"'Estelle, have we had enough of this? I feel I can bear it no longer.'
"'It is your fault,' I replied; 'you have kept away from me.'
"'Is a man's heart made of wax, do you think? Kept away from you! If I had not done so I should have gone mad. Your love must be child's play, judging from the way in which you treat me. How could I bear to be near you, when you so coldly refused my prayer?'
"We were standing behind a great cluster of trees, and the next moment he had clasped me in his arms, crying that I must be his.
"'I shall be at Twickenham to-morrow,' he said; 'Estelle, I pray you to meet me there.'
"And I, weak and miserable, promised him."
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE PUNISHMENT OF FOLLY.
"'I cannot bear it,' said my lover to me," continued Lady Estelle, "when we met the next day on the green lawn at Twickenham. 'We Studleighs are just as mad in jealousy as we are in love. When I see you surrounded by the wealthiest and noblest in the land—men each of whom is more worthy of you a thousand times than I am—but no one else loves you one-half so well, I can bear it no longer, Estelle. I will stand by no longer to see you loved, admired, and sought by other men. I will go away, and never return to this hateful land again.'
"'What can I do, Ulric?' I asked. 'I cannot help it—I do not ask people to admire me.'
"'You can do one thing, if you will,' he said; 'you can set my heart at rest; you can consent to what I ask—a private marriage; that will make you mine, and it will not be in the power of any human being to take you from me. It will set my heart at rest, and I shall know, no matter who admires you, that you are mine. If you will not consent to this, I must go.'
"I was sorely afraid to lose him, Earle Moray.
"'But what will become of me when my parents find it out?' I asked.
"'They need never find it out. When they seem to like me a little better, we will tell them. No one knows what an excellent thing it is to make one's self master of the situation. Once done, we cannot be expected to undo it, and after a few days they will say that we were naughty; but they will forgive us when they are quite sure that being angry is of no use.'
"Those were weak arguments, Earle Moray, to lead a girl away from her duty. They seem to me so now, though then I fancied them full of wisest sense. I destroyed myself when I looked up into his face, and said;
"'But even if I were willing, how could it be managed, Ulric?'
"He clasped me in his arms.
"'Only say that you are willing, that is enough. I shall go mad with joy! Estelle, say that you are willing, and leave the preliminaries to me.'
"He looked so eager, so handsome; I was so weak and young. I loved him so dearly, all higher and better considerations faded away—I promised."
She buried her face in her hands, and Earle saw the tears fall through her slender, jeweled fingers. He saw the fragile figure torn with deep, convulsive sobs, yet he did not dare comfort her. He fell that, for such a wrong as she had committed, there could be no pardon from those she had deceived. Yet his feeling of compassion for her was so strong that he could not refrain from showing her some sympathy. He laid his hand gently on her arm.
"Dear Lady Hereford," he said, "I wish that I knew how to comfort you."
"You cannot," she replied; "there can be no consolation for sins like mine. Oh! Earle Moray, you see that I am speaking to you as though I had known you for years. It is because you love Doris. Can you think, can you imagine how I came to be so foolish?—so mad, it seems to me, looking back on my past. Incredible! Young, gifted, with everything to make life desirable, that I should wreck myself, turn every blessing into a curse! It is incredible to me, I cannot believe it; yet I have done it. I need not tire you with details. I have dwelt longer than I need have done on my temptations, because I want you, who love Doris so dearly, to think the best which is possible of me. Do you agree to that? Will you try?"
"Most certainly I will, dear Lady Hereford. Who am I, that I should sit in judgment over you?"
"I am ashamed to tell you the rest," she said, in a wailing tone. "It is a story that would disgrace the humblest beggar—think how it humiliates me, the sole daughter of one of the proudest houses in the land. No Studleigh ever failed for want of determination. The more and the greater the obstacles that rose in my lover's way, the more valiantly he overcame them. I am too ignorant even to explain how he arranged it—everything gives way to money, I suppose—the obstacles he encountered did. I only know two things for certain—we were married, and our marriage was legal."
"It seems almost incredible," said Earle, "for one so highly placed, so constantly guarded as you must have been, Lady Hereford."
"It was difficult; but I will confess my own duplicity. I told my mother that I was going to spend two days with Lady Agnes, and I went accompanied by my maid. It was a very easy matter, on the morning of the second day, to escape from Lady Agnes, under some slight pretext, and meet Captain Studleigh. We were married in some old gray church by the river; and when I returned to Twickenham I did not even dare to tell my best friend. Yet I remember so well the almost delicious happiness—perhaps all the sweeter that it was kept so silent—the happiness of knowing that I had proved to my husband how dearly I loved him; the happiness of knowing how great were the sacrifices I made for him. Ah, surely he would be content now, when for his sake I made myself a living lie—I wore a mask that hid me from the parents who loved me—surely he would be satisfied now! I dared not tell Lady Delapain what I had done. Imprudent as she was, she would never have countenanced that.
"For some weeks we were happy. My whole life became one intrigue, arranging how to meet my husband, and how much time it was possible to spend with him without being found out. Security made me reckless. Whenever I met him I used to deceive my mother by telling her I had been with Lady Agnes. One evening, when we were going to some great state entertainment, I remained with him later than I should have done—time had flown so quickly I had not measured its flight—and I was late for dressing. The duchess was not well pleased, although she did not say much; but a few days afterward Lady Agnes called and wanted me to go out with her. My mother said 'Yes,' but added, that I must be more careful, as I had been too late on Tuesday.'
"'But Lady Estelle was not with me on Tuesday,' said Lady Agnes, quickly. And my mother looked at her in deepest wonder.
"'Not with you!' she cried. 'Where was she, then?'
"I turned to my friend, and she alone saw the hot flush on my face.
"'You forget,' I said.
"Some inkling of the truth came to her, and she murmured confusedly that she had forgotten. The duchess looked perfectly satisfied; but when she had quitted the room, Lady Agnes said to me:
"'Estelle, I do not quite understand; I never saw you on Tuesday.'
