CHAPTER XLIII.
THE COQUETTE'S BLANDISHMENTS.
"Have you finished thinking yet, Doris?" asked Earle, gently.
"No," she replied. "I am getting a little clearer in my ideas, but I have by no means finished yet."
She had two plans before her. One was to wait for Lord Charles and tell him all—to trust to his generosity to keep their secret. Then she laughed bitterly as she repeated the word "generosity"—he had none. He was reckless, extravagant over money, but as for generosity, honor, or principle, she knew he had none. In trusting to that she would indeed trust to a broken reed.
Besides, if she were once established in this new sphere of life, it would be highly disagreeable and offensive to have any one near her who knew of this episode. If Lord Vivianne know, he would always have her in his power; he would hold the secret like a drawn sword over her head. No; better for her own safety to steal away from him without saying one word. Even if, in the after years, they should meet again, it was hardly possible that he would recognize her, surrounded by all the luxuries of her position, the honored daughter of noble parents. It was not likely that he would recognize in her the girl who had left Brackenside for his sake. As for leaving him—far from feeling the least regret, far from seeing that she was treating him dishonorably, she smiled to herself at his consternation when he should return to the river-side and not find her.
"He will think that I have run away with some one else," she thought; and the idea amused her so intensely that she laughed aloud.
"You are well content," said Earle, bitterly.
"Why should not I be? You have brought me wealth and fortune, title and honor—all that my soul loves best. Why should I not be content?"
She had finished her musing now, and it had brought her to two conclusions: she must leave Lord Vivianne at once, and in silence, while she must at the same time, at any price, keep her secret from Earle.
Another and very probable idea occurred to her. It was this: by Earle being sent to fetch her, it was very evident that her parents approved of him, and that she would have to marry him. Looking at him, she thought it was not such a bad alternative, after all. He was handsomer, younger, stronger than Lord Vivianne; besides, what little affection she had had to give had always been his. Then she arose from her seat with a smile.
"I have finished thinking, Earle. To make matters square, I promise myself that I will not think again for ever so many months."
"What is the result of your deliberation?" he said.
"I wish you would be a little kinder to me, Earle. You speak so gravely, you look so coldly, that you make me quite unhappy."
His face flushed slightly and his lips trembled.
"I do not wish to seem unkind, Doris, but let me ask you—what else besides coldness and gravity can you expect from me?"
"You know I always liked you, Earle."
"I know you betrayed and deceived me about as basely as it is possible to deceive any one. But we need not discuss that now."
She looked at him with a smile few men could resist, and held out her hands.
"Be friends, Earle; I like you too well, after all, to travel with you while you look so cold and stern. Give me one smile—only one—then I shall feel more at my ease."
"I do not think my smiles cheer, or the loss of them depresses you. Neither can I smile to order; still you need have no fear of traveling with me."
It was in her nature to respect him more, the more difficult he seemed to please.
"I shall manage him in time," she thought.
"I shall return with you, Earle," she said. "I have been thinking it all over, and I will go at once. I will not wait to say good-bye to the people here."
"But that seems strange—not quite right. Why not go and bid them farewell? Tell them the good fortune that has happened to you."
"No; they are very fond of me—the children especially. You do not know; they would not let me come away."
"But it does not seem right," persisted Earle.
"It is right enough; if I go back to them I shall not go with you. I can write to them as soon as I reach England, and tell them all about it."
"I know you will have your own way, Doris. It is useless for me to interfere; do as you please."
"That is like my old lover, Earle; now I begin to feel at home with you. I did use you very wickedly, but all the time I liked you."
"I know exactly the value of your liking," said Earle, who had determined to be cool and guarded.
She talked to him in the old sweet tones; she gave him the sweetest glances from her lovely eyes; she remembered all the pretty arts and graces which had attracted him most; and Earle, despite his caution, despite his resolve, knew that his heart was on fire again with the glamour and magic of her beauty; knew that every pulse was throbbing with passion; and she knew, as well as though he had put it into words, that the old charm was returning, only a thousand times stronger.
She laid her white hand on his arm, and he shrank shuddering from the touch. She only smiled—her time would come.
"I shall not return to the house where I have been living. The reason is that I wish them to forget me. I shall not like, when I am Lady Doris Studleigh, to be recognized by them."
That pride was so exactly like her, he understood it well.
"You can return to Florence, if you like," she continued, with the air of a queen; "but if you wish to please me, you will walk on with me to the nearest railway station, and let us go at once to Genoa. We can travel from Genoa to London."
"But I have left my things at the hotel," he said.
"Is there anything particular among them, Earle?"
"No," he replied.
"Then you can send for them on your arrival. Please yourself. If you do not go on my terms, I shall go alone."
Then he looked at the rippling, golden hair, that fell in such shining profusion over her shoulders, at the dress of rich velvet, silk and delicate lace.
"You are not dressed for traveling. Why be so hasty?" he said.
"I can purchase anything I want at Genoa," she replied.
Then he noticed for the first time what costly jewels she wore, and how her hands were covered with shining gems. For the first time a thrill of uneasiness, of doubt, of fear, shot through him.
"You have some beautiful jewels, Doris," he said, slowly.
Her face flushed, then she laughed carelessly.
"How easy it is to deceive a man," she said; "a lady would have known at one glance that they were not real."
He felt greatly relieved.
"They are pretty, but not very valuable," she continued—"given to me by the children I have been teaching. If you do not like them, Earle, I will throw them into the Arno one by one."
"Why do that, if the little children gave them to you? I am no judge of precious stones, but looking at the light in those, I should have thought them real."
"Do you know that if they were real they would be worth hundreds and hundreds of pounds? You must think an English governess in Italy coins money."
He looked admiringly at her handsome dress, although too inexperienced to know its real value.
"This is my best dress, too," she said. "And do you know, Earle, that as I put it on I said to myself, I do not look amiss in this; I wish Earle could see me."
"Did you really?" he asked, a flush of delight rising to his brow. It is so very easy to deceive a generous and trusting man, that one might almost be ashamed to do it. "Did you, Doris? Then, although you ran away from me so cruelly, you did like me, after all?"
"Oh, Earle, what a question! Like you? Did you not feel sure that when I had seen something of the world—had allayed the fever of excitement—that I should return to you? Did you not feel sure of it?"
No such thought or intention had ever been in her mind, still she wished to make the best of matters. It was no use for her to return to England unless she was the best of friends with him. A few untruths, more or less, did not trouble her in the least, only provided that he believed them.
"I never thought so," was his simply reply. "I believed you had left me forever, Doris."
"You must never judge me by the same rule you would apply to others, Earle. I told you so from the beginning of our acquaintance, I tell you so now."
"I believe it," he replied.
Yet, although he saw that she wished to make friends, and was flattered by the belief, he could not all at once forget the anguish and sorrow she had caused him.
