. There is no true love in this world, Earle—none," she continued, with passionate bitterness, "except the love of a mother for her child."
"I cannot believe it, mother. You loved my father, did you not—and he loved you?"
"Yes," she replied, "we had a deep, true, loyal affection for each other, but, Earle, listen, my son. My first love was a young soldier, who died in India; and before he knew me, your father had been deceived just as you have been. Oh! believe me, turn where you will, on which side you may, there is no reliance to be placed on human love."
He bent his head with a moan that went to his mother's heart.
"Then why," he said, "have I youth, and strength, and life, if I may not have love? I cannot believe it, mother, I love my love, and I will have her—I will search this wide world over, but I will find her. She is mine—my promised wife; her hands have been in mine, I have kissed her lips, and I would rather kill her and slay myself than that any one else should take her from me."
And his mother, with all her severity, knew that it was useless to argue with him then, nor did there come to her for long an opportunity for saying any more. That night she knelt by her son's bedside, as she had done many hundreds of times when he was a child; she bathed his hot brow, she made him repeat, after her, the simple prayers he had said as a child; and when, at last, the deep yet troubled sleep fell over him, she prayed as Mattie did—"God save my Earle."
Hard, bitter thoughts arose in her mind against the vain girl whose falsity had destroyed him; but the hardest thought, the darkest imagination she had of her, did not equal the reality, which—Heaven be thanked!—she never lived to see.
On the next day, Earle was so ill that she would not allow him to get up. Whenever she went near him he was muttering to himself about Doris; and when he spoke aloud, it was always on one subject—going in search of her. It did not surprise Mrs. Moray, on the third day of his illness, to find him in a high fever, and to hear the doctor say, when he was sent for, that he had but little hope of his life. They, for the time, almost forgot Doris in their fear for Earle. As the long days and longer nights passed on, and the danger increased, Mrs. Moray aged terribly—the upright figure grew bent and stooping; the gray hair turned white; deep furrows came in the pale forehead—her whole, sole prayer was for the life of her son.
By her father's desire, Mattie went to Lindenholm, and remained there, so as to be a comfort to the widow. Mattie never forgot those days, the breathless suspense, the fear, the earnestness with which the unhappy mother would follow her about from room to room, saying always the same thing:
"Never mind talking to me, Mattie; pray for my son."
There came a day when the doctor said he feared no human means could save him—when the white-haired mother flung herself on her knees, crying loudly to Heaven to spare her son. She had preached, in her stern, cold way of resignation, to others, but in this, the hour of her terrible trial, she forgot all; she besieged Heaven, as it were, for her son. Even Mattie shrank from those wild words.
"Let me suffer, my God!" she cried; "send me torture and death, but spare him! let me suffer, let him live! I would give my body to be burned, my heart to be riven—but spare my only son!"
Faint with the fervor of her own words, she fell on her face, and there lay till Mattie touched her gently.
"He is asleep," she said; "Earle has fallen into a deep sleep, and the doctor says he has taken a turn for the better."
She could not thank God, for her rapture of gratitude found no words.
Who is it that says that "a prayer granted is sometimes a curse?"
The time was coming when those who loved him best said it was the greatest pity that he had not died in this illness; he would then have died with his mother's hope of heaven infolding him.
Earle grew better so slowly that the improvement could hardly be seen, and during the whole of his convalescence, his mind was busy upon the subject. He would go in search of Doris; nothing should keep him from that; neither remonstrance nor tears. The idea grew with his strength, until it became part of his life. He had some little money—money that he had saved for his marriage; he would spend it in searching for her.
One day, when the doctor came, he raised his wistful eyes to the kindly face.
"How soon shall I be able to travel?" he asked.
"Not for six weeks," was the reply, "and not even then unless you are careful."
Careful he resolved to be, and his mother wondered at his sudden submission and attention to the doctor's orders; but much that was wonderful had to happen before those six weeks were ended.
There had been great anxiety at the farm; one reason of it was, that very soon after Doris went, the money came as usual, and Mark Brace was deeply puzzled to know what to do with it. He would have returned it, but he did not know where to return it to. He took long and wise counsel with his wife, but Mrs. Brace saw no way out of the difficulty.
"If we could but write to the person who sent it, and tell her what Doris has done, it would be some comfort," she said; "but we cannot do that even."
It was settled at last, that the money should be placed in the bank, to await the return of Doris.
"She will come back," said Mark, "some day, when she has seen enough of the world she so longed for—to find out how false it is; she will come back when she wants true friends and true love; though it may be a long time first."
After long discussions, they agreed it would be better to sanction Doris' flight than to call public attention to it.
"There was nothing so injurious to a girl as to have it known that she ran away from home," Mrs. Brace said. "We must shield her all we can. We must shield her even more than if she were our own."
So, when friends and neighbors asked about her, the farmer and his wife had but one answer to make, and that was, that she had grown tired of the quiet of Brackenside, and had gone out as a governess.
Monsieur D'Anvers was the only one who persisted in his inquiries, and he asked where she had gone. Mark, who loved truth, and hated falsehood, looked uncomfortable, then replied that she had gone abroad: but for himself he did not know the names of foreign places; so it passed over. The few who knew the family told each other, as a piece of news, that the pretty Miss Brace had gone abroad as a governess. Some said, with her beautiful face she would be sure to marry well; and then the matter died away.
One day Mark returned home in a state of great excitement and happiness.
"What do you think has happened," he asked of his wife.