"'I know that,' was my curt reply.
"'Then why did you tell your mother you had been with me?'
"'Because I did not wish her to know where I had been,' I replied.
"She kissed me, and said, sadly:
"'You have secrets even from me, then?'
"And I answered:
"'Yes.'
"She looked very unhappy.
"'Estelle,' she said, 'I hope I have not been foolish, and aided you in folly?'
"But I would not listen to her—I only laughed. After that Lady Agnes became more cautious. I do not know whether she had any suspicion or not—she never expressed any to me.
"After that I found more difficulty in meeting my husband. Oh! wretched story! How I loathe the telling of it! He grew impatient and angry, while, as the days passed on, I shrank with greater dread from letting my parents know what I had done.
"Then jealousy, anger, quarrels, and impatience took the place of love. I cannot tell you the history of that wretched time—I dare not. I had to find out then that a Studleigh could indulge in rage as well as love. It was not long before I learned many bitter lessons.
"At length one day we had a more than usually angry quarrel, and then my husband vowed that he would leave me. A regiment was ordered to India next week; he would exchange into it, and I should never see him again. In vain I wept, pleaded, prayed. He was in one of his terrible furies, and nothing could move him. Still, I never believed that he would do it. Had I even fancied so, I should have instantly, at any cost, have told my mother all; but I thought it merely a threat, a cruel and unmanly threat, but an empty one. I resolved that for some days I would not write to him.
"Oh, Earle Moray! can you imagine my distress when, one short week afterward, I heard it carelessly told that Captain Ulric Studleigh had taken a sudden whim, and had exchanged into another regiment, which had sailed for India that week, and would not in all probability return for years. The lady told the news laughingly, as though it were only a piece of amusing gossip. The comments made were of an indifferent character. Some said India was the best place for younger sons without fortune. Others said it was a thousand pities that there was no chance of the earldom of Linleigh for the gay captain.
"No one looked at me; no one thought of me; yet I was the wife of the man they were all discussing. It was many minutes before my senses returned to me; then I found myself grasping the back of a chair to keep myself from falling. Unseen and unnoticed, I contrived to quit the room. Oh, Heaven! when I recall the intolerable anguish of that hour, I wonder that I lived through it.
"I had trusted a Studleigh, and had met with the usual reward of those who place confidence in a perfidious race. I think that on the face of the earth there was none so truly desolate and lonely, so frightened, as I was during that time. Married in secret to a man whom my parents disliked, whom the world mentioned with a sneer—a man whose name was a proverb for light-heartedness, inconstancy—married and deserted!
"It would have been bad enough had he been here; it would have been a terrible ordeal even had he been by my side, to help me with love and sympathy; but now, alone, unaided—he himself thousands of miles away—what could I do?
"I did that which seemed easiest at the time—I kept silence. He had sailed away, saying nothing of the marriage, neither would I. I would take the just punishment of my folly, live single all my life, and keep my dreadful secret. There seemed to me no other plan. To tell the truth, I stood too much in awe of my father and mother to dare even to tell them. I dreaded their anger. I dreaded the cool, calm contempt in my mother's face. I dreaded the disappointment that would, I knew, be my father's greatest grief. What else could I do but keep my sad secret all to myself?
"Yes, I declare to you that the struggle in my own mind was so dreadful, the pain and sorrow so great, that I almost died of it. No one ever said anything to me about Captain Studleigh. Even those who seemed to fancy there had been a slight flirtation between us, considered his going away as a proof that there was none. I saw that my parents were greatly relieved by his absence; and after a few weeks the shock began to get less. Lady Agnes asked me once if I were unhappy over him. I made some evasive reply. Then, after a time, I began to look my life in the face, to think that the evil done was not without remedy. I could bear the penalty of my folly, if the secret of my ill-starred marriage could be kept."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
A MOTHER'S CONFESSION.
"I come now to a part of my story," resumed Lady Estelle, "that I would fain pass over in silence; but as it touches the matter that brought me here, I am obliged to tell you."
The proud, fair woman buried her face in her hands as she spoke, and Earle understood how terrible was the struggle between her need of help and her pride. When she raised her face again, it was ghastly white.
"Captain Studleigh had been gone four months," she gasped, "when I knew that the most terrible of all my trials had come to me—that I should be the mother of a child. For a long time—for days and weeks—I was in the most terrible despair. I often wonder," she said, musingly, "how it was that the agony of my shame did not kill me—I cannot understand it even now. I did think in those days of killing myself, but I was not brave enough—I lacked the courage. Yet I do not think any one in the wide world ever suffered so greatly. There was I—sole daughter of that ancient house; flattered, beloved, courted, feted, the envy of all who knew me—with a secret bitter as death, black as sin. At last, when I found myself obliged to seek assistance, I went to Lady Agnes Delapain, and told her all.
"Her amazement and dread of the consequences were at first appalling to me. After the first expressions of surprise and regret, she said:
"'So you were married to him—married to him all the time? I never suspected it.'
"She was very kind to me—kinder, a thousand times, than I deserved. She did not reproach me; but when she had recovered, she said:
"'Estelle, I feel that it is more than half my fault—I should never have allowed you to meet him here. I should not have dared if I had foreseen the end. I felt sorry, because you seemed to like each other; but I have done wrong.'
"I laid my head on her shoulder.
"'What am I to do?' I moaned.
"'I see no help for it now, Estelle; however averse you may be, you must tell the duchess.'
"Then I clung to her, weeping and saying:
"'I dare not—I would rather die.'
"'But, my dear Estelle,' she interrupted, 'you must—indeed, you must. I see no help for it.'
"I remember standing up with a white, haggard face and beating heart.
"'If you will not help me, Agnes, I must tell her, but I shall do it in my own fashion. I shall write a letter to her, and kill myself before she receives it. I will never look my mother in the face again after she knows.'
"'Then what is to be done, Estelle?'
"'Be my friend, as you have always been. You have had more experience than I have had: you know the world better than I know it. You are older than I am; help me, Agnes.'