Then she took out a little jeweled watch that she wore. Time was flying. In one short half-hour Lord Charles would be back with her flowers and news of the opera-box.
"How angry he will be," she said to herself, "to think that any one should thwart his sovereign will and pleasure. He will look in every pretty nook by the river-bank, then he will go into the house and ask, 'Have you seen Mrs. Conyers?' And no one will be able to answer him. I should like to be here to see the sensation. Then he will be sulky, and finally come to the conclusion that I have given him up, and have run away from him."
She was so accustomed to think of him as selfish, loving nothing but himself, that she never imagined that he had grown to love her with a madness of passion to which he would have sacrificed everything on earth. She had been so entirely wrapped up in her own pursuits, in the acquisition of numberless dresses and jewels, that she had not observed the signs of his increasing devotion. Blind to his mad passion for her, she decided upon leaving him; and of all the mistakes that she ever made in her life, none was so great as this.
Ten minutes later they were walking rapidly toward the little town of Seipia: there they could go by train to Genoa. As they walked along the high-road Doris laughed and talked gayly, as though nothing had happened since they were first betrothed.
"This reminds me of old times, Earle," she said. "How goes the poetry, dear? I expect to hear that you have performed miracles by this time."
"You destroyed my poetry, Doris, when you marred my genius and blighted my life!"
She laid her hand caressingly on his.
"Did I? Then I must make amends for it now," she said.
And he was almost vexed to find how the words thrilled him with a keen, passionate delight. Suddenly she raised a laughing face to his.
"Was there a very dreadful sensation, Earle, when they found out I was gone?"
The smiling face, the laughing voice, smote him like a sharp sword. He remembered the pain and the anguish, the torture he had suffered, the long hours when he had lain between life and death; he remembered the fame he had lost, the sweet gift of genius, all destroyed; his heart broken, his life rendered stale and profitless, while she could smile and ask with laughing eyes if there had been much sensation.
"I believe," he cried, with a sudden flame of passion, "women are nerved with heartlessness!"
She was scared by his manner. Deep feeling and earnestness were quite out of her line; her bright, shallow nature did not understand it, but she saw that for the future it would be better to say nothing to him about such matters as her running away from home.
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE NOBLEMAN'S OATH.
It was a strange journey home, and during its course Earle often wondered why, at intervals, Doris laughed, as though she found the keenest enjoyment in her own thoughts.
He little imagined that she was reveling in the disappointment Lord Vivianne would feel; and she had enough of the woman in her to rejoice in his pain, and to feel pleased that she could deal him some little blow in return for the blow he had dealt her. In her heart she had never forgiven him that he had not found her beauty and her grace inducement sufficient to make him marry her. She could not pardon him that, and she liked to think that he would be annoyed and vexed by her absence.
She little dreamed of the storm of passion in that heart of his. If she had had any inkling of it, she would most assuredly have done the wisest and most straightforward thing—told him her story, trusted him, and confided in what he called his honor—it would have been by far the safest.
As it was, his love became a fury of rage. He had gone into the city of Florence, thinking of her, anxious to gratify every whim, desirous of pleasing her. It had been her whim to sit by the river-side and read, while he went to purchase flowers and to engage an opera-box. She had plenty of flowers in the luxurious house where he had placed her—she was surrounded by them—but they did not please her; she wanted some from a celebrated florist who supplied—so she had been told—the most fashionable ladies in Florence. Then, too, she had a great desire to hear "Satanella," and knowing that it would be really impossible, unless Lord Vivianne went himself, to secure a box, she had taken the pretty caprice of sitting by the river until his return.
He returned in the highest spirits, having succeeded in all that she most desired. He brought with him some magnificent flowers, beautiful in color, rich in perfume; and he hastened back to the pretty nook where he had left her. The river ran rippling by, the branches waved in the wind, the birds sang on the boughs, but there was no Doris. Thinking that she had gone some few steps further down, he called her by her name, "Dora! Dora!" It seemed as though the wavelets ran away laughing at the sound, and the birds repeated it with mocking charms. Then he saw upon the ground the book she had taken out with her, and smiled to himself as he picked it up. It was a prurient French romance, and a cynical laugh came from his lips.
"I consider myself, to say the least of it, no saint; but it would never have occurred to me to bring such a book as that out into the sunshine to read."
From the river-bank he could see the pretty villa, with its terrace and balconies. He thought it possible that Doris had gone home in search of something, and he sat down under the trees where that most momentous interview had taken place, and sang to himself an opera song. Still, though the time passed pleasantly, she was long in coming. He occupied himself in thinking of her—of the wondrous grace and beauty of her face, of the smile that dazzled him, of the glory of her golden hair, of her wit, her repartee, her piquant words. He owned to himself that she made the charm of his life—that without her it would have neither salt nor savor. Indeed, he had only been absent from her an hour or two, and he felt dull and wearied. Life without Doris—why it would not be worth having!
Then he wished that she had belonged to some station of life so refined that he could have married her; but he checked the thought with a sigh. She was beautiful with a rare loveliness, but hardly the one that any man would choose to be the mother of his children.
Then the sunbeams fell slanting, and his lordship remembered that lunch would be waiting. He felt sure that she must be at home. He walked quickly toward the villa, still carrying the magnificent flowers, but Mrs. Conyers was not there. He went into her room; it was just as she had left it—a scene of elegant confusion—dresses, jewels, laces, all in the most picturesque disorder. The dress she was to have worn at the opera lay there ready, the jewels with it. Evidently she had not gone far. He learned from her maid and other servants that she had not returned to the house since she left with him in the morning. Then Lord Charles became angry; he was not accustomed to this kind of treatment.
"She is hiding, I suppose," he said to himself, sullenly; "but if she expects me to make any fuss about finding her, she is mistaken. She can do as she likes."
He slept away the sunshiny afternoon, and awoke to the fact that dinner was ready, but that Doris had not returned; yet it was not until the shades of night had fallen that he began to feel any fear; then, slowly enough, it dawned upon him that she had left him. At first he was incredulous, and feared some accident had happened: he dreaded lest she should have fallen into the river, and made an active search for her. When he felt sure that she was gone, that she had in real truth abandoned him, his rage was terrible; he could not imagine how or why it was.
"She had everything here," he said to himself, "that any woman's heart could desire. Can she have met any one whom she liked better than me?"
He judged her quite correctly in thinking that nothing but superior wealth would have tempted her from him; but no one was missing from Florence, neither Italian nor English. As for suspecting that Earle had followed and claimed her, such an idea never entered his mind; he would have laughed at it.
When there was no longer any doubt—when long days and longer nights had passed, and there was no sign of her return—when she never wrote to him or gave him the least sign of her existence, he was in a fury of rage and passion. He paid the servants and sent them away. He flung her dresses and pretty ornaments into the river; he would have none of them. Then he swore to himself an oath that, let him find her again, as he would—wherever he would—he would take his revenge.