"You have heard from Doris," she replied.
Then for one moment his face darkened.
"No," he replied, "I have not heard from Doris. I wish you did not think so much of her; it makes you dull. I heard this morning that all the family were at the Castle again."
Mrs. Brace, seeing that he really wished her to be surprised, was surprised.
"I am very glad they are back," she said. "A great noble like the duke should live upon his own land."
"That is not all," said Mark, with irrepressible triumph. "I was walking through the market-place at Quainton this morning, and I saw the carriage with out-riders and footmen. Now, what do you think, Patty? before all the town the duke stopped the carriage and sent for me."
Then indeed Mrs. Brace felt deeply interested. How could she think too much of a duke who stopped his carriage in a public market-place and spoke to her husband?
"What did he say, Mark?" she asked.
"He said that he had been away some months, and he hoped we were all well. That proud, beautiful daughter of his was in the carriage, Lady Estelle; her voice is like a clear, soft flute. 'How do you do, Mr. Brace?' she said, and I told her that I enjoyed the best of health, hoping that she did the same."
"That was rather free spoken, Mark," said his wife, doubtfully.
"Not at all," was the sturdy reply. "She looked pleased enough; then she said: 'How is the young girl you brought to see the Castle?' I told her that Doris had gone abroad, to be a governess; she leaned back in her carriage, and held up her parasol.
"'Was she tired of Brackenside?' she asked, and I said, 'Yes—I thought she was.'
"'Is she married?' asked my lady. I said, 'No.'
"She looked at me strangely, and then the carriage drove on. It was strange altogether."
And again Mrs. Brace turned from her husband with a sigh. There was evil at hand, she was sure.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
"AFTER SO MANY YEARS OF DREAD HAS IT COME AT LAST?"
There was no part of the day that the Duke of Downsbury enjoyed so much as the breakfast hour, when his beautiful daughter and his aristocratic wife amused themselves by the discussion of letters and papers that had come by post; then Lady Estelle seemed more lively, and the very sunshine of the duke's life was the happiness of his only child. As the day passed on she grew more listless, and the expression of ennui on her face grew deeper, but with the morning light she had something of the brightness that had distinguished her as a girl.
On this morning the sun shone so fairly, the roses were blooming, the birds were singing, the whole world was bright and gay. The breakfast-room was, in itself, the very picture of comfort and luxury; the sunbeams sparkled on the costly silver, the flowers filled the air with fragrance. The duke, a fine, handsome man, the very type of an English nobleman, sat with a most contented smile on his face. The cup of tea by his plate was odorous as a bouquet of flowers. The duchess, proud and stately, was deeply engaged in the perusal of a closely-written letter. Lady Estelle, looking more beautiful than ever in the morning light, was busily engaged in doing nothing; neither book nor paper interested her; but to one who knew that fair face well, there was a cloud upon it, an expression of unusual languor and thought.
Suddenly the duke addressed his wife:
"Did I tell you, my dear, that I met my model farmer yesterday, the honest man who amused you so much by his uncertainty over his hands and feet?"
"I remember Mark Brace," said the duchess; "how could I ever forget him? He seemed to me the most honest and sensible man I ever met."
"You remember, perhaps, the pretty child, and the romantic story?"
"Yes; and I never prophesied good for that child," rejoined the duchess.
Lady Estelle raised her fair, proud face.
"Do not say that, mamma; it seems so hard upon the child."
"It will be true, my dear," said her grace, calmly. "What has become of her, I wonder? I have not heard anything of her lately."
The duke smiled.
"One part of your prophecy has come true; she was tired of Brackenside, and has gone abroad."
"Gone abroad?" repeated her grace.
It was the calm, sweet voice of Lady Estelle that replied:
"She has gone as governess to some little children, mamma; surely that was a sensible thing to do."
The duchess looked up in surprise at the unwonted interest in Lady Estelle's voice.
"It is so sensible, Estelle, that I am disposed to alter my opinion of her; she has more sense and less vanity than I gave her credit for. I am much pleased to hear it. But surely you or some one else told me she was going to be married."
"She told me so herself," replied Lady Estelle, "on the day she came here; she was going to marry a gentleman and a poet."
"Very improbable," said her grace; "gentlemen do not marry beneath them, as a rule."
She did not see the quick, hot flush that for one moment burned her daughter's face.
Then Lady Estelle leaned back in her chair, as though the subject had no further interest for her.
Suddenly the duke looked up from his paper.
"Of all the strange pieces of news I have ever read, this is the strangest," he said.
Both ladies glanced at him; the flush dying from the face of Lady Estelle left it unusually pale.
"You remember Ulric Studleigh," continued his grace, "that handsome 'ne'er-do-well?'"
This question produced a singular result. The duchess looked quickly at her daughter, then dropped her eyes. Lady Estelle started as though she had been touched to the heart by some keen, sharp sword.
"What of Ulric Studleigh?" asked her grace, in a curt voice.
"You will never believe it, my dear; he is the last man in the world to whom such luck seemed likely to fall. When he was in London, at the time we knew him so well, there were seven lives between himself and the earldom of Linleigh. By a strange chapter of accidents they are all gone. The young Earl of Linleigh died only last week, and now Ulric Studleigh has succeeded; he is Earl of Linleigh, and is expected in England next week. Only think what a change for him!"
Lady Estelle had left her seat; she stood against the window, and the face that looked through the glass was so white and wild no one could have recognized it.