"'You mean, help you to keep the secret of your marriage?' she asked.
"'I do; and in asking you that, I ask for my life itself—the one depends upon the other.'
"Lady Agnes sat quite silent for some minutes, then she said:
"'I will do it, Estelle. Perhaps, in making this promise, I am wrong, as I am in everything else; but I will help you for the sake of the love that was between us when we were happy young girls.'
"I had no words in which to thank her; it really seemed to me as though the burden of my trouble were for the time removed from me to her.
"'How will it be?' I asked her.
"'Give me time to think, Estelle; I must arrange it all in my own mind first. Do not come near me for three days.'
"At the end of that time my mother received a letter from Lady Agnes, urging her to allow me to go with her to Switzerland; she was not strong, and required change of air. My mother had implicit faith and confidence in Lady Delapain.
"'You have not been looking well lately, Estelle,' she said to me; 'it will do you good to go.'
"Ah, me! what a weight those few words took from my mind. Then Lady Agnes called upon us, and spoke to my mother about our little tour.
"'We shall enjoy ourselves after our own fashion,' she said. 'Lord Delapain goes with us as far as Interlachen; there he will leave us for a time. You may safely trust Lady Estelle with me.'
"My mother had not the slightest idea that anything was unusual. The only thing that embarrassed me was that she insisted upon my taking my maid Leeson with me. When I told this to Lady Agnes, she was, like myself, dismayed for a few minutes, then she said, calmly;
"'It will not matter; we should have been obliged to take some one into our confidence; as well Leeson as another. We must tell her of the marriage.'
"So it was all settled; and I, taking my terrible secret with me, went abroad. There is no need to linger over the details. No suspicion of the truth was ever whispered. We took Leeson into our confidence, and my baby was born in Switzerland. Ah! you look astonished. Now you know why I am here—Doris is my child!"
Earle was too bewildered for one moment to speak. Then a low cry of wonder and dismay came from his lips.
"Doris your daughter!" he repeated. "Lady Hereford, this must be a dream!"
"Would to Heaven it were!" she cried. "It is all most fatally true. Ah! me, if I could but wake up and find it a long, dark dream! When my little daughter was some weeks old, we had a letter which caused us some agitation; my father and mother were on the road to join us, and would be with us in two days. They were then at Berne.
"What shall we do?" I asked again of my clear-headed, trustworthy friend.
"As usual, she was quite ready for the emergency.
"'We must do something decisive at once,' she replied; 'send away the child to England without an hour's delay. I will telegraph to Berne to say that we have already left Interlachen, and shall be at Berne to-morrow.'
"There could be no delay. I sat down to think where it would be possible to send the little one. It seems strange to own such a thing, but I assure you that I did not feel any overwhelming affection for the child. She was lovely as a poet's dream, the fairest little cherub that was ever seen; but already in that infantile face there was a gleam of the Studleigh beauty. 'She will be like her race,' I thought, 'faithless and debonair.' Perhaps the keen anger that I felt against her father, the sorrow and the shame that he had caused me, prevented me from loving her; therefore I did not feel any sorrow at parting with her. I might have been a better woman, Earle Moray, if I had been a happier one.
"I could think of no one. Leeson suggested that if the child be taken by some farmer's wife on the estate, it would be the best thing, as in that case I would see it sometimes, and should, at least, know its whereabouts.
"Then I bethought myself how often I had heard my father speak of honest Mark Brace. The next moment the whole plan came to me. I told Leeson, and she approved of it. You have probably heard the story of the finding of Doris; there is no need for me to repeat it. It was Leeson who left the child at the farmer's gate, and waited under the shadow of the trees until it was taken indoors; it is I who send the money; and I have seen the child twice—once when she was young, and the Studleigh look in her face frightened me, although my heart yearned to her.
"Then the sense of my unhappiness, of my false position, of my terrible secret, made me so wretched that I became seriously ill. My father took me away from England, and I was away many years. I saw her again, not so very long since, and she was one of the loveliest girls that could be imagined, yet still with the Studleigh face—'faithless and debonair.' But this time my heart warmed to her, she was so beautiful, so graceful. I was proud of her, and she told me of you; she said she was going to marry Earle Moray, gentleman and poet."
"Heaven bless her!" interrupted Earle, with quivering lips.
"Still," continued Lady Estelle, "I was not quite satisfied: I saw in her her father's faults repeated. My heart found no rest in her, or it would have been misery to lose sight of her again. I did think that when you were married—you and she—I might see more of her. She would be the wife of a poet whom we should all be proud to know.
"Now listen to what I want from you, Earle Moray. In all the wide world; you love Doris best; I want you to find her. Yesterday I heard that her father—my husband—is no longer a penniless younger son; that he has succeeded to the earldom of Linleigh, and will return home. I should have told you that Lady Agnes Delapain died two years after our return from Switzerland, so that no person living knows our secret except Leeson and yourself. Before she died she wrote to my husband to tell him all about Doris. He seems to have extended his indifference even to her, for beyond acknowledging the letter and saying that he really sympathized in my fears, he has never taken the least notice of her. Now, all is different. He will be Earl of Linleigh, she will be Lady Doris Studleigh, and I dare not stand between my child and her rights. Do you understand?"
"No," he replied, quietly, "you could not do that; it would not be honorable."
"So that I must have her here. I will not see him until she is with me. I shall write to him, and beg of him not to come and see me until I send for him. He will do me that small grace, and I shall not send for him until you bring her to me."
"Then you will keep your secret no longer?" said Earle.
"I cannot. If my husband had remained Captain Studleigh, I might have kept it until my death; but, as Earl of Linleigh, he is sure to claim me, either as his wife to live with him, or that he may sue me for a divorce."
"Pardon the question," said Earle, "but would you live with him?"
A dull red flush covered her face.
"If ever I loved anything on earth," she cried, passionately, "it was my husband—I have known no other love."
"What is that you want me to do?" asked Earle.