It would have been a thousand times better for her had she told him the truth and trusted him. Then he went away from Florence, but he swore to himself that he would find her, and when she was found she should suffer.
But of this, Doris, triumphant and happy, knew nothing. That journey home was delightful to her. She gloried in seeing Earle lose the dignity, the stern self-control, the coldness that had been so distasteful to her; she delighted in making his face flush, in saying words to him that made his strong hands tremble and his lips quiver; she delighted in these evidences of her power. Gradually he became the warm, impassioned lover that he had been once, and Doris was happy. While Earle was her friend all was safe.
"I hope," she said to him one day, "that they will not tease me at home with tiresome questions; I am so impatient, I should never answer or hear them."
"If by home you mean Brackenside," said Earle, "it is not very probable; you will not be there long."
"You had better give them a caution, Earle. I know my own failings so well. Tell them that you met me in Florence. Mind, if you use the word found I shall never forgive you. You met me in Florence, and hearing that they were in trouble over me, I returned; that is what you have to say, Earle, neither more nor less."
He smiled at her vehemence.
"I will do all I can to please you, Doris," he said.
"That is well; if you do so, Earle, we shall be all right together. I like to be obeyed."
"It suits you," said Earle; "you were born to be a queen."
"Do they know anything at Brackenside of this wonderful story, Earle?" she asked, after a time.
"No, not yet—not one word; no one knows it but myself and you."
Yet he could see that, as they drew nearer home, she was nervous and ill at ease. Once he asked her why it was, and she half laughed as she said:
"Mattie is so tiresome; I shall have no peace with her."
And again he repeated his formula of comfort, "It is not for long."
On the evening they reached Brackenside it was cold and windy.
Rain had fallen during the day, but the rain-clouds had all disappeared; the sky was clear and blue, the moon shone, but the cold was great. The scene in England was quite wintry; there was no Italian sun to warm it; the flowers and leaves were all dead; the fields looked gray, not green, and the wind wailed with a sound so mournful that it made one shudder to listen to it.
As they walked up the fields together, Earle said to his beautiful companion:
"According to Mark Brace's story, it was on such a night as this that you were brought to Brackenside."
She laughed.
"Do you know, Earle," she said, "I am quite ashamed of it, but I have a very uncomfortable sensation that I am returning home very much after the style of the prodigal son."
"Nothing of the kind," said generous Earle. He would not allow her to depreciate herself.
The wind was fearful; it bent the tall trees, and swayed them to and fro as though they were reeds. It moaned and wailed round the house with long-drawn, terrible cries.
"One would think the wind had a voice, and was foretelling evil," said Doris, with a shudder. "Listen, Earle!"
But the attention of the young poet was drawn to a pretty scene. Through the window of the farm-house a ruddy light came like a beam of welcome.
"They are sitting there," said Earle—"the farmer and his wife, with Mattie. Let us go to the window, Doris; we shall see them, but they will not see us."
They drew near to the window. It was the prettiest home scene that was ever imagined. The ruddy light of the fire was reflected in the shining cupboard, in Mark's honest face—it played over the bent head of his wife, and on Mattie's brown hair.
Tears came into the young poet's eyes as he stood and watched; for Mark had taken the great Bible down from the shelf, and was reading aloud to his wife and child. They could not distinguish what he was reading, but they heard the deep reverence of his voice, and how it faltered when he came to any words that touched him. They could see the look of reverence on Mattie's face, and the picture was a pleasing one—it touched all that was most noble in the heart of the young poet.
"I have seen just such a look as Mattie wears on the pictured faces of the saints," he said; and although Doris affected to laugh at his enthusiasm, she was half jealous of the girl who excited it.
Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to Earle; he turned quickly to her.
"Doris," he said, "raise your face to the quiet skies; let me look into the depths of your eyes. Tell me, before Heaven, are you worthy to return and take your place as sister by the side of that girl, whose every thought is pure, and every word devout?"
"I understand you," she said, coldly. "Yes, I am quite worthy to stand by her side."
"Swear it, before Heaven!" he cried.
And the unhappy girl swore it!
CHAPTER XLV.
AN APPEAL FOR FORGIVENESS.
The same wind that wailed so mournfully round the farm made sad music round the Castle walls. Lady Estelle shuddered as she listened to it; it seemed so full of prophecy, and the prophecy was so full of evil. It moaned and sobbed, then went off into wild cries, then into fitful wails.
A scene was passing just then in the drawing-room of the Castle, such as the dead and gone Herefords had never seen. A group of four people were assembled there, the duke looking older by twenty years than when we saw him last, his head bent, his stately figure drooping, as a man droops who has just met the most terrible blow of his lifetime. All the pride and the dignity seemed to have died away from the face of the duchess, his wife; her eyes were swollen with weeping.
"I shall never feel myself again," she said to her husband; "it is my death-blow."
Two others were in that group—Lady Estelle, whose face was ghastly pale; and standing near her, a tall, handsome man, fair of face, frank, careless and debonair. He was evidently trying to look sorry for something, but had not been able to succeed.
"It is so long since," he was saying, in a tone of apology; "but really I fear there can be no excuse offered."
"No," replied the duke, in a stern voice, "that is certain—none."
Two days before this two events had happened at the Castle. One was that Lady Estelle received a note from Earle, brief enough in itself, but full of import to her. It simply said:
"I have found her. She is now at home, awaiting your summons. I am thankful not to have failed."
Lady Estelle grew white to the lips as she read those lines. Then she wrote a second letter. It was just as brief, and was addressed to the Earl of Linleigh. It said:
"There is no use in further delay; come to the Castle whenever you like, only give me twelve hour's notice."
Then came a letter which sorely puzzled the duke. It was from the Earl of Linleigh, saying that he should be happy to pay the duke a visit if it were quite convenient, and that he would be at the Castle on Wednesday, when he would have something particular to say to him. The duke read the letter, then passed it over to his wife with a very anxious look.
"He follows his letter, you see; he gives me no time to refuse him. I suppose we can both guess what he wants to see me about."
"I am afraid so," said the duchess, with a sigh. "I am afraid she likes him. If she does, we must look upon the brightest side. Perhaps time has steadied him. Certainly, to be Countess of Linleigh is a great thing, after all."
"The title is right enough," said the duke; "it is the bearer of it whom I neither like nor trust."
Neither of them were prepared to hear the story that Ulric, Earl of Linleigh, had to tell them. Even to the duchess, who honestly believed her daughter was in love with the earl, her conduct seemed strange. She was nervous, she talked but little, yet it was the look of happy, dreamy content that sat on her face.