"It is a great change," said the duchess; "but unless he himself has changed, fortune will not benefit him much."
"The greatest fault in him was his poverty," said the duke. "I must confess I knew little else."
The proud face of the duchess lighted with scorn.
"Did you not? I never liked the Studleigh race myself; 'faithless and debonair'—every one of them, men and women, too, 'faithless and debonair'—fair of face, light of heart, light of word, light of truth. When was a Studleigh either true to a friend or loyal to a love?"
Still no word from the silent figure at the window.
"I wonder," continued the duke, "if he is married yet?"
"It is hardly probable; the Studleighs are proud enough. He would not meet in Indian society any one whom he would care to marry."
Then the duke looked thoughtfully at his daughter. Not one line of her white face could be seen.
"He will succeed to an enormous fortune," he continued. "I should say the earldom of Linleigh is one of the richest in England. He will be a great match for one of our fair friends."
The duchess relaxed some little of her severity.
"He was certainly a very handsome man," she said; "he always made me think of one line in the quaint, old song of 'Allan Water:'
"It was impossible to resist him when with him, his daring was so frank, his compliments so graceful and well turned, yet one felt, instinctively, that the truth was not in him. Faithless and debonair. I should not like any one for whom I felt any great esteem to marry Ulric Studleigh, were he thrice an earl."
"Well, I cannot help feeling rather pleased," said the duke. "Perhaps it was a little for his handsome face, but certainly I liked him."
"When is he coming home?" asked the duchess.
"He had sailed for England long before this news could reach him, but it will greet him as soon as he lands. He is expected next week."
There was the sound of the quiet closing of a door. When the duke and duchess looked round Lady Estelle had gone. Then they glanced wistfully at each other.
"She liked him," said the duke.
"I am afraid so," said the duchess. "I half believe that it is for his sake she has remained single. Poor Estelle! Who would have thought it? We shall see how events turn out when he returns to England. They are sure to meet; then we shall see."
While Lady Estelle walked slowly through the hall, she took her garden hat and wrapped a lace shawl round her shoulders. Quietly, with her usual languid, graceful step, she passed out through the hall into the flower-garden beyond. No sound escaped her lips, and her fair, proud face was unruffled; but when she was there quite alone, the self-control and self-restraint fell from her. She raised her face with a despairing cry to the shining heavens.
"Oh, my God!" she moaned; "after so many years of dread—after so many years of unutterable fear and misery—has it come at last!"
Then she, who had never been seen to shed a tear, laid her face on the green grass and wept aloud—wept as only calm, proud people can weep when the depths of the heart are touched. She lay there a long time, while the sun shone on her, then she roused herself. Tears relieved her for the time; but in this sudden and cruel emergency they did her no enduring good.
"What am I to do?" she cried to herself. "How can I best atone for this folly and sin of my youth? What will they say to me? Oh, Heaven! if I could but die!"
So through the summer hours she wept and moaned. What should she do? The future looked dark as the past. For so long she had been putting off this evil day—fighting hard with her conscience and every impulse of honesty and goodness—hoping against hope that the evil day might, perhaps, never come at all. Yet here it was, and she was helpless.
"If she were here," she thought to herself, "it would not be so bad. I cannot see my way out of this labyrinth." And though she spent hour after hour thinking and planning, she could decide upon nothing.
That evening there was a grand dinner party at Downsbury Castle, and the principal guest was a writer from London, whose name was a power in the government. During the course of the long, stately dinner the great writer, turning to the duke, said:
"You have a famous poet in your neighborhood, or rather you have one who in time will be a famous poet."
His grace, who had forgotten what he had heard of the "gentleman and poet," asked eagerly who it was.
"The author of 'English Lyrics,'" replied the writer. "He lives, unless I mistake, at a place called Lindenholm, on your estate. Unless I make the greatest mistake, that young man has a grand career before him. I should like to meet him."
Lady Estelle, pale and stately, listened intently. This was the poet who was to marry Doris. She listened again. They spoke of the poet's sterling worth, his wonderful honesty, his noble character, and there came to her a gleam of hope in her distress.
She would go to him. In all the wide world there was no one to help her but him. She would risk all, and try him. If he proved untrue—if he refused to help her—why, even then, matters could be no worse; whereas, if he did not refuse, and was willing to come to her aid, her troubles would at least be lessened, and she could meet Ulric Studleigh with a calmer face.
CHAPTER XXXV.
"I MUST TELL YOU MY SECRET."
Earle Moray was dreadfully puzzled. Into the threads of his life a mighty, passionate, wonderful love had been woven, but there had been nothing of mystery. It had been a beautiful life, full of love, and dreams, and poetry, but it had all been open to the eye and pleasant to read.
He held something in his hands now that puzzled him—a letter written on thick satin wove paper—a letter asking him if he would be at the gate leading to Quainton woods at noon to-morrow, there to meet some one who wanted his aid.
It was a strange request. If any one wanted his aid, why did the person not seek him in his own home? Why desire to meet him in Quainton woods? Then, what could he do to help any one? Of what avail was he? He was not wise enough to give advice. If money were needed, he would do his best, certainly, but he could do little.