"I want you to go and find her. No one loves her as you do. Love has keen instincts; you will find her because you love her. Find her—tell her she is the Earl of Linleigh's daughter—that she must come to take her proper position in the great world; but do not tell her who is her mother."
"I will obey you implicitly," he replied.
Then she raised her fair, proud face to his.
"Mine is a strange story, is it not?" she asked.
"Yes—truth is stranger than fiction," he replied.
"And it is a shameful story, is it not?" she continued.
"It is not a good one," he said, frankly.
She smiled at the honest reply.
"You do not know," she said, "how my heart has turned to you since Doris spoke of the 'gentleman and poet.' Aristocrat as I am, I do not think any man could have a grander title. To your honor, as a gentleman, I trust my secret—you will never betray it."
He bowed low.
"I would rather die," he said.
"I believe you implicitly. This time, at least, my instinct has not failed me—I am safe in trusting you. Now, tell me, have you the faintest clew as to where Doris has gone?"
"Not the smallest; she has gone abroad—that is all I know."
"Then do you also go abroad. Remember that no money, no trouble, no toil must be spared—she must be found. Go first to France—to the cities most frequented by the English—then to Italy. For Heaven's sake, find her, and bring her back to Brackenside. When she is once here I can bear the rest. You will not fail me. Write as often as you can; and Heaven speed you."
He felt his own hand clasped in hers; then she placed a roll of bank-notes in it. The next moment she was gone, and Earle sat there alone, breathless with surprise.
CHAPTER XL.
A CLEW AT LAST.
"I feel very much," thought Earle, "as though I had been dreaming in one of the fairy circles. That proud, fair woman with such a story; and she Doris' mother. Doris, my golden-haired love, whom I have been loving, believing her to be some helpless waif or stray. Doris, belonging to the Studleighs and the proud Duke of Downsbury—what will she say? Great heavens! what will she say when she learns this?"
Then the task before him might well have dismayed a braver man. He had to find her. The whole world lay before him, and he had to search all over it. Was she in Italy, Spain, or France? or had she even gone further away? He thought of the proud lady's words—"love has keen instincts; you will find her because you love her." He would certainly do his best, nor would he delay—that day should see the commencement of his labor. Then he began to think. Surely an ignorant, inexperienced girl could not have left home—have found herself a situation as governess without some one to help her. Who would that some one be? One of her old school-fellows? She had made no more recent acquaintances. He bethought himself of Mattie, always so quick, so bright, so intelligent, so ready to solve all difficulties. He would go to her.
He went, and Mattie wondered at the unusual gravity of his face.
"I have been thinking of Doris," he said, in answer to her mute, reproachful glance.
"I wonder, Earle," she said, "when you will think of anything else?"
"I want to ask you something, Mattie. Sit down here; spare me two or three minutes. Tell me, has it ever seemed to you that some one must have helped Doris, or she could not have found a situation as she did?"
For one moment the kindly brown eyes rested with a troubled glance on his face.
"It has occurred to me often," she replied, "but I cannot imagine who would do it."
"Did she ever talk to you about any of her school-fellows?" he asked.
"No, none in particular. Why, Earle, tell me what you are thinking about?"
"I should have some clew to her whereabouts, I am convinced, if I could but discover that."
She looked steadily at him.
"Earle," she asked, in a low pained voice, "are you still thinking of going in search of her?"
He remembered the morning's interview, and would have felt some little relief if he could have shared the secret with Mattie; but he said:
"Yes, I am still determined, and, to tell you a secret that I do not intend telling any one else. I intend to go this very day."
He saw her lips whiten and quiver as though from some sudden, sharp pain, but it never struck him that this quiet, kindly girl had enshrined him in her heart of hearts. She was quicker of instinct when any wish of his was in question than at any other time. Suddenly she raised her eyes to his face, and he saw in them the dawn of a new idea.
"There is one person," she said, "whom we have quite overlooked, and who is very likely to have helped Doris."
"Who is that?" he asked quickly.
"The artist, Gregory Leslie."
And they looked at each other in silence, each feeling sure that the right chord had been struck. Then Earle said, gravely:
"Strange! but I never once thought of him."
"Doris talked so much to him while he was here," said Mattie, "and from his half-bantering remarks, I think he understood thoroughly how much she disliked the monotony of home. He has very probably found the situation for her."
"I should think so too, but for one thing—he was an honorable man, and he would not have helped her run away from me."
"Perhaps she deceived him. In any case, I think it worth trying," she replied.
"Heaven bless you, Mattie," said Earle. "You are always right. Do not tell any one where I have gone. I shall go to London at once. I will send a note to my mother by one of the men. Good-bye! Heaven bless you, my dear sister who was to have been——"
"Who will be," cried Mattie, "whether you marry Doris or not!"
He wrote a few simple words to his mother, saying merely:
"Do not be alarmed at my absence. I cannot rest—I have gone to find Doris. I shall write often, and return when I have found her."
"Poor mother," he said to himself with a sigh, "I have given her nothing but sorrow of late."
Then he went quietly to Quainton railway station, and was just in time to catch the train for London.
Gregory Leslie was astonished that evening at seeing Earle suddenly enter his studio, and held out his hand to him in warmest welcome.
Earle looked first at the artist, then at his hand.
"Can I take it?" he asked. "Is it a loyal hand?"
Gregory Leslie laughed aloud.
"Bless the boy—the poet, I ought to say; what does he mean?"
"I mean, in all simplicity, just what I say," said Earle. "Is it the hand of a loyal man?"
"I have never been anything save loyal to you," replied the artist, wondering more and more at Earle's strange manner. "I shall understand you better in a short time," he said. "How ill you look—your face is quite changed."
"I have been ill for some weeks," said Earle. "I am well now."
"And how are they all at Brackenside—the honest farmer and his kindly wife; bright, intelligent Miss Mattie; and last, though by no means least, my lovely model, Miss Innocence?"
"They are all well at Brackenside," said Earle, evasively.