It struck the duchess at last—there was no mistake about it—Lady Estelle looked exceedingly ill. She had expected to see her daughter manifest some little sign of delight at the coming of her lover; she had expected some little attention to dress, some of the many hundred pretty ways of showing delight, but she saw none.
Then the day dawned which was to bring the earl, and the duchess felt sure, from her daughter's face, that she had spent the greater part of the night in tears.
Through some mistake in the time of his arrival, Lady Estelle was alone; the duke had not returned from his drive, and the duchess had driven over to the neighboring presbytery. The earl was not expected until six, but he arrived at four. It was perhaps well for Lady Estelle that she had not more time for anticipation; it was a terrible time for her—a trying ordeal.
She was alone in the library when she heard the sound of carriage-wheels; she never dreamed it was he till the sudden opening of the library door, and the footman announced:
"The Earl of Linleigh!"
She often wondered in after years that she had not died in that moment. But the pride and self-control of long years came to her aid; she rose, pale as marble, cold, dignified, ready to die rather than yield to emotion; and without one word, she held out her hand in greeting to her husband. He was looking at her with eyes that seemed to devour her.
"Estelle," he murmured; then, ready, eloquent, debonair as he was, he could say no more. Was it possible—gracious Heaven!—was it possible that this pale, proud, beautiful woman, so haughty that she looked as though nothing could touch her—was it possible that she was the fair young Estelle who had sacrificed everything for him, and been so cruelly rewarded? Was this magnificent woman really his wife?
"Estelle," he repeated. He drew nearer, as though he would caress her.
She shrunk from him.
"No," she said, "do not touch me."
But the earl, so handsome and debonair, was not to be daunted.
"Why, Estelle, my darling, my wife, surely you are going to forgive me—I shall never forgive myself. No man ever did behave so vilely, I believe; but, my darling, you will forgive me, and let us be happy now."
"After twenty years!" she answered—"after twenty long, sad years."
"Better late than never, my love. You must forgive me, Estelle. I did you a most cruel wrong, but the most cruel of all was to quarrel with you and leave you."
"No," she said, firmly, "the most cruel wrong you did was to marry me; and the next, to leave me all these years without one word. No woman could ever forgive such a wrong."
"But you are not a woman, you are an angel, Estelle—so it has always seemed to me. Will you believe me in this one instance—I am full of faults; I have behaved shamefully; my conduct to you disgraces the name I bear, the name of a gentleman—but will you believe this, Estelle, my wife, my silence during all those years has not been because I would not write, but because I dare not? I never dreamed that you could forgive me; I held myself unworthy of all pardon. I knew that I had wronged you so greatly, I deserved no compassion."
"If you felt so sure that I could never forgive you, why do you come here now?" she asked, haughtily.
The least possible gleam of amusement came into his eyes, the least possible curl to his lip.
"You see, my darling Estelle, it is in this way: As Ulric Studleigh it mattered little what became of me—whether I went to the bad altogether or not, whether I was married or not; but as Earl of Linleigh it is quite another thing. I must have a wife to reign in my ancestral home; I must have children to succeed me; therefore, from the depth of my heart, I say forgive the fault of erring, passionate youth, and be my wife in reality as you are in name. I promise you, Estelle, I will atone to you for the evil I have done; that I will make you happy beyond the power of words to tell; that I will spend my life in your service. Do you believe me?"
She looked at him. His face was earnest and agitated, the eloquent eyes seemed to rain love into her own. It was hard to resist him, and yet he had been so cruel.
"Why have you never written to me all these years, Ulric?" she asked, and he knew that the faltering voice meant good for him.
"My darling, I tell you I dared not. No man ever so sinned against a woman as I sinned against you. I took advantage of your youth, your simplicity, your love for me, to induce you to contract a private marriage with me. Then my horrible pride got ahead of me, I quarreled with you and left you for twenty—may Heaven forgive me—twenty years. I can hardly expect that you will pardon me. How can you?"
She drew a little nearer to him when she saw how unhappy he looked.
"Ah, Ulric," she said, "your race are all alike faithless and debonair; even the little one is the same."
The words seemed to cost her violent effort; her face grew crimson.
He looked at her with brightening eyes.
"The little one—our child? Oh, Estelle, you have never told me anything of our child."
"You have never asked," she retorted.
"No, I am to blame. What dull, stupid apathy has come over me? What have I been doing or thinking about? My wife and child to drift through all these years. Well, from the depths of my heart I say Heaven pardon me, for I am a great sinner. Estelle, tell me something about our child."
The expression of his face was so pitiful that she could not help replying.
"I cannot tell you much," she said. "I have been, like yourself, careless over the child. I could not keep my secret and keep her, so she went."
"Yes, Lady Delapain told me; but have you never seen her? Do you know nothing of her?"
"I have seen her twice."
And then Lady Estelle gave him the whole history of Doris.
"She is very beautiful," she said, in conclusion, "but she resembles you more than me. She is a Studleigh in face and in character. She is faithless and debonair, Ulric, as you are."
"Perhaps you judge her rather harshly," he said, with great tenderness in his voice. "Why do you call her faithless, Estelle?"
"Because she was engaged to marry some one who loved her with a true and tender love. She ran away from him, and almost broke his heart."
"Who was the some one?" asked the earl.
"Earle Moray, a poet and a gentleman—one whom a princess might marry, if she loved him."
"Why did the little one run away from him? What was her reason?"
"She wanted to see something of the world, so she went abroad as governess to some little children."
"That was not so very bad," he said. "She might have done much worse than that. It is quite natural for a girl to want to see something of life. Where did she go to, dear?"
"To Florence, with some English people, I believe."
"Well, I cannot really be very angry with her for it; of course her position will be changed now. We shall have to think twice before she fulfills this engagement."
"I shall never be willing for her to marry any one but Earle," said Lady Estelle.
"We have plenty of time to think of that," he said. "I feel rather inclined to be jealous of this Earle Moray. Estelle, my darling, you have not said that you forgive me." He drew nearer to her, he clasped her in his arms, and kissed the pale, beautiful face. He might be faithless, he had been cruel, but in all the wide world he was the only love for her. She did not avert her face from the passionate kisses that he showered upon it. "You forgive me, Estelle, my wife?"
"Yes," she replied, "I forgive you; I cannot help it; but I know quite well that I ought not."
CHAPTER XLVI.
A THUNDERBOLT IN A DUCAL PALACE.
The Earl of Linleigh seemed to be indifferent as to the terms on which he obtained his pardon, provided only that he did obtain it. His thanks and gratitude were pleasing to hear. Her pale face relaxed as she listened. After all she had suffered, the long, silent agony of years—there was something very delightful in being loved.
"And you will be good to me, my darling?" whispered the earl. "You will not do what you might do—take vengeance on me for my many sins?"
"No," said Lady Estelle, "I will not do that."