Then another thing puzzled him. The letter was evidently written by a lady. Certainly, the hand was disguised, but it was clear and elegant. What lady could wish to see him? Not Mattie for he had spent the whole of yesterday at the farm; he knew no one else, save Doris. His face grew hot, then cold, as he thought of her. Could it concern Doris in any way, this strange letter? Had she grown weary of being without him? Had she sent him a letter or token? Did she wish to see him? He tormented himself with doubts, hopes, and fears, but resolved to go. He was getting quite strong now; he was able to travel; he had taken care of himself; and those who did not know his motive wondered that he recovered so quickly. He had never swerved from his resolution to go in search of his lost love. Perhaps the saddest sight of all to him was the quantity of manuscript lying unfinished in his room—copies of the poems he had been engaged upon when his life was so suddenly taken from him—the great work that was to have secured for him immortality. He sighed when he looked at it, but he had never once attempted to continue it. If in the time to come he found Doris, and won her for his own again, then the golden dreams of fame and immortality would return to him; until then they were like his hopes—dead!
He had to control his impatience as best he could until noon of the day following; then he went quickly to the appointed place. An idea occurred to him that the letter might be a hoax, although on looking round on his circle of friends, he knew no one who would be likely to play any jest with him.
As he drew near the gate that led to Quainton woods, he saw that it was no jest, for walking down the woodland glade, pausing occasionally to look from right to left, was the figure of a tall, stately lady, whose face was closely veiled.
His heart beat so quickly he could hardly endure the rapid pulsation; but it was not Doris. This lady was taller, of a more stately presence than his golden-haired love; still, it might be some one whom she had sent to him.
He raised his hat and walked bare-headed to where the lady stood. The wind lifted the fair hair from his noble brow, and freshened the spiritual handsome face. As he bent before her, the lady stood quite still and looked at him long.
"You are Earle Moray, gentleman and poet," she said, in a voice of marvelous sweetness. "I recognize you from a description I once heard given of you."
"I am Earle Moray," he said; and still the lady looked as though she would fain read every thought; then, with a deep sigh, she held out her hand to him.
"I can trust you," she said. "I have but little skill, perhaps, in reading faces. I made a great mistake once when I tried, yet I can read yours. Truth, honor, loyalty, are all there. Nature never yet wrote falsely on such a face as yours. I will trust you with that which is dearer to me than my life."
Then they walked side by side in silence, until they reached a broad, shady walk which was darkened by the large, spreading boughs of the trees, Earle wondering who she was—marveling at the rich silk and velvet she wore, at the dainty grace of the gloved hand, at the proud, yet graceful beauty, at the sweet voice. Who was she? Some one who trusted him, and who should find that he was to be trusted even to the very depths.
Then the lady turned to him.
"I know it is an idle question," she paid, "but I ask it for form's sake. Will you keep true and sacred the trust I am going to place in you?"
"Until death!" he replied. "I promise it."
"Now tell me," she said—"I have a right to ask the question, as you will learn—you were betrothed to Doris, who was known as Doris Brace."
"Yes," he replied in a low voice, "I was."
"Would you mind telling me whether that engagement still exists?"
His face quivered with pain as he turned it to her.
"I cannot answer you," he said; "I do not know. To me it exists solemnly and sacredly. I do not know what Doris thinks."
Her voice was wonderfully soft and gentle as she continued:
"I know that I am paining you; I am sorry for it. Was there any quarrel between you when you parted?"
"No," he replied, "there was no quarrel."
"How was it?" she asked, gently. "Do not fear to tell me."
"I do not know; I was not good enough for her, perhaps—not bright and eloquent enough. Perhaps I loved her too dearly. She was the life of my life. She may have got tired of my mad, passionate love—only God knows. She left me."
"How did she leave you?" persisted the sweet, pitiless voice.
"I left her one day, believing she loved me, that in a very short time she would be my wife. I returned the next, and she had gone away, leaving a letter for me."
"What did that letter say?"
"It said that she could never marry me; that the quiet life and quiet ways would not suit her; that she had resolved to leave them. She was going abroad to teach some little children, and she prayed me never to find her, for she would never return."
He drew his breath with a hard, painful gasp as he finished the words.
"I shall find her," he added, with quiet force. "She promised to be my wife, and in the sight of the just God she is mine. I will never rest until I have found her, life of my life, the very heart of me. She shall not escape me."
"Then she left you and broke her promise without any sensible reason whatever?"
"If you will have the truth," he replied, "yes, she did so."
"Faithless and debonair," murmured the lady, "like all of her race."
"She is young," said Earle, in quick excuse, "and very beautiful. Perhaps in the years to come she may have more sense, and will be sorry for what she has done."
"All the sorrow in the world could not undo the wrong she has done you," said the lady.
"I would forgive her," said Earle. "She could do no wrong so great but that I could pardon her."
"You are true and noble; you are of the kind whom women torture and kill. Tell me, have you no idea where she is?"
"I have not the faintest," he replied, "I cannot tell even in what quarter of the world she is; but I have confidence in my own will—I shall find her."
"Suppose," said the lady, "that you succeed, that you find her, and that she is unwilling to marry you—what shall you do then?"
His face darkened—a new expression such as she had never seen came over it.
"That is between Heaven and myself," he replied. "Until I am tried and tempted I cannot tell you what I should do."
"You would not harm her!" she cried, laying her hand on his arm.
"Harm her! hurt Doris! Oh, no! how could I harm her? She is life of my life, heart of my heart! How could I harm her?"
"That is well. I am weak and easily frightened; I have lived for nearly twenty years in one long dream of terror. I was a girl of eighteen when my fear began—I am a woman of thirty-eight now, and I have never known one moment's cessation of fear. Do you pity me?"