But the artist looked keenly at him, and from the tone of his voice he felt sure that all was not well.
Then Earle sat down, and there was a few minutes silence. At length he roused himself with a sigh.
"Mr. Leslie," he said, "when you were leaving Brackenside you called me friend, and said that you would do anything to help me. I have come to prove if your words are true."
"I am sure they are," replied Mr. Leslie, as he looked pityingly on the worn, haggard face. "You may prove them in any way you will." Then he smiled. "Has Miss Innocence been unkind to you, that you look so dull?"
"That does not sound as though he knew anything about her going," thought Earle; "and if he does not, I am indeed at sea."
Then he looked at the artist. It was an honest face, although the lips curled satirically, and there was a gleam of mischief in the keen eyes.
"Is it a lover's quarrel, Earle?" he asked.
"No, it is more than that," replied Earle. "Tell me, Mr. Leslie, has Doris written to you since you left Brackenside?"
An expression of blank wonder came into the artist's face.
"Yes," he replied, "she wrote to me twice; each time it was to thank me for papers and critics that I had sent her."
"That is all?" said Earle.
"That is all, indeed. I did not preserve the letters. I have a fatal habit of making pipe-lights of them."
"Did she tell you, in those letters, that she was tired of Brackenside, Mr. Leslie?"
"No, they were both written in excellent spirits, I thought. I do not remember that there was any mention of home or any one; in fact, I am sure there was not."
"Did she ask you to help her to find a situation?" said Earle.
"No, indeed, she never did. At Brackenside she pretended often enough to be tired of the place, and to want to go elsewhere, but I never paid any serious attention to it. You see, Earle, if you will love a woman who has all the beauty of the rainbow, you must be content to abide by all her caprices. I am sure she has done something to pain you, Earle—tell me what it is?"
"I will tell you," said Earle. "At first I thought that you had helped her, but now I believe I am mistaken. She has left home unknown to any of us. She has gone abroad as governess."
Gregory Leslie gave a little start of incredulity and surprise.
"Gone abroad," he repeated; "I can believe that easily; but as governess, I can never imagine that."
"She says so. She left two letters, and they both tell the same story."
"If I should believe it," said Gregory Leslie, "I should most certainly say, Heaven help the children taught by the fair Doris. Candidly speaking, I should not like to be one of them."
"You do not believe it then, Mr. Leslie?"
"If you will have me speak frankly, I do not. Of all the young ladies I have ever met, I think her the least likely to become a governess—by choice, that is."
Earle looked at him blankly. It had never entered his mind to disbelieve what she had written. That threw a fresh light upon the matter.
"Tell me all about it," the artist said, after a few minutes.
And Earle did as he was requested. Gregory Leslie listened in silence.
"I know nothing about it," he said, after a time. "It is quite natural that you should imagine that I did, but I do not. She has never mentioned it to me. I understand now what you meant by being loyal. Let me say that, for your sake, if she had asked me to help her in any such scheme, I should have refused."
"I believe it. There is one thing," said Earle, "I have sworn to find her, and find her I will. Can you suggest to me any feasible or sensible plan of search?"
Then he uttered a little cry of amaze, for Gregory Leslie was looking at him with a startled expression in his face.
"Strange!" he said. "I have only just thought of it. You remember my picture of 'Innocence?'"
"Yes," said Earle.
"Well, there was a great deal of jealousy among my comrades over that face. They all wanted to know where I had found it, who was my model, where she lived. One wanted just such a face for his grand picture of Juliet, another thought it the very thing for his Marie Antoinette, in the zenith of her glory and beauty. Another declared that if he could but paint it as Cleopatra, his fortune would be made. Of course I would not, and did not dream for one moment of gratifying their curiosity. Perhaps the most curious among them was Ross Glynlyn. He prayed me to tell him, and was offended when I refused. Now I remember that a few days ago he called upon me in a state of great triumph; he had just returned from Italy.
"'I have found your model,' he said. 'You need not have been so precise. I thought no good would come of such secrecy.'
"'What model do you mean?' I asked.
"'Your model of "Innocence." I have seen the very face you copied,' he replied.
"'Indeed, where did you see it?'
"'In Italy, in a picture-gallery at Florence. She is incomparably beautiful. But how on earth you managed to induce her to sit for her portrait, I cannot imagine. They say she is the most exclusive lady in Florence.'
"'Indeed,' I said, gravely.
"'It is true. I saw her twice, once in the gallery, and once in the carriage with her husband.'
"Then I laughed aloud.
"'My dear Ross,' I said, 'I have let you wander on because you have told me such a strange story; it really seemed quite sad to interrupt you. You are perfectly wrong. To begin with, the young lady whose face I copied is young and unmarried; in the second place, I can answer for it, she has never been near Italy. She is, I know for certain, preparing to marry a gentleman with whom I am well acquainted.'
"He looked sullen and unconvinced.
"'You may say what you will,' he retorted, 'I swear it was the same face.'
"'And I swear that it was not,' I replied.
"So the matter ended. But, Earle, could it be that Ross Glynlyn spoke the truth—that she is in Florence?"
"But he said that lady was married," said Earle.
"That might be a mistake. It seems to me a clew worth following up."
And Earle thought the same.
CHAPTER XLI.
"I CLAIM YOU AS MY OWN; I WILL NEVER RELEASE YOU!"
"I call this a coincidence," said Gregory Leslie, as the studio door opened and a gentleman entered—"a strange coincidence. If I had read it in a novel I should not have believed it."
Earle looked up inquiringly as a handsome young man, with a clever, artistic face, entered the room.
"Am I a coincidence?" inquired the new-comer.
"I did not say that; but, decidedly, your coming is one, Mr. Glynlyn. Allow me to introduce you—Mr. Moray."
The two gentlemen saluted each other with a smile, each feeling attracted by the other's face.
Then Mr. Leslie turned to his brother artist.
"It is strange that you should come in just at this minute, Ross, I was telling Mr. Moray how certain you were that you had seen the original of 'Innocence' in Florence."