"And you will come with me to my home, Linleigh Towers, and reign there as its mistress and queen?"
"I will do whatever makes you happiest," she said, with that sweet gentleness that seemed to sit so strangely upon her.
"Estelle," said the earl, "of course the duke and duchess have not an inkling of our secret?"
"No, they have not the faintest idea of it."
"How foolish we were, my darling. It seems like a dream now that we ever did that wild, foolish deed. It is far more like a dream than a reality."
"Yes," she sighed, "it was a sad thing for both of us."
"I will tell them. You have had quite enough to bear. I will take the onus on myself. Give me—let me see—ten kisses; they will make me strong enough to fight any battle in your cause."
He bent over her, and was busily engaged in taking the accurate number of kisses, when the door suddenly opened, and the duke and duchess entered the room, having returned from their drive together.
The scene is better imagined than described. They were all well-bred people; but just at that moment the circumstances seemed to bewilder them.
Lady Estelle sank pale and trembling into a chair—the moment she had dreaded for years had come at last. The earl was the first to recover himself.
Coolly, as though nothing particular had occurred, the earl went up to the duke and duchess with outstretched hands. They greeted him kindly, but he was quick enough to detect something of restraint in their voices. They spoke of indifferent matters for some few moments, and then the duke asked if his guest had partaken of any refreshment.
"We do not dine till eight," he said; "take some wine, at least."
"No," said the earl; "the truth is, before I can accept your hospitality, I have something to tell you—something that will cause you just and righteous anger—to that I submit; but I pray you, as the fault was all mine, so let the blame be all mine. Spare every one else."
He looked so handsome, so earnest, so agitated, that the duke felt touched. What could he have done to offend him? Nothing but love his daughter; and that was surely no such terrible crime. He merely smiled as he heard the words; the duchess, with a sudden nervous movement of the hands, drew nearer to her daughter.
"I have no excuse," said the earl, "to offer for this story which I have to tell—no excuse. It was the passionate, mad folly of a boy—the trusting simplicity and innocence of a young girl."
Then, for the first time, an expression of fear came into the duke's face, and the duchess looked as though she were turned to stone.
"Listen to me, your grace. Twenty years ago, when I was Ulric Studleigh, a captain in the army, without even the prospect of advancement, I fell in love with Lady Estelle."
He was still looking in the duke's grave face, and his words seemed to fail him, his lips grew dry and hot, his hands trembled.
"I am ashamed of my folly," he said, in a low, agitated voice, "and I find it hard to tell."
"You will remember, Lord Linleigh, that you are keeping us in suspense, and Lady Estelle is our only child. Be brief, for her mother's sake, if not for my own."
The earl continued:
"Do not think me a coward, your grace; I have faced the enemy in open fight as often as any soldier. I never fled from a foe, but I would sooner face a regiment of foes, each with a drawn sword in his hand, than stand before you to tell what I have to tell."
"Be brief, my lord," was the impatient comment. "Be brief."
"In a few words, then, your grace, I loved your daughter. I won her love, and privately, unknown to any person, save one, we were married twenty years ago."
The duchess uttered a low cry of sorrow and dismay. The duke suddenly dropped into his chair like a man who had been shot. A painful silence fell over the room, broken only by the sobs of Lady Estelle.
"Married!" said the duke, at last. "Oh, Heaven! has my daughter so cruelly deceived me?"
"The fault was all mine, your grace; shooting would be far too good for me. I persuaded her, I followed her, I made her wretched, I gave her no peace until she consented."
"Oh! Estelle, my daughter, is it true?" cried the duke. "Is it—can it be true?"
Estelle's only answer was a series of heartbreaking sobs.
"It is true, your grace," said the earl. "If any suffering could undo it, I would suffer the extremity of torture. I repent with my whole heart; let me pray your grace not to turn a deaf ear to my repentance."
The duke made no answer, but laid his head on his clasped hands.
"I had better tell you all," continued the earl, in a low voice. "We were married. I call Heaven to witness that the fault was all mine, and that I intended to act loyally, honorably, and truthfully to my dear wife; but we were unfortunate. I was proud and jealous, she was proud and impatient; she taunted me always by saying the Studleighs were all faithless. We quarreled at last, and both of us were too proud to be the first to seek forgiveness. Then, in a fit of desperate rage, I exchanged into a regiment ordered to India, and, with the exception of one letter, no word has been exchanged between us since."
The duke did not raise his head.
The duchess gave a long, shuddering moan.
"There is one thing more—oh, Heaven! how could I be so cruel?—when I had been gone some five months, my poor wife, my unhappy wife, became a mother."
"I do not believe it!" cried the duke. "I will not believe it! It is an infamous lie."
"It is the solemn truth, your grace."
"Stephanie, my wife," cried the duke, despairingly, "do you believe this? Do you believe the child we have loved and cherished has deceived us so cruelly?"
The duchess left her daughter's side and went over to him. She laid her hand on his.
"We must bear it together," she said. "It is the first great trial of our lives—we must make the best of it."
"To be deceived—to smile on us, to kiss us, to sit by us, to share the same roof, to kneel at the same altar, and yet to keep such a secret from us! Why, Stephanie, it cannot be true."
The duchess was not one of the demonstrative kind, but she was so deeply touched by the pain in his voice, that she clasped her arms round his neck.
"I can only say one thing to comfort you, my husband. We have spent the greater part of our lives together, and in no single thing have I deceived you yet. Let the remembrance of your wife's loyalty soften the thought of your daughter's treachery."
The next moment the daughter whom he had loved as the very pride and joy of his life, was kneeling and sobbing at his feet.
"It was not treachery, papa; do not give it so bad a name. I was very young, and I loved him very much; except you and mamma, I loved no one else. Ah! papa, do not turn from me; I have suffered so terribly—I have never been happy for one moment since. I loved you so dearly I never could bear to look at your face and remember how I had deceived you. I have been so unhappy, so wretched, so miserable, I cannot tell you. Pity me—do not be angry with me. I loved you both, and my heart was torn in two. Kiss me, dear, and forgive me."
But he turned away from the pitiful, pleading voice and beseeching face.
"I cannot forgive you, Estelle," he said; "the pain is too great."
"Then I will kneel here until I die," she cried, passionately; "I will never leave you until you say that you pardon me!"
The duke raised his face, and when the Earl of Linleigh saw it he started back. It was as though a blight had fallen over it—it was changed, haggard, gray—twenty years older than when he had entered the room. The earl felt more remorse when he caught sight of that pale face than he had ever before known.
"Lord Linleigh," said the duke, "I want you to give me details—the details of your marriage; how and where it took place; who were the witnesses. I shall want to see the copy of the register; I shall want the certificate of the child's birth and death."
"It is not dead!" cried Lord Linleigh, in astonishment.