"With all my heart," said Earle.
"After twenty years," she continued, "I stand face to face with the realization of my fear; the dream that has haunted me has come true; the sword has fallen; I have to answer for my girlish folly and sin—a thousand times greater than Doris'!"
Then between them for some minutes there fell perfect, unbroken silence. Again the lady broke it.
"I am in sore need," she said, "and I want a friend. I have sought you because you love Doris."
Wondering more and more, he answered that he would do anything on earth to help her.
"I feel sure you would," she said; then throwing back her veil, she asked: "Do you know me?"
He looked at her. No, he did not know her. He thought to himself that he could never have forgotten such a face if he had seen it before.
"I am Lady Estelle Hereford," she continued, "the only daughter of the Duke of Downsbury."
He was not surprised; he would not have felt surprised if she had told him she was Queen of England.
"Lady Estelle Hereford," he murmured; "but what is it possible that I can do to help you?"
"You wonder that I, the daughter of a mighty duke, should be driven to seek aid," she said. "Oh! believe me, there is no one in all England who needs it more than I do. Tell me, Earle Moray—'gentleman and poet'—I like the title—tell me, have you ever heard me discussed—spoken of?"
"Yes," he replied, frankly, "many times."
"Tell me how people speak of me!" she asked. "I know what your answer will be. It will not pain me."
"I have always heard your beauty praised," said Earle, honestly—"that you were accomplished and beautiful, but that you were one of the proudest ladies in the land."
"It is true," she said; "the time was when no girl in England was prouder than I."
He looked at the pale, high-bred face.
"It was natural," he said, simply; "you had everything to make you so."
"And now," she continued, "the proudest woman in England, Lady Estelle Hereford, is here by stealth, asking that aid from a stranger which no one else can give to her."
"Life is full of strange phases," said Earle. "But, Lady Hereford, what is it that you think I can do for you?"
"I must tell you my secret first," she said, "before you can understand——"
"Nay," he interrupted, generously, "I need not understand. If there is anything in the world that I can do for you, you have but to command me. I will be blind, deaf, mute, in your service. There is no need for me to understand."
"You are very good—I feel your delicacy," she said. "You are loyal and noble; but I must tell you my secret, and my story is not a short one. I am tired; can I rest while I tell it to you?"
In less time than it took her to ask the question, he had cleared away the creeping moss and trailing leaves from the fallen trunk of a tree.
"It is a rude resting-place," he said.
But Lady Estelle seemed grateful enough for it. She drew aside the rich silk and velvet.
"Sit down by my side," she said, gently.
He would have remained at a distance; but, with a little, graceful gesture, as of one used to command, she called him to her.
"Sit down here," she said, and he had no resource but to obey her.
Then again she was silent for some minutes; her face wore a dreamy, musing expression.
"What a strange fate!" she said. "After keeping my secret for all these years—after guarding it jealously as my life—after sacrificing only Heaven knows what to it—I tell it to you, to you, young, loyal, true-hearted—you who love Doris! There is a terrible irony, after all, in fate!"
CHAPTER XXXVI.
LADY ESTELLE'S STORY.
Looking at Lady Estelle, Earle saw that her face had grown very pale, and her hands trembled. It was so strange for him, on this beautiful, sunlit morning, to find himself seated by this pale, high-bred lady. The sun shone through the thick, green branches, and the light fell in slanting rays on the greensward; the birds sang gaily in the trees—the sweet, pitiless birds, who sing whether we are in sorrow or joy; the wild-flowers raised their beautiful heads, so fair and delicate, so fragile and sweet; there was no distress in nature.
"Dear Lady Hereford," he said, "spare yourself. You do not like to tell me this story—why do it?"
"I must," she said. "Never mind the pain for me; the pain has been greater in bearing it for twenty years than it is now in the telling of it. Looking at me, Earle Moray, can you imagine what I was twenty years ago?"
"Yes," he said, gently, "I can imagine it. Time does not dim and line a face like yours. I can see you now as you were then."
"The lightest heart—ah, me! the happiest girl—there was not one so happy! Proud, because every one told me how much I had to be proud of. I was beautiful, and the Duke of Downsbury's only daughter. What people call high prizes in this world ought to have been mine. Listen to what I have won. At eighteen I made my debut in the great world, and before I had even time to look round me, I had a number of lovers and admirers, thanks to the prestige of my father's name. I had more offers during the first season than falls to the lot of most young ladies. There was not one among the crowd of admirers for whom I cared; none interested me, none touched me. Young as I was, I longed for something that I did not find. I had great ideas of the happiness and sanctity of love. In this new world I heard but little of it. People talked of diamonds, opera-boxes, country-houses, pin-money, settlements; but I heard little of love. I had firmly resolved in my own mind that when I married it should be for love alone. I had everything else—rank, title, wealth, position. I wanted love. One great man after another—great according to the world's estimation—laid title and wealth before me, the Duke of Downsbury's heiress. I had flattery, homage, compliments, praise, but not what I thought to be love. In discussing different offers my mother would say: 'This one belongs to the oldest family in England;' of another, 'He has the fairest estates in the country;' of another, 'He is a great favorite at court;' of another, 'He can give his wife jewels fit for an empress;' but she never urged as a recommendation that any one loved me. As a rule, one values least that which one has, and longs most for that which one has not. I was born and reared in the very heart of luxury—I knew nothing else—so that I valued splendor and magnificence, luxury and wealth far less than I valued love; and while wiser heads than mine were occupied in discussing which would be the most advisable suitor for me, I was occupied in looking for some one who would love me. Is it natural, Earle Moray, that one should long to be loved?"