"So I did," replied Ross. "You may contradict me as much as you like. It is not probable that I should make any mistake. The lady I saw had precisely the same face as the picture. It was the original herself or her twin sister."
"She has no twin sister," said Earle, incautiously.
"Ah! you know her, then," continued Mr. Glynlyn. "I assure you that I made no mistake. Our friend here may make as much mystery as he will. I am amazed that he should give me such little credit. Why should I say it if it were not true? And how could I possibly mistake that face for any other? If you know the young lady, you can in all probability corroborate what I say—namely, that she is in Florence."
"I cannot do so," said Earle, "for I am perfectly ignorant of her whereabouts."
Then he shook hands with the artist, for it seemed to him every moment spent there was lessening his chance of finding Doris. He would start at once for Florence. It was a frail clew, after all, feeble and weak, yet well worth following. Of course, it was all a mistake about her being married—she was a governess, not a married lady; yet that mistake seemed to him of very little consequence. The only doubt was that having made one mistake, was it likely the artist had made another?
"Good-bye," said Gregory Leslie, in answer to the farewell words of Earle. "Good-bye: you will let me hear how you get on."
Then he went. He never rested day or night until he was in Florence. Then, exhausted by the long journey, he was compelled to seek repose. He did what was wisest and best in going at once to the best hotel, the one most frequented by the English. There he made many inquiries. There were many English in Florence, but he did not hear of any young lady who was particularly beautiful. The people at the hotel spoke freely enough; they discussed every one and everything, but he heard no allusion to any one who in the least degree resembled Doris.
When he had rested himself he began his search in Florence. At first it seemed quite hopeless. He went through the churches, though he owned to himself that he need not hope to find her there. He went almost daily to the principal places of public resort; no evening passed without his going to the opera, but he never caught sight of a face like hers. Once he followed a girl with golden hair all through the principal streets of Florence; when he came nearer to her, he saw that the hair was neither so bright, so silky, or so abundant as that of Doris. The girl turned her face—it was not the fair, lovely face of the girl he worshiped.
He spent many hours each day in the picture-galleries. Some of the fairest pictures hung before his eyes, yet he, whose love for art and beauty was so passionate, never even saw them. He feared to look at the pictures on the wall, lest he should miss one of the living faces. He saw many, but among them he never saw her.
He spent a week in this fashion, and then his heart began to fail him; it was impossible that she should be in Florence, or surely before this he must have seen her. He wrote to Gregory Leslie and told him of his failure.
"I am afraid either your friend is mistaken or that she has gone away," he said. And if she had gone, where was he to look next?
Then he bethought himself if he could get an introduction to some of the principal houses in Florence; then if any party or fete were given, he should be sure to see her. Even in this he succeeded. With the help of Gregory Leslie he was introduced to some of the best houses in Florence. He met many English—he heard nothing of Doris. People thought he had a wonderful fancy; whenever he heard of any English children, he never rested until he had seen them. Some one told him that Lady Cloamell had three nice little girls; his heart beat high and fast; perhaps Doris was the governess—Doris lived, Doris lived. He armed himself with some pretty sketches, and then asked permission to see the little ladies.
Lady Cloamell was much gratified.
"Tell the governess to come with them," she said to the servant who went in search of them.
And Earle sat down with a white face and beating heart. It was all a waste of emotion.
When the governess did come in, she was ugly and gray-haired.
Poor Earle! he had to endure many such disappointments.
"She is not in Florence," he said to himself at last. "I must go elsewhere."
It was not until the hope was destroyed that he knew how strong it had been—the disappointment was bitter in the extreme.
He woke one morning resolved upon leaving Florence the next day. The sun was shining, the birds singing; his thoughts flew to England and the sweet summer mornings when he had wandered through the green lanes and fields with his love. His heart was heavy. He raised his despairing eyes to the bright heavens, and wondered how long it was to last.
The morning was fair and balmy; he thought that the air would refresh him, and perhaps when he felt less jaded and tired, some inspiration might come to him where to search next; so he walked through the gay streets of sunny Florence until he came to the lovely banks of the Arno. The scene was so fair—the pretty villas shining through the trees.
He walked along till he came to a green patch shaded by trees whose huge branches touched the water; there he sat down to rest. Oh! thank Heaven for that few minutes' rest. He laid his head against the trunk of a tree, and bared his brow to the fresh sweet breeze.
He had been there some little time when the sound of a woman's voice aroused him—the sweet laughing tones of a woman's voice.
"You may leave me," it said. "I shall not run away. I shall enjoy a rest by the river."
Dear Heaven! what voice was it? It touched the very depths of his heart, and sent a crimson flush to his brow. For one short moment he thought he was back again in the woods of Quainton. Then his heart seemed to stop beating; then he leaned, white, almost senseless, against the trees; then he heard it again.
"Do not forget my flowers; and remember the box for 'Satanella.' It is one of my favorite operas. Au revoir."
Then there was a sound of some one walking down the river-bank, the rustle of a silken dress, the half-song, half-murmur of a laughing voice. He saw a shadow fall between himself and the sunshine. Oh, Heaven! could it be she?
He drew aside the sheltering branches and looked out. There, on the bank below him, sat a young girl. At first he could only distinguish the rich dress of violet silk and black lace; then, when the mist cleared before his eyes, and he saw a profusion of golden hair shining like the sun, then he went toward her.
Oh, blessed sky above! Oh, shining sun! Oh, flowing river! Oh, great and merciful Heaven! was it she?
Nearer, and more like the shadow of a coming fate, he crept. Still she never moved. She sang of love that was never to die. Nearer and nearer he could see the white, arched neck, whose graceful turn he would have recognized anywhere. Nearer still, and he laid his hand on her shoulder.
"Doris," he said.
She turned quickly round. It was she.
He will never forget the ghastly pallor that came over her face. She started up with a dreadful cry.
"Earle! Earle! have you come to kill me?"
