"I will tell her," said Earle, gravely. "Now let me do what I can toward helping you. I will drive you to Quainton Station; you must go to London first, and from London to Linleigh. It is in the south of Kent."
"I believe that you know every place in the wide world, Earle," said the farmer, admiringly.
In a short time they were all on the road to London, while Earle, left alone with Mattie, told her the whole story, and had the satisfaction, for once in his life, of seeing genuine surprise.
CHAPTER XLIX.
"WELCOME, MY DAUGHTER, TO YOUR FATHER'S HEART."
Linleigh Court stands on the southern coast, where the southern sea kisses the shores, and the fertile lands yield sweetest fruits and flowers. It has not the stamp of antiquity which makes some of the fair homes of England so celebrated. The architecture is not of the grand old Norman type; it is of modern build, with large, cheerful, airy, sunlit rooms, each having a balcony filled with fairest flowers.
The chief recommendation of Linleigh Court is that the whole place does not contain one dull room; they are all filled with warmth, light, and fragrance. The grounds are large, extensive, and magnificently laid out, and slope to the very edge of the sea. They are sweet, old-fashioned gardens, where grow all the flowers poets have ever loved.
On a bright summer's day, when the sun was shining on countless flowers, when the white doves and birds of bright plumage fluttered among the trees, it would have been impossible to have found a fairer home than Linleigh Court. On this bright, cold winter's day it looked warm and cheerful; the evergreens were all in perfection.
The journey had been a comfortable one, thanks to Earle. He had seen that the travelers went first-class, which, notwithstanding the fifty pounds, would never have occurred to Mark. He had attended to every detail of comfort, liberally fed the guards and porters, in spite of the printed regulations looking him in the face and forbidding any such enormity.
When they reached Anderley station, there was a carriage with a coronet on the panels, a smart coachman and footman awaiting them. Mark looked aghast; the grandeur of the whole affair dismayed him; while Doris stepped into the carriage with the dainty air and grace of one who had always been accustomed to such luxuries. Then they drove through the rich Kentish scenery until they came to the park. Mark first caught sight of the tall towers of the Court from between the trees, and he cried out in surprise:
"This is a magnificent place, Doris. I think it is even better than Downsbury Castle."
"If you had seen the grand old Florentine, palaces, you would not think much of either," said Doris, indifferently.
Whatever happened, she had made up her mind not to admire; they should not find her easily surprised. Yet as the magnificent terraces, the fountains, the superb building itself, came into sight, her heart swelled higher and higher with vanity and gratified pride. No sweet compunction or humility such as sometimes visits a monarch about to ascend a throne came to her. No gratitude to Heaven that she was to share in such glorious gifts; no resolve to make others the happier for her happiness; nothing but a sudden elation, a vain, self-glorious sensation, and contempt for the life she had left behind.
"So this is my father's house," she mused. "I have yet to see why he has lived in this affluence, while I have been brought up as a farmer's daughter?"
The two who were watching her wondered what brought that rapt expression to that beautiful face. They little guessed the nature of her musings.
"I wish this was all over," said Mark, as the carriage drew up at the stately entrance. "Only Heaven knows what we have to do now."
Doris laughed, a low, rippling laugh of perfect content; then the great hall door was flung open, and they saw the magnificent interior, the liveried servants, the shining armor, and Mark's heart sank within him. Then he recovered himself a little, and when he looked around him, they were all three standing in one of the most magnificent halls in England. A servant was bowing before them, and Mark heard him say:
"My lord is anxiously expecting you; will you come this way?"
They passed through two or three rooms which, by their splendor, completely awed the farmer and his wife. Mark's shoes had never seemed to be so large and so thick as when they trod on that velvet pile. The wondrous mirrors, pictures and statues dazzled him, the quantity of ornaments puzzled him; he wondered how one could possibly move freely in such over-crowded rooms.
"We cannot all be earls," thought Mark, "and I am not sorry for it. I am more comfortable in my kitchen than I could be here."
Mrs. Brace followed with a pale face. She wondered less about the externals, and more what they were about to see. When they reached the library, chairs were placed for them.
"My lord will be with you in a few minutes," said the servant, and they were left alone.
"I cannot help trembling," said Mrs. Brace. "What have we to hear?"
The words had hardly left her lips, when the door opened, and a tall, handsome man entered the room. They saw that his face was pale and agitated, and his lips trembled. He looked at the farmer and Mrs. Brace, but not at the young girl who stood near them. As yet his eyes never met hers or rested on her. He went up to Mark with outstretched hands.
"You are Mr. Brace," he said. "Let me introduce myself—I am the Earl of Linleigh."
"I thought as much," replied Mark, anxious to do his best. "I have done what you wished, my lord—brought Mrs. Brace and Doris with me."
The earl held out his hand in silent greeting to the farmer's wife, but never once looked at the young girl. Then he drew a chair near to them.
"I must thank you for coming," he said. "You have been very prompt and attentive. I hoped you would come to-day, but I hardly dared expect it."
"We thought it better to lose no time," said Mark.
"You did well, and I thank you for it. I have something of great importance to say to both of you—something which ought to have been told years ago. You, perhaps, can almost guess it."
Mark nodded, while his wife sighed deeply.
"Twenty years ago," continued the earl, "I was a young man, gay, popular, fond of life, an officer in the army, and the younger son of a noble family, but poor. You do not know how poor a man of fashion can be. I was very popular—every house in London was open to me—but I knew that I was sought for my good spirits and genial ways. As for marriage—well, it was useless to think of it, unless I could marry some wealthy heiress."
He paused for a few minutes, and Mark shook his head sadly, as though he would say it was indeed a wretched state of things.
"I speak to you quite frankly," said the earl. "It might be possible to gloss over my follies, and give them kindly names—to say they were but youthful follies, no worse than those of other young men: I might say that I sowed my wild oats; but I come of a truthful race, and I say I was no better—not one-half as good, in fact, as I ought to have been. Then, as a climax to my other follies, I fell in love, and persuaded the young girl I loved to marry me privately. That was bad enough, but I did worse. When we had been a short time married, we quarreled. Neither would give in, and we parted. It matters little to my story who my wife was, whether above or below me in station, whether poor or rich—suffice it to say that we parted.
"Some time after I left England a little daughter was born to her. She still kept her secret. This little child she confided to the care of a servant. The servant must have known you or heard of you, for she left the little one, as you both know, at your door, and you took her in. They wrote to me and told me what they had done, far away in India. I was helpless to interfere. Then I lost my wife; but the child continued with you. I made no effort to reclaim her. I do not seek to gloss over my fault, believe me. The truth is, to a soldier in India a baby is not a very desirable object. The existence of this child was a source of embarrassment and confusion to me. I had not the means of supporting it as a daughter of the house of Studleigh should be supported, so I did what seems so fatally easy, yet always leads to bad consequences—I let circumstances drift along as they would. The end of it was that as years went on I almost forgot the child's existence."
"But the money," said Mark, wonderingly, "always came the same."
The earl looked up quickly.
"Yes—oh—of course that was attended to," he said; but his face flushed and his eyes fell.
"To my great surprise," he continued, "I found myself, by a chapter of accidents, suddenly raised to an earldom. I am Earl of Linleigh, now, and that is a very different matter from being simply Captain Studleigh. The daughter of Captain Studleigh might always remain unknown; the daughter of the Earl of Linleigh has a title and wealth of her own. You understand the difference, I am sure, Mr. Brace?"
"Yes," said Mark, "I understand."
"One of the first things I turned my attention to, after my accession to the estates, was the daughter my wife sent to you."
He looked nervously at the farmer and his wife, still never looking at Doris.
"Well, my lord," said Mark, "we have done our best by her; she has had a good education, and she is clever. The money sent has always been spent upon her. We love her very much, but she is not one of us, and never could be. So that it is something of a relief to us to give her back into your own hands. Doris, my dear," he continued, turning to the beautiful girl by his side, "it is of you we are speaking. You are not my daughter, my dear; my good wife here is not your mother; but we have been very fond of you since you were left a little helpless baby at our door, in the cold darkness and pouring rain."
The girl's face turned deadly pale. It was no news to her—this secret which poor Mark never dreamed she knew; it had long been no secret to her. She caught her breath with a low, gasping sigh.
"You have been very kind to me," she said—"very kind."
"Poor child," said Mrs. Brace, gently. "You see she loves us after all, Mark."
Then, for the first time, the earl turned slowly to look at his daughter. They could all see fear as well as anxiety in his eyes. At first his lips quivered, and his face grew deadly pale; then gradually every other emotion became absorbed in admiration. He came up to her and raised her face to the light; then, as the two faces looked at each other, the wonderful likeness between them became apparent.
"Nay, daughter," said the earl, gently, "no need to ask Mark Brace if this be indeed my daughter. Her face tells the story—she is a Studleigh. She seems like one of the family pictures come down from its frame. Welcome, my daughter, to your father's heart and home!"
And as he spoke, the earl kissed most tenderly the lovely, blushing face.
CHAPTER L.
"ONLY ONE OTHER PERSON KNOWS MY SECRET."
Then, with the gallantry that was always natural to him, the earl placed his daughter in a chair. He turned with a smile to Mark.
"I was a coward," he said, "for the second time in my life. I was afraid to look at her; now I do not see how I can look anywhere else. How am I to thank you? You have brought me the fairest and most graceful daughter in England!"
"Well," said Mark, with an air of great consideration, "you see, my lord, we had nothing to do with her grace and beauty; but my wife has certainly done her best to teach the young lady little tidy ways, and such like."
"I hope she has learned them," said the earl, kindly. "Mrs. Brace looks as though she could teach all goodness. And this is my daughter! Child, how like you are to me."
"I am very glad, papa; am I not like mother, too?"
"No," he replied, gravely, "not in the least. Thank Heaven for it!"
When they heard those words they thought that he had certainly married beneath him—that his marriage had not turned out happily.
"There are some necessary legal forms to be gone through," said the earl, "and as business is always disagreeable, it will be well, perhaps, if we settle that at once. My lawyer is in attendance. It will be necessary for you and Mrs. Brace to make an affidavit stating that this is indeed my daughter, the infant placed under your charge."
"That will be easy enough," said Mark. "If some one does the writing, I will sign."
Lord Linleigh laughed; Mrs. Brace looked a little scandalized at the very free-and-easy speech. The earl said, laying his hand caressingly on the girl's shoulder:
"This becomes a very important lady now; we must be careful what we do about her. She is Lady Doris Studleigh, and that is one of the oldest titles in England."
"Who could have thought it?" said kindly Mrs. Brace. "Lady Doris Studleigh, let me be the first, your ladyship—my dear—to wish you health and strength to enjoy your good fortune."
The earl was pleased when he saw his daughter clasp her arms round her foster-mother's neck.
"She has a loving, grateful heart," he said to himself, "and that is rare enough in a Studleigh."
He little dreamed that in those few minutes Doris had read his character accurately, and that the action was performed entirely to please him.
The bell was rung, and the lawyer appeared. The affidavits were soon drawn out. Mark and his wife each swore solemnly that the young lady they brought to the earl was the child who had been left under their charge. Mark was greatly relieved when he found that he had nothing more to do than to sign his own name.
"Affidavits were certainly never less necessary," said the lawyer—"the Lady Doris has a true Studleigh face."
How the girl's heart beat with high pride and gratified vanity as she heard her title from strange lips!
Then the lawyer was dismissed, and the earl led the way to the hall. To the surprise of the three strangers, all the servants of the household were assembled, evidently by the earl's desire. He stopped one moment, looked at them, then taking his daughter by the hand, led her before them.
"My good friends," said the earl, "I have a few words to say to you, and those few words are better said in public. You are, most of you, aware, I suppose, that years ago I was a captain in the army, without any expectation of ever being an earl. I married before I went to India—some of you know it, some do not. One daughter was born to me, and I lost my wife. My daughter has lived under the charge of her worthy foster-parents, and I trust you will pay all obedience, all respect, all honor to Lady Doris Studleigh."
There was not a heart present which was not touched by emotion. All eyes were fixed on that beautiful face turned half-wistfully toward them.
"Long live Lady Doris Studleigh!" said some of the more enthusiastic.
"Long life and happiness!" said the others.
The earl looked pleased, then he led the way to the dining-room, where a grand banquet was prepared.
Mark never forgot that dinner—the plate, the wines, the fruit, the exquisite dishes, the number of well-trained servants. His embarrassment was at times something dreadful, but the earl was so kind, so considerate; he helped him at such critical periods, keeping during the whole time an observant eye on his daughter. He was charmed with her grace, her dignity; and her perfectly easy manner delighted him even more than her marvelous beauty. He saw that she was quite familiar with all the little details of table etiquette; and while he inwardly thanked Heaven that it was so, he secretly wondered how she had acquired it; evidently the good farmer and his wife had not taught her.
When dinner was over, the earl would not hear of their return, as Mark wished. He declared that they must remain and see all the sights of Linleigh, to the secret annoyance of Doris.
"The sooner she had finished with these vulgar people," she said to herself, "the sooner she should be able to take her own place."
But she was quick enough to take her cue from the earl's kindly behavior to them. Lord Linleigh had indeed quite sense enough to appreciate a noble, sterling character like Mark's. He made them happy as possible all the evening, and when they had retired he drew his daughter to his side.
"I have made no arrangements for you, my darling; shall we discuss them now?"
"No," she replied, quickly, "not until Mr. and Mrs. Brace are gone away. I want to think of nothing but them while they are here."
He was so delighted that he drew her closer to him, saying:
"You are a treasure—you are, indeed, my darling. The housekeeper has a niece who will act as your maid until you choose one. The blue-room has been prepared for you; to-morrow you shall choose a suit for yourself."
She thanked him, and then bade him good-night.
He watched the graceful figure and beautiful face until the door closed, then he sank back in his chair in unutterable relief.
"Thank Heaven!" he said, "that is all over. I must write to Estelle and tell her how well it has all passed off." He sat musing for a short time with a smile on his face. "I ought, most certainly, to think myself a very happy man," he said. "In all my life I have seen nothing to compare with that girl's face. Estelle will be very proud of her."
Meanwhile his daughter was rehearsing her first lesson in the dignified retirement of her own room. She had found in the pretty chamber, known as the blue-room, a pretty, rosy maid waiting for her; a bright fire was burning, the lamps were lighted on the toilet-table: the room looked the very picture of luxury and comfort. The maid greeted her with a most respectful courtesy.
"If you please, my lady, the housekeeper desired me to remain here at your service."
"Draw that easy-chair to the toilet-table," said Lady Doris; "find me a footstool, and give me from my box there a book bound in yellow paper."
Her orders were obeyed with a quickness and dexterity that amazed her, imperious as she was.
"Now," said Lady Doris, leaning back in her chair so as to enjoy the fire and bright pearly light, "you can brush my hair; but be very careful—I am very particular over it."
It was certainly a sight to be seen, that long, rippling golden hair, bright as the sunbeams, soft as silk, fine, abundant, full of natural waves. The girl looked at it admiringly as it hung over her arms in a great shower.
"It really does seem a pity to sleep in it," she thought. "If it were my hair I should like to take it off at night."
When sufficient of that ceremony had been gone through, Lady Doris turned round:
"Will you go to the housekeeper and say I should like some wine and a bunch of grapes, if she has any?"
The maid complied. The housekeeper, all anxiety to please my lady, sent a bottle of finest Burgundy, with a bunch of rich grapes that were tempting enough.
"My mistress is as beautiful as an angel," said the maid, "but she knows how to look after her own comforts."
"So do all ladies," was the housekeeper's reply; "what else have they to do? But when you have lived as long as I have, Emily, you will know how to wait upon people without making comments upon them."
The maid returned to the room; her lovely young mistress still sat reading by the fire.
"What shall I do for you in the morning, my lady?" she asked.
"See that I am not called too early; let me have some chocolate just after I awake, and see that the water of my bath is both warmed and perfumed."
Emily opened her eyes in wonder, but thought it better to say no more. She contented herself by thinking again that Lady Studleigh knew how to study her own comforts.
"Is there anything more I can do to-night, my lady?"
"Nothing more," was the reply, given with a smile that won the maid's heart forever and ever.
She hastened to the housekeeper's room to make her report.
"So beautiful, kind, and gracious; but so thorough lady—no nonsense, no freedom—a lady who looked as though she would keep the whole world in its place." And the servants crowded round her to listen and admire.
Lady Doris was impatient to be alone—impatient to lock the door between herself and all human kind, in order that she might give some little freedom to the emotions pent up in her heart.
She had controlled herself so well; she had won surprise, admiration, and wonder by simply refraining from expressing any of the three. Now no curious eyes were gazing at her, no curious ears were listening to what words in her triumph escaped her. She locked the door, then stood before the large mirror and steadfastly looked at herself.
"All this is mine!" she said. "I have every wish of my heart at last! I have luxury such as I never dreamed of—magnificence suited for a queen! I have a title that makes music in my ears! I have one of the noblest earls in England for my father! Ah, how near I have been to losing all this; even now I might lose it if that terrible secret of mine became known—it would be taken from me. My father would forgive me many things, but never that."
She stood quite still; the color faded from her beautiful face; a cold chill seized her.
"How foolish I am," she said. "What need have I to fear? Only one other person knows my secret, and he would be the last, I know, to make it known. If ever he attempts it, he shall die!"
Then she laughed; but there was something dreary in the laugh.
"I shall never see him again," she said to herself; "and if I did—if he declared that he knew me—I should look quite steadily in his face and say—swear, if necessary—that in all my life I had never met him before. I am Studleigh enough to have nerve for that. Who was my mother, I wonder? Some one of whom the earl is evidently ashamed; therefore she can have little interest for me."
CHAPTER LI.
A NOBLEMAN'S GENEROSITY.
Notwithstanding all the kindness and hospitality that the earl had shown to Mark, it was some relief to the farmer to know that when morning dawned he was that day to return home. The grandeur of Linleigh Court oppressed him; he longed to be with his laborers and his cattle, at work.
The earl took breakfast with them; Lady Doris was not down—"she was tired," the maid said.
"I was afraid it would be too much for her," said Mrs. Brace. "I am sure, my lord, the more I think of it, the more wonderful it seems."
"Yes, it is quite a romance," laughed the earl. But neither he nor those with whom he