He looked at the pale, sad face.
"Just as natural, Lady Hereford, as that the thirsty flowers should long for dew," he replied.
"So I think. I made a terrible mistake. I wrecked my whole life; yet I think that if I had to live over again I should look first for love.
"One evening there was a ball at the palace, and I went with the duchess, my mother. On our way she began to talk to me about a certain Lord Alverton, whose proposal of marriage had delighted her.
"'I should certainly advise you, my dear child,' she said, 'to accept him. He will be at the palace this evening, and I shall be pleased to hear that you have accepted him.'
"'But I do not love him, mamma,' I said.
"She looked surprised.
"'Never be vehement, Estelle,' she said, in a tone of reproof; 'it is not lady-like. And, my dear child, remember, rank has its penalty. In ours we do not marry for love.'
"She meant it all kindly. She loved me then, and loves me now, better than half the mothers in this world love their children. She spoke as she herself had been taught; but I was resolved never to learn the same lesson. I would marry for love, and nothing else. I entered the palace gates, resolved to dismiss his lordship, and to wait until some one loved me.
"As I was promenading with one of my partners, my eyes fell suddenly upon one of the handsomest men I had ever seen—a face that irresistibly drew my attention, it was so handsome, high-bred and debonair. I looked at him again and again in wonder. I watched him as he spoke to different people. I saw that he left everyone whom he addressed laughing. I wondered who he could be. A royal duchess spoke to him, and seemed to enjoy his conversation; so that he must be 'one of us,' I thought to myself. Suddenly I asked my companion, 'Who is the gentleman to whom the Duchess of K—— is talking?'
"He laughed a little, low laugh.
"'That is Captain Ulric Studleigh,' he replied, 'the handsomest, the most popular, and the most good-for-nothing man in London.'
"'Good-for-nothing,' I repeated; 'how is that? What do you mean?'
"'Perhaps I should apologize for the expression,' said my companion, 'but really I know of none other so suitable. He is a Studleigh, and you know the character of the race.'
"'Indeed I do not,' was my earnest reply.
"'The Studleighs are all faithless and debonair,' he continued: 'they have made more love and broken more hearts than any other race even of twice their number.'
"'But every one seems to like Captain Studleigh. See how people listen to him, talk to him, laugh at him.'
"'I tell you, Lady Hereford, that he is really the most popular man in London.'
"'But how can he be popular,' I persisted, 'if he is what you say?'
"'Faithless and debonair,' he repeated. 'But I do not know that the world will like him any the less for that. He has a handsome face. Look at his smile; it is like a gleam of sunshine. And, to tell you the truth, Lady Hereford, I know of no one else who can talk as he does.'
"Then my partner left me, and I became engrossed in watching Captain Studleigh. Surely no one could be more popular; no one passed him without a word or a jest. I watched him as he bent over the white hands of fair ladies, and I was mad enough to feel something like jealousy when he seemed to like one. Then, by some accident, I can never remember how it happened, our eyes met. I saw him start, and I hoped he admired me.
"Ah, dear Heaven! what a foolish child I was! Then he went away hurriedly, and in a few minutes afterward he was bowing before me, while some one introduced him to me. The extreme bitterness of the pain has long since left me, and I can remember that when he asked me to dance with him, and my hand touched his arm, it was as though the happiness of my life had suddenly grown complete. Thinking of myself as I was then, tears of pity fill my eyes.
"It was a long dance, and when it ended Captain Studleigh did not seem more anxious to part from me than I was to part from him. The spell was beginning to work on me as it worked on others. His bright, laughing eyes, handsome face, rich, clear voice, the inexhaustible fund of wit and mirth, the tender, chivalrous deference that he knew so well how to pay, delighted me. He asked me if I should like to see a famous picture that had been recently sent to the palace. I said 'Yes,' glad of any pretext for being longer with him. I do not know how time passed. I was happier than I had ever been in my life before. Suddenly Captain Studleigh asked me, with a smile, where was my mother, the duchess. I told him she had been invited to join the royal circle, and was there now, I believed.
"'Fortune is kind to me to-night,' he said, with a smile.
"Simply enough I asked him why he should call my mother's preoccupation fortunate to him.
"He laughed outright.
"'My dear Lady Hereford,' he said, 'if her grace were at hand, do you suppose I should be allowed this delightful half hour here with you?'
"'Why not?' I asked, wonderingly.
"'Because I am what is called a detrimental. I am a poor younger son, whose presumption, as the dowagers say, is frightful. Have I any right, possessing under ten thousand a year and no title, to monopolize, even for five minutes, the smiles of Lady Estelle Hereford?'
"I knew that he was speaking satirically, but it struck me, at the same time, that his views and mine would upon many points agree.
"'What nonsense about being a poor younger son,' I said. 'What difference does it make?'
"He laughed again.
"'That is the most sensible question I ever heard, Lady Hereford, and as a younger son I thank you for it. It makes a wonderful difference in the opinion of most people.'
"'It makes none in mine,' I said, decidedly; and then I saw him look steadfastly at me. I never even gave a thought to the significance of my words. Suddenly I remembered the conversation I had had about him. I looked up into his face.
"'Captain Studleigh,' I asked, 'why do people call you faithless and debonair?'