It was some moments before he could reply. Earth and sky seemed to meet; the ripple of the river was as a roar of water in his ears. His first impulse had been a fierce one. He, worn, haggard, heartbroken; she, brighter, fairer than ever, singing on the banks of the sunny Arno. Then he looked steadily at her.
"No," he said slowly; "I have not come to kill you; I do not wish to kill you. Death could not deal out such torture as your hands have dealt out to me."
"Poor Earle," she said pityingly; but the pity was more than he could bear.
"I am sent here," he continued, "by those who have a right to send. I do not need pity."
But she looked into his changed face.
"Poor Earle," she repeated; and the tone of her voice was so kind that for one moment he shuddered with dread.
"I must speak to you, Doris. I have been long in finding you——"
"Earle," she interrupted, "what has brought you here? I am not surprised. I have always felt that, sooner or later, I should see you. What has brought you here?"
"I have something to tell you," he replied. "I would have traveled the wide world over, but I would never have returned without seeing you."
"But why, of all other places, did you think of Florence?" she asked.
Then it seemed to him that she was simply trying to gain time, and to avoid what he had to say.
"Doris, I have come expressly to talk to you. Why I chose Florence matters but little; nothing matters between us except what I have to say."
"Oh, Earle," she cried, "I was so tired of Brackenside. I could not stay."
"Never mind Brackenside. We will not discuss it now. Will you sit down here, Doris, while I tell you my message?"
She seemed to have no thought of disobeying him. Silently enough she sat down, while he leaned against the tree. She was rather hurt to find that so much of her old influence over him seemed to be lost. She would have liked him to tremble and blush, yet he had not even sought to take her white hand in his own. He had not kissed her face, nor touched the long, golden hair that he had so warmly praised. He stood looking gravely at her; then he spoke.
"Doris," he said, "in the presence of Heaven you promised to be my wife. I do not absolve you from that promise, and until I do so, I claim you as my own."
A hot flush crimsoned his face, sudden passion gleamed in his eyes and quivered on his lips.
"I will never release you," he cried. "Death may take you from me; but of my own free will you shall never, so help me Heaven, be freed from your promise! You hear me?"
"Yes," she replied, in a low voice, "I hear."
"As the man you have promised to marry, as the man who alone on earth has the right to question you, tell me how you are living here now?"
"How am I living?" she replied, raising innocent eyes to his face. "I do not quite understand what you mean."
"I mean precisely what I say. With whom are you living, and what are you doing for a livelihood?"
"What a strange question, Earle. I told you; I am governess to some little children."
"You swear that before Heaven?"
"Before anything or any one you like," she replied, indifferently, smiling the while to herself.
CHAPTER XLII.
"THIS IS YOUR REVENGE—TO HUMILIATE ME."
"I am bound to believe you," he said, "although my faith in you has been terribly shaken. I ask you because I heard that you passed here as a married lady. Is that true?"
A keen observer might have noticed that her face grew pale—that she trembled and seemed for one moment uncertain.
"Is it true?" repeated Earle.
In the eyes raised to his face there was such blank innocence of expression that, in spite of his doubts, he felt ashamed of himself and his words.
"You heard such a thing of me!" she said. "Why, who could have told you?"
"That matters little; I heard it. Is it true?"
"You puzzle me," she said, with the same startled expression. "Why should I do such a thing—why pass myself off as married? I do not understand—you puzzle me, Earle."
"Is it true, or not?" he repeated.
"No," she replied.
"You swear that, likewise, before Heaven?"
"Certainly," she said, promptly. "I do not understand."
Then he blamed himself for being hard upon her.
"We will not discuss it any more," he said, "I have other things to say to you."
She looked slightly embarrassed, the fact being that she had quite lost her fear of him, and was only pondering now upon what she should do to get him away. It would never do for Lord Vivianne to return and find him there; there would be a quarrel, to say the least of it. Besides, Lord Charles was not the most patient of men. What would he do if he heard this nonsense about Earle claiming her? She had no idea of going back with Earle—sooner or later she would tell him so. It was very awkward for her, and she heartily wished she had never seen him. She had no idea, even ever so faint, of going back to Brackenside. She resolved that while he was talking she would settle her future plan of action. At first she hardly listened to him, then by degrees his words began to have a strong, weird interest for her.
"Doris," he said, "I think I have brought the strangest message that one human being ever brought to another. Give me your full attention."
She turned her beautiful face to his, thinking that he was going to say something about love or marriage. Far different were the next words that fell upon her ear.
"Doris," he said, "you have always believed yourself to be the daughter of Mark and Patty Brace, have you not?"
"Yes," she replied, wonderingly, "what else could I believe? You are the son of Mrs. Moray, of Lindenholm, are you not?"
"Certainly; but that is beside the question. You never, even in your own mind, doubted the truth of what you say?"
She laughed the little, careless, sweet laugh that he remembered so well.
"To tell the plain truth, Earle, I never felt myself quite a Brace—the manners and tastes of those good people were so different to my own."
"Then what I have to say will not shock you. You had no great love for the simple farmer and his kindly wife?"
"If you wish for the truth, again I say no. I had no great love for them. They were good in their way—that way was not mine."
"So it seems," he retorted. "Then you will not suffer any great amount of pain if I tell you that Mark Brace is not your father, nor his kindly wife your mother?"
"Now, Earle, you are inventing a romance to please yourself."
"Does it please you, Doris? I leave inventions to yourself; I tell you the plain, honest truth—you are no relation of theirs."
"Who am I, then? If you take my old identity from me, you must, at least, give me a new one," she said, laughingly.
Her utter want of feeling and absence of all emotions annoyed him greatly.
"I will tell you a story," he said.
And with a grace and pathos all his own, he told the history of that night so long ago, when the little child was found at the door of the farm-house.
She looked incredulous.
"Do you mean to tell me that I was that child? A wretched little foundling! I do not believe one word of it. This is your revenge—to humiliate me."
"You will know better soon," he replied, quietly. "Yes, you were that little child. Patty Brace took you to her arms, and honest Mark Brace treated you like his own."
Her face flushed crimson, her lips curled with scorn, her eyes flashed light.
"I look very much like a foundling, do I not? Earle Moray, take your absurd stories elsewhere." She held up one white hand. "That looks like the hand of a foundling, does it not? Shame on you for trying to humiliate me! It is a pure invention. I do not believe one word of it, and I never shall."
"You have only heard the commencement," he replied, coolly. "Remember, I never used the word 'foundling' to you—you used it to yourself. It is not probable that I should do so when I know whose daughter you are."
"Ah! Do you know? May I ask what honorable parentage you have assigned to me? This grows amusing. Remember, before you say another word, that I distinctly refuse to believe you."
"You will change your mind," he said, quietly. "I have not the least doubt that I am here to tell you the simple truth, and to take you back to your father."
The impulse was strong upon her to say that she could not go, but she refrained, thinking it quite as wise and politic to hear first to what she was to return.
"You must not ask me how I know your history," said Earle, "but it suffices that I know it. Let me tell you also, it did not surprise me so very much. I always thought, myself, that you were, as you say, 'of a different kind.'"
He saw the color creep slowly over her face and a new light dawn in her eyes.
"You will, henceforward, occupy a very different position, Doris," he said, gravely; "your place will be henceforth among the nobility."
"Ah! that's better," she said in a low voice.
But he could see that she trembled with impatience. She had clasped her hands so tightly that the rings she wore made great dents in the tender flesh; still she would not betray her impatience.
"Your father is a nobleman, a wealthy British peer—Earl Linleigh—and you are his only child."
She grew white, even to the lips, and her breath came in quick gasps.
"Earl of Linleigh?" she repeated. "Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, Earle?"
"There is no mistake, Doris; your name and title is now Lady Doris Studleigh. Do you like it? Does it sound well?"
She drew her breath with a deep, heavy sigh.
"I cannot believe it, Earle," she said, "it seems quite impossible that it should be true. It is what I used to dream when a child, but I never thought the dream would be realized. I cannot believe it, Earle."
It was significant enough that she refused to believe him when she fancied that he wished to lower her in the social scale; but she never expressed the slightest doubt of his truth now, nor did even the faintest doubt occur to her. After the first emotion of surprise had passed, she looked at him again.
"My mother?" she said—"you have told me nothing about her. Who is she?"
"I have nothing to tell," he said; "I have nothing to say about her. I was commissioned simply to tell you this. I may add that your father's marriage was a private one, that he was for many years in India, and is now returning home to take possession of his estates."
"A private marriage!" she said, slowly. "I hope he has not married beneath him."
"There is no doubt but that the whole story of his marriage will be told to you," said Earle. "And now, Doris, listen to me—you must return with me; I cannot go without you. I promised that you should go back with me, and it is imperative. The marriage will not be declared until you reach home."
"It is so sudden," she said.
"Yes, but you surely cannot hesitate, Doris. Remember not only what awaits you—your golden future—but remember, also, it is your own parents who summon you."
"You do not quite understand, Earle. I have no hesitation in going. Of course I shall go, but I want time to think."
"If you fear the people you are staying with will not be willing for you to go, it is a great mistake; they could not possibly make any objection. I will see them for you, if you like."
She raised her head in quick alarm.
"No, I would rather not, it is not needful. Give me just ten minutes to decide. You are just; give me ten minutes in silence to think."
He remained mute and motionless by her side.
The Arno rippled musically at her feet; birds sang above her head.
"Tell me again;" she said, "what will my rank and title be?"
"You will be the Lady Doris Studleigh, only daughter of the Earl of Linleigh——"
"And my fortune?" she interrupted.
"Of that I know nothing; but I should say it must be large. You will probably be a wealthy heiress."
"And there is a place waiting for me in the grand world?"
"Most certainly," he replied.
"Now, then, let me think, Earle; I am all bewilderment and confusion. Let me arrange my ideas, then I will explain them to you."
He did not know why she sat so silent, while quiver after quiver of pain passed over her face—why her hands were so tightly clasped; but she in that hour was reaping the reward of her folly.
What had she done? Had she, by her wicked sin, by her intense self-love, her eagerness for pleasure and luxury, her little esteem for virtue, her frivolous views of vice—had she by all these forfeited that glorious birth-right which was hers? Had she lost all chance of this grand position which would fill the greatest desire of her heart? It was this most terrible fear that blanched her face and made her hands tremble, that caused her to sit like one over whom a terrible blight had fallen. In her passionate desire for change and luxury, for pleasure and gayety, she had never even thought of her own degradation; it was a view of the subject that she had not yet taken; she had only thought of the lighter side. Now it seemed to look her in the face with all its natural deformity. She shrunk abashed and frightened—horror-stricken—now that she saw her enormity in its full colors.
Still, it was not the sin that distressed her; that was nothing to her. It was the idea that through it she might lose the glorious future awaiting her; if this had not happened, she would never have regretted her fault. If it were known—if this proud nobleman knew that she had passed as the wife of a man to whom she was not married, would he ever receive her as his daughter? No; she knew enough of the world to be quite sure of that. Even Mark Brace would not do it. If he had the faintest possible idea of what her life had been since they parted, would he receive her, and think her a suitable companion for Mattie? No; she knew that he would not; he would have forgiven any sin save that. A disgraceful sin like hers he considered beyond pardon.
If Mark Brace, with his kindly, simple heart, could not pardon her, was it probable that Earl Linleigh would? No! The only hope that remained to her was to keep her past life, with its terrible blunder, a dead secret—there was no other resource. Could she do that? It was just possible.
Only yesterday she had been railing against her life, declaring that it was all a disappointment, that she saw no one, and was getting tired of it; now she felt thankful that it was so, that she had seen but few strange faces, and most of these had been Italian ones. So that if she could keep her secret, she trusted no one would recognize in Lady Doris Studleigh the person who had been known as Mrs. Conyers.