"Not dead!" repeated the duke. "Do you mean to tell me, my lord, I have had a grandchild living all these years, and have known nothing about it. Do you mean to tell me that a descendant of the Herefords has been born, and I have never even seen it? Great Heaven! what have I done, that I should have this to endure?"
"I was ashamed of the story of my marriage," said the earl, "but, if possible, I am still more ashamed of the history of my child. My poor wife was ill-advised when she acted as she did."
A certain nervous tremor came over the duchess. She remembered many things that the duke had forgotten, and a presentiment of the truth came over her.
"Estelle," she said, "tell us where your child was born, and who helped you to deceive us?"
Obediently enough, she told the whole story.
"We must not blame poor Lady Delapain," said the duke, kindly; "of the dead no ill should be spoken. Rely upon it, she did it for the kindest and best. Now, tell us, Estelle, what you did with this unhappy child."
But Lady Estelle hid her face.
"Ulric," she said to her husband, "will you tell for me?"
They listened with a shock of horror and surprise. So this little foundling, over whose story they had wondered and pondered, of whose future the duchess had prophesied such evil, was of their own race, a Hereford. It seemed to the duke and duchess that they could never forget that humiliation, never recover from it.
The duke rose from his chair; he held out one trembling hand to his wife.
"Come away, Stephanie," he said; "this has been too much for me. I thought I was stronger. Come away! We can talk it over better alone—we shall get over it better alone. We have no daughter now, dear—we are quite alone. Our daughter has been some one else's wife for twenty years. Come away!"
The duchess, since Lord Linleigh had told Doris' story, had never once looked at her daughter. She seemed the stronger of the two as they turned to quit the room together. The duke, never speaking to his daughter, said to his guest:
"I will talk this over with my wife, and we will tell you after dinner what is our decision."
"Oh, Ulric!" cried Lady Estelle, "they will never forgive me. What shall I do?"
But he kissed her face and consoled her.
"It will all come right," he said. "Of course it was a terrible shock to them both, that Brackenside business especially. I am very sorry over that; but they will forgive you. By this time to-morrow we shall all be laughing over it, trust me, darling."
But Lord Linleigh, before this time to-morrow, had to hear something which startled even him, and he could boast of tolerably strong nerves.
CHAPTER XLVII.
THE DUKE'S PLAN.
That was surely the most silent and somber dinner-party ever held at the Castle. The four who sat down to the table owned to themselves that it was a terrible mistake—they ought to have had some stranger present, if only to break the ice. Even the servants wondered, as they looked from one grave face to another, what unusual cloud had fallen over their superiors. The duke looked as though years had passed over his head since morning, when he went riding away, the picture of a prosperous, genial, happy-hearted nobleman. His hair seemed to have grown grayer, the lines on his face deeper; the stately figure stooped as it had never done before; the star on his breast shone in mockery, and contrasted cruelly with the worn, haggard face above.
The duchess, in her superb dress of black velvet, with its point-lace and diamonds, looked unhappy. She had lost none of her dignity—women reserve that under the most trying circumstances—but there was a hesitation and faltering in her clear voice no one had ever heard before.
Lord Linleigh did his best to restore something like cheerfulness. The worst was over for him now; the story was told, and it was not given to men of his race to feel dull for long. They had the happy faculty of recovering from any blow, no matter how severe, in a marvelously short space of time. His confession was made, the story told, the worst known, and what had he to fear? Things would soon come right. He should take his beautiful wife to Linleigh, and their daughter would soon join them; the whole story would soon blow over, then who so happy as he? He was not troubled with any extra amount of conscience, with any keen sense of regret, so he told stories of his Indian life, and as far as possible tried to improve the general aspect of things.
Lady Estelle had, perhaps in all her life, never looked more beautiful. Her usual gentle languor had left her; there was a rich color on her fair face, a light in her eyes—she, too, was relieved. The ordeal she had dreaded for so many years was over at last—the punishment would follow. She read her father's face too accurately to doubt that; still, the worst was over.
Dinner was ended at last. The well-trained servants had quitted the dining-room, the door was closed, and then the duke, looking very grave, said:
"Her grace and myself have been talking over matters, and have decided upon a certain course of conduct. I shall be happy if it suits your views, if it does not, however deeply I may feel it, you must henceforth both be strangers to me."
Lady Estelle looked wistfully at him; but his face was stern, and she knew that just then all pleading would be vain.
"You owe me something, Estelle," he said. "You have dealt me a blow I never thought to suffer, and you ought to sacrifice something to atone to me for it."
"I will sacrifice almost anything," she said; "that is, anything except my husband."
"I need not tell you," continued the duke, "that I feel the disgrace and shame of the story I have just heard far more than you do who have told it. I feel it so keenly, that if it were known, I should never again show my face. I should never hold up my head again among my peers; in fact, I could not endure to live and to know that such a history could be told of my daughter. My wife feels it as keenly as myself, therefore we have come to a fixed resolution."
"May I ask what it is?" said the earl.
"It is this—that the shameful secret be kept a secret still. I do not question the validity of the marriage. I own that, as far as I can see and understand, it was a perfectly legal ceremony; but with my consent it shall never be known. I would rather—far rather, Heaven knows—see the daughter whom I have loved so tenderly and so proudly, dead, than have this known."
The Earl and Countess of Linleigh looked at each other. This was very different to what they had expected to hear.
"I do not see," murmured the earl, "how it can possibly be avoided—it must be known."
"I have thought of a plan which will obviate the necessity," said the duke, in his most stately manner. "Permit me to explain it. I grant that the existence of this unfortunate girl renders it doubly difficult. Still, I protest, by the spotless name the Herefords have ever borne, by my pride of race, by the nobility of my ancestry, by the honor of my house—I protest against letting the world know how my daughter has deceived me. But for the existence of this girl, I would propose that the marriage be annulled. Respect must be paid to her rights; she is at present your sole heiress, and the heiress of my daughter. In all conscience, honor and loyalty, we are bound to recognize her rights."
"We cannot do otherwise," said the duchess, with a stately bend of her head.
Lady Estelle looked up with an expression of relief.
"I must ask you," continued the duke, "to follow me attentively. I am anxious to do two things—I wish to preserve the unsullied honor of my house, and I wish to do justice to her whom I must, in spite of my objection, call my grandchild. I propose to do it in this way: Let the secret of this private marriage ever remain unknown and unsuspected. It was known that Captain Studleigh admired Lady Estelle before he went abroad; it will not seem strange to any one that, having succeeded to the earldom, and finding her still with us, he seeks to marry her. Visit Downsbury Castle when you will, my lord; you can speak of Lady Estelle with all the rapture of a Studleigh. It will soon be rumored about that you have renewed the old love. At the end of six weeks I will take my daughter to Paris, you can follow us. I will not ask you to go again through the religious ceremony—I have too much respect for religion to suggest it; but you can go through the civil forms, with all the pomp and splendor due to your own rank and ours. Every paper in England will then have an account of the marriage of Lady Estelle Hereford with the Earl of Linleigh, and I shall be saved the greatest disgrace—the greatest shame that could have befallen me. Do you agree to my proposal, Lord Linleigh? In making it there is nothing against your interest or my daughter's—nothing against justice, loyalty, or honor; it is simply a subterfuge to save the honor of a noble house. Do you agree?"
"I see no objection," said the earl, cautiously.
"I shall dower my daughter right royally," said the duke—"as munificently as though she were marrying the man whom I should have chosen for her."
"It would save an immense deal of scandal, and rumor, and remarks," said the duchess, gravely; "it would save us from a thousand taunts and jeers. We have been so proud of you, Estelle!"
"But the child," said the earl—"she cannot be ignored after that fashion."
"Certainly not. My plan you will find best for her as well as for you. I have told you before that I cannot and will not submit to the degradation of hearing this story laughed at by half London. This is what I propose for the child: You, my Lord Linleigh, were in your youth famed for eccentricity. Tell the world openly, as you please, that you were married before you went abroad, and lost your wife. That is perfectly true, and you will not find many questions asked. Add that, unable to burden yourself with the care of a child in India, you were compelled to leave her with friends of your wife—every word of which is literally, strictly, and perfectly true. The only secret that I charge you to guard as you would guard your life, is this—the name of your wife. You will not find people curious to know it. They will conclude that you married some poor, pretty girl, and not tease you with questions. You can claim your daughter at once, and take her home with you."
The earl looked quite content, but there was a pitiful expression on the face of Lady Estelle that was painful to see.
"I understand," she said; "but, papa, if we do this she will never know who is her mother. She will never know that she is my child."
"It is not needful," was the stern reply. "I should think that any mother would shrink from letting her child know such a history as yours. She will be with you—under your charge—you can do all a mother's part toward her, and yet save the honor of our name."
The face of Lady Estelle grew crimson as she listened.
"My marriage was a legal one, papa," she said.
"Certainly, but not an honorable one. I do not, however, insist upon it; you can please yourself. You know the alternative—if you make the true story of her birth known, I shall leave England, and never look on the faces of my old friends again."
"I do not see, Estelle," said the duchess, in a grave, cold voice, "what difference it can possibly make to you. If you acknowledge her as your daughter twenty times over, you could not do more than let her live in your house, and take charge of her. You can do that now."
"Oh, mamma, it will be so hard!"
"I do not think you will find it so. You must remember that, with the unfortunate training the child has had, it is quite impossible that she can be any credit to you. You should have looked better after her education, had you ever intended to acknowledge her. Spare me this disgrace; do not let the world know that a girl brought up in the kitchen at Brackenside is my grandchild. I must confess that, even under the circumstances, bad, painful, as they were, I cannot imagine why you acted so with the child."
"I wanted her to be good and happy in a simple fashion. I never dreamed that these events would happen."
"I think," said the duchess, "that you should be willing to adopt your father's suggestion. It is by far the most sensible one."
"I quite agree with it," said Lord Linleigh. "Then the chief burden falls upon me—I have but to own to a private marriage, as your grace suggests. It is doubtful whether any one cares to inquire the name of my wife. I was but Captain Studleigh, and a Mrs. Studleigh is of no note. Even if the girl herself should question me, I should merely say that I prefer not to mention her mother's name."
"It will be far the best plan. The girl has a Studleigh face; claim her at once, and let her take her station as your daughter and mistress of your house until you take Estelle home."
"I think it will be the best plan," said the earl.
"If I were in your place," continued the duke, "I should not go to the farm; I should at once return to Linleigh Court; and when you reach there, send for the farmer, his wife, and your child—it will make far less sensation. They are honest people, too, and if you ask for silence they will keep it. It is not probable that any one will ever see her again who knew her here. The farmer and his wife have shown good tact and good sense in keeping friends and acquaintances at a distance."
"I am sure you are right," said Lord Linleigh. "Estelle, do you consent?"
She was silent for some few minutes; they saw her face quiver with pain. Then she left her seat and went round to her father, and knelt down by his side.
"Dearest," she said to him, "I owe you this reparation. The dearest wish of my heart was to hear my child call me mother. I renounce that wish for your sake—I promise to do as you suggest. Will you, in turn, forgive me?"
Perhaps he was glad of the opportunity; for, bending over, he kissed her face, and she saw tears in his eyes. The duchess came round and joined the little group, but even in that moment Lady Estelle felt that the full pardon of her stately mother would indeed be difficult to win.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
AN IMPORTANT LETTER.
A few days after the events described in the previous chapter, a paragraph went round the principal English newspapers which created some little sensation. It was headed "Romance in High Life," and ran as follows:
"It is not generally known that the Earl of Linleigh has been married and lost his wife. The marriage—which took place when the young and gallant captain had little expectation of the earldom of Linleigh—was in itself, we believe, a romance. Whether the sudden departure of the young officer for India was caused by the death of his young wife, we are not aware. As it was impossible to take his infant daughter with him, the child was left in charge of his wife's friends. We learn, on the highest authority, that the young lady, who will henceforth take her title as the Lady Doris Studleigh, is a most beautiful and accomplished girl, who will be a great addition to the shining lights of society. The earl is about to take up his residence, with his beautiful daughter, at Linleigh Court."
Considerable sensation was caused by this, but no one was in the least surprised. Captain Studleigh had been known as a great flirt: those who remembered him as the handsome young man of his day, smiled and said, "There, that is why the gay gallant never married. I thought there was some reason."
How many rich widows smiled on him, and smiled in vain. They wondered a little when he had married, and all agreed that it was most probably a nobody—a girl with a pretty face; he never cared for any other—neither birth nor money, that was certain. The announcement caused no other remark, and was very soon forgotten. If Lady Doris Studleigh was anything like the Studleighs, she would be sure to be beautiful—they had always been, without exception, the handsomest family in England. She would be a great heiress, no doubt, and her debut was most anxiously looked for.
It was, perhaps, a fortnight after that paragraph had been well discussed, that another appeared. It was as follows:
"Marriage in High Life.—We are informed that a noble earl, whose recent accession to a magnificent estate and ancient title caused some little sensation in the fashionable world, will soon lead to the hymeneal altar the lovely and accomplished daughter of one of our most respected peers."
Every one knew at once that the Earl of Linleigh was meant; but who was the lady? First a rumor—a whisper; then a certainty—it was Lady Estelle Hereford. People remembered that he had liked her, and had tried hard to get up a flirtation before he went abroad. Gossip gradually wore itself out. In the meantime strange events had occurred at the farm.
There came a cold, snowy morning when Doris had been home some few days. She was growing impatient. The change was so great from gay, sunny Florence to cold foggy England; from that luxurious villa, where flowers and light abounded, to the homely farm-house; from the honeyed words of her lover to the somewhat cold disapproval of Mattie and Mrs. Brace. Mark had said but little to her.
"You tired your wings, my bonny bird," he said; "I am glad they brought you back here."
He did not seem quite so much at home with her as he had been. More than once Earle saw him look in wonder at the lovely face and white hands; then he would shake his honest head gravely, and Earle knew that he was thinking to himself she was out of place at the farm. Mrs. Brace had said but little to her; she knew it was useless. Earle had begged her to be silent, while Mattie looked on in sorrowful dismay. Would Earle never see that Doris was unworthy of him?
Of her adventures but little has been said. Earle told them that he had met her in Florence, where she was staying as governess to some little children, and had induced her to come home with him—that was all they knew. Of the story told to Earle they were in perfect ignorance.
Doris had shown some little sense; she had taken the costly gems from her fingers. In any case it would never be safe to wear them again; they would attract too much attention. She told Earle, laughingly, that she had thrown her pretty false stones away, when, in reality, she had safely packed them where no one but herself could find them. Then, after the novelty of receiving Earle's homage again had worn off, she began to grow impatient.
"I cannot stay here long, Earle," she said; "it is too terrible. When shall I hear any news?"
"Soon, I am certain," was the reply. "Do not—pray, do not precipitate matters by any imprudence, Doris. Wait a few days longer."
But the news came at last. On a cold, snowy morning, while the farmer and his wife sat at breakfast, they heard the postman's horn outside the gate.
"News ought to keep this weather," said Mark, laughingly; "it is cold enough."
Mrs. Brace hastened to the door. There was a steaming cup of coffee to be carried to the frozen postman, who took it gratefully, and gave her a large, thick letter.
"It is registered, Mrs. Brace," he said, "and your husband must sign the receipt."
Now, if there was anything in this world of which Mark Brace really stood in awe, it was of pen and ink. He could plow, sow, reap with any man; place a pen in his hand and an inkstand before him, and he was reduced to a state of utter imbecility.
"Sign a receipt!" he said to his wife. "The man knows he has brought the letter; that ought to be enough."
When he found it must be done, he submitted to it. Then it was discovered that the only inkstand in the house was in Doris' room, and that young lady asked wonderingly what they wanted ink at that early hour of the morning for.
"Surely my father is not taking to literature, Mattie!" she cried.
"My dear sister, when will you learn that it is in bad taste to be always sneering at our father?" was Mattie's answer.
"What does he want the ink for? Tell me?"
"There's a letter—a thick, registered letter—seemingly a very important one, and the receipt had to be signed."
She wondered why the mocking smile died so suddenly from Doris' face—why she grew pale, and agitated, and unlike herself.
"I shall be down in one moment, Mattie," she said.
When she was left alone she clasped her hands together.
"It has come at last!" she said—"at last!"
It was ten minutes before she went down; then Mark had almost recovered from the effort he had made in signing the receipt—the postman had departed—and, like all simple-minded people, Mark and his wife were wondering from whom the letter had come, and what it was about. Doris listened quietly for a minute. Mattie was engaged in preparing tea for her sister. Then Doris said:
"Do you not think it would save all trouble and discussion if you opened the letter?"
Mark laughed sheepishly, and said:
"She is right, you know."
Then he opened the letter. It was not very long, and they saw a slip of pink paper fall from it. Mrs. Brace picked it up and saw that it was a check for fifty pounds.
Meanwhile Mark read on slowly and laboriously; then he looked around him with a bewildered face, and read it again.
"What is it, Mark?" asked his wife, anxiously.
"Stop!" said Mark, waving his hand. "Steady. I have had many a hard puzzle in my life, but this is the hardest—I cannot understand it. Either the man who wrote it is mad, or I am—I cannot tell which. Patty, read that letter aloud; let me see if it sounds as it reads."
Mrs. Brace took the letter obediently from her husband's hands. No one saw the torture of suspense in Doris' face. Mrs. Brace read aloud:
"The Earl of Linleigh presents his compliments to Mr. Mark Brace, and begs that he will grant him a favor. The earl desires most particularly to see Mr. Brace at once, on very important business, and as the earl cannot go to Brackenside, he will be glad if Mr. Brace will start without delay for Linleigh Court. It is also absolutely necessary that Mr. Brace should bring with him his wife and the young lady known as Doris. The earl incloses a check for fifty pounds to cover traveling expenses, and he earnestly entreats Mr. Brace not to delay one hour in coming."
"Send for Earle," gasped Mark, "before there is another word said about it—send for Earle."
Then he was struck by the peculiar expression of his wife's face. She bent down and whispered to him.
"That is it!" he said, with sudden conviction; "that is it! Heaven bless me! I never thought of it; send for Earle."
"Is it anything of any harm to you, father?" asked Mattie, anxiously.
"No, my child. Doris, you say nothing."
"What can I say? You are a great man to be sent for by a mighty earl. What can he want us for?"
"It has come at last!" said Mark. "Well, thank Heaven, we have done our duty. I shall not be afraid to face him or any one else."
Then Mark sat in silence till Earle came, when he dismissed the two girls from the room, little dreaming that Doris knew far more of her own story than he did.
"Read this," he said, placing the letter in Earle's hand, "then tell me what you think."
Earle read the letter attentively.
"I think," he said, "that this concerns Doris, and that you will most probably find the earl is either her father, or that he knows something of her parentage."
"I expected it," said Mark, with a deep sigh; "and Heaven knows, Earle, I shall be thankful to get the girl off my hands without any more trouble. She frightens me, my dear boy—she does, indeed; she is so unlike the rest of us. I am always wondering what she will do or say next; she is out of place here altogether. It will be a relief to me." And honest Mark wiped his brow with the air of one who was glad to get rid of a great burden. "My wife has more sense and better judgment than any woman in England," he continued, "and she thinks he will turn out to be Doris' father. Where is the mother, I wonder? What do you advise, Earle?"
"I advise you to do exactly what Lord Linleigh says. Start at once, and take the ladies with you. The matter is evidently pressing, or he would not write so urgently."
"I must go, then; but it is really a trouble, Earle. I can get on with an honest plowman or a sensible farmer, but with lords and ladies I am quite at sea. My dear boy, I dread them. I shall never forget what I went through with the duchess. Of course I know about all mankind being sons of Adam to begin with, but I like my own sort of people best, Earle."
"I do not know that you are wrong," was the reply.
"Earle," said Mark, suddenly, "will you tell Mattie about this affair when we are gone? I know she will feel it terribly; she is very fond of Doris, and neither her mother nor I have ever hinted it to her."