"'Do they?' he asked. 'I do not think that such a bad character, Lady Estelle.'
"'Is it true that all the Studleighs are faithless?' I repeated.
"'I wish I dared say, try one of them, Lady Estelle. That may be the tradition of the family, but it would be cruel to judge every member by it. After all, it is something to be debonair, so I must be content.'
"Looking at him and listening to him, I did not believe one word of it. There was a charm about him that no words of mine could possibly describe—a charm that I believe, even now, belongs to no one else on earth. I soon found that what he said was perfectly true. As I returned to the ball-room I saw my mother looking for us. Her eyes did not fall with a very pleased expression on Captain Studleigh. She came up to us and made some little observation to him; the tone of it was barely civil, and he was quick enough to notice it. He gave me one laughing glance, as though he would say, 'You see, I told you I was a detrimental,' then he bowed and went away.
"'My dear Estelle,' she said, 'have you been long with Captain Studleigh?'
"I told her how long, and she looked displeased.
"'Who introduced you to him?'" she asked.
"Ah! how ashamed I was. I could not remember; I had never even noticed. She turned to me.
"'It was a mistake,' she said, gently. 'He is a handsome man, but the Studleighs are all alike. I should not wish you to fall into the habit of wasting your time with him.'
"'Wasting my time.' I repeated that phrase over and over again. The only gleam of happiness I had found in this great world was looked coldly upon by my mother, and called 'wasting my time.'
"I went home with my head and heart full of him, longing only for the hour to come when I should meet him again. Looking back, I pity myself, Earle Moray—I pity myself!"
CHAPTER XXXVII.
"HE MADE ME BELIEVE THAT I WAS THE WHOLE WORLD TO HIM!"
"Do I weary you, Earle Moray, with these details?" Lady Estelle asked, looking with wistful eyes into his face. "Out of my thirty-eight years, that was my only gleam of light—does it weary you that I like to dwell upon it?"
"No," he replied, "every word interests me; you cannot tell one too much."
"I used to wonder," she continued, "when I heard people say that love made or marred a woman's life. In my own mind I thought such words an exaggeration. I found that they were most fatally true—my love marred my life.
"That night I left the palace, with my heart and mind full of Ulric Studleigh, and the idea possessed a double charm for me because I was, as it were, forbidden to entertain it. The duchess, my mother spoke to me once more on the subject. We were going to a fete at Kensington Gardens. Before we started she called me to her.
"'Estelle,' she said, gravely, 'I hope you will not forget what is due to your position as daughter of the Duke of Downsbury. I hope you will not forget what is required and expected of you.'
"I told her that I hoped always to please her, and I intended then to do so.
"'If Captain Studleigh should have the bad taste to intrude his society on you,' she continued, 'without being the least unladylike, you must let him see that it is displeasing to you.'
"'But, mamma,' I remonstrated, 'it is not displeasing; it is most amusing.'
"'The expression of my least wish ought to suffice, Estelle,' said my mother, haughtily. 'I tell you to avoid Captain Studleigh whenever you possibly can; and if you are compelled for a few minutes, by unavoidable circumstances, to talk to him, I insist upon it that you show no interest whatever—that you treat him with studied coolness and reserve.'
"'Will you tell me why, mamma?' I asked gently.
"'Yes, I will tell you. The love of a Studleigh never yet brought anything with it save sorrow. Secondly, were it even otherwise, Ulric Studleigh, a younger son, is no match for my daughter, Lady Estelle Hereford. You hear this?'
"I had heard, and at first my only emotion was one of sorrow that a pleasant intercourse must be ended. It was very evident that I must not look again at the laughing face and tender eyes. I hardly understood the cloud that came over me, or why the thought that he was so soon to be taken out of my life darkened it.
"He was at the fete, strange to say, with my only and dearest friend, Lady Agnes Delapain. We had been schoolmates, and the year previous she had married Lord Delapain. I felt pleased when I saw him with her. My mother did not see either of them. After a time Lady Agnes left her companion and came to me. My mother, who knew our great affection for each other, had no scruple in leaving us together while she joined some friends of her own.
"'Estelle,' said Lady Agnes, as we wandered through a beautiful grove of trees—'Estelle, you have accomplished a miracle.'
"'What have I done?' I asked.
"'You have written your name where no one ever inscribed a woman's name before,' she replied.
"I had not the least idea what she meant.
"'Where is that?' I asked.
"Lady Agnes laughed aloud.
"'On the hitherto invincible heart of Ulric Studleigh,' she said. 'I should imagine that he has admired more pretty girls than any one ever did before, but you are the first who has made a real impression on him.'
"'Who says I have done so, Agnes?'
"'I say so. He has been sitting by me for half an hour, and all his conversation has been of you. I assure you, Estelle, he is hopelessly in love.'
"'The love of the Studleighs always brings sorrow, my mother says.'
"Lady Agnes laughed again.
"'I am sure your mother will not like him—no mothers do. Mine used to torture me about him before I was married. You would not find a dowager in London who approves of him.'
"'But why?' I persisted.
"'A handsome, graceless, penniless younger son? What dowager in her senses would approve of such a man?'
"'He cannot help being a younger son and having no money,' I said.
"'No; he cannot help it. A man cannot help being born blind or lame, I suppose; but then he does not expect to fare the same as a man who can walk and see.'
"'It is not a just world,' I said gravely; and again Lady Agnes laughed.
"'Yes, Ulric ought at least to have been a prince,' she said; 'there is now only one resource for him.'
"'What is that?' I asked.
"'He has no money, and he cannot make money. Military fame is very empty; but he could, at least, marry some one who has money.'
"And Lady Agnes, who, I believe, had a decided liking for him, looked sharply at me.
"'Why can he never make money?' I asked.
"'It is not the habit of the Studleighs: they have a reckless fashion of spending, but I do not know that they are capable of making money. Captain Ulric is a soldier, and we all know how empty is fame.'
"At that very moment he joined us. Lady Agnes turned to me.
"'I leave you in safe hands,' she said. 'I promised to look after little Nellie Plumpton, and I have not seen her yet.'
"Then she went away. It was kind of her in one sense, but wrong in another. I was terribly frightened. What should I do if my mother found me here in this grove of trees with Captain Studleigh? I remembered, too, that I had promised to be very distant and reserved with him: yet there I was, looking at him, blushing and smiling, utterly unable either to look or feel anything save happy.
"He saw, and was quick enough to detect the anxiety on my face.
"'Ah! Lady Hereford,' he said. 'I was a true prophet—I see it.'
"Then, without waiting for any answer, he began to talk to me about the fete. I forgot everything else in the wide, world except that I was happy and was with him.
"Earle Moray, the sun will never shine for me again as it did that day; the sky will never be so blue, the flowers so sweet and fair.
"When he saw Lady Agnes returning to us in the distance, he said, quickly:
"'You will not be unjust to me, Lady Estelle—you will not visit the sins of my race on me?'
"'No,' I said, 'I will never do that.'
"'Sometimes you will let me forget graver anxieties, graver cares, the troubles of my life, in talking to you?'
"Then I saw my difficulty.
"'I will do all that I possibly can,' I said; 'but——'
"'But what?' he asked. 'Tell me the difficulty.'
"How could I? I could not look into his face, and tell him my mother disliked and disapproved of him.
"'I think I understand,' he said, with a low laugh. 'If I were a duke, with two or three fine estates, there would be no objection to me; as it is, perhaps her grace has told you the Studleighs are unfortunate?'
"'Yes, she has told me so, but I do not believe it,' I hastened to reply.
"'Thank you; you are generous. I shall trust in your generosity, Lady Hereford.'
"Then he went away, and the brightness of the sun, the sky, the flowers, went with him. Yet I was strangely happy, with a new, strange, shy happiness. When other people, whom I had neither liked nor cared for, talked to me, I found that I had a fresh stock of patience—that I had such a fountain of happiness in my own heart I had abundance to shower upon others. The whole world changed to me from that day. I lived only in the hope of seeing Captain Studleigh. I counted the hours when I was away from him. Unfortunately for me, I found an aider and abettor in Lady Agnes Delapain. My mother did not even know that she was acquainted with him, and I—alas!—never told her.
"Lady Agnes had a beautiful villa at Twickenham, and it was no unusual thing for me to spend two or three days with her. It was cruel to betray my mother's trust; there is no excuse for it, nor was there any for my friend. We never made any positive appointment. I never told him when I was going to Twickenham, yet he always seemed to know by instinct. Lord Delapain held some important office under the government, so that he was seldom at home. We three, Lady Delapain, Captain Studleigh, and myself, spent whole days together, sometimes in the grounds that surrounded her home, or on the river which ran close by.
"The end of it was—see, I offer no excuse—that we both believed it impossible to live any longer without each other. Oh! folly and blindness and madness of love! I, who had never disobeyed my parents, who had always been a docile, obedient child, whose highest ambition had been to please them. I suffered him, my lover, to talk to me about a private marriage! He said that if we were once married, my parents would be very angry for a short time, that was certain: but when they saw there was no help for it, they would forgive us and all would be well again. I asked, timidly enough, for I dreaded to displease him, if it would not be better for him to try to win my parents' consent.
"'I will try, if you like,' he said. 'I will do anything to please you: but I am quite sure it is useless. The moment they hear that I care for you they will take you away, and I shall see you no more.'
"'Do you really think so, Ulric?' I asked, sadly.
"'I am quite certain of it: still it shall be as you wish. I cannot live without you, Estelle. You are the whole world to me; and you love me, unless the story told by those sweet eyes is untrue.'
"Lady Agnes knew nothing of these longing entreaties of his for a secret marriage. If I had told her I might have been saved. She, with all her imprudence, would never have permitted that. I dared not tell her, lest she should disapprove.
"Looking back, I cannot tell what possessed me—what mad infatuation, what wild folly had taken hold of me. Is it the same, I wonder, with all those who love—with all girls who surrender heart and judgment as I did? Yet I did not reply all at once. The step was such a grave and serious one, even to my inexperienced eyes, that I hesitated long before taking it. I must do him justice; I think that in those days Ulric Studleigh did love me very dearly indeed, better, perhaps, than he loved any one else; and that, for a Studleigh, is certainly saying great deal. He told me, over and over again, in most passionate words, that he loved me. He made me believe that I was the whole world to him. Then, when he still found that I was unwilling—oh! so unwilling—for this private marriage, he pretended to be hurt, to think that I did not care for him; and for ten long days he never came near me—ten long, dreary, terrible days. I can remember even now the misery of each of them—the hours that seemed to have no end—the nights without sleep. If we met in public, he passed me with a cold bow, and devoted himself to some one else. I went through all the tortures of jealousy, my face grew pale and thin. Ah! what I suffered! Then one evening he came to me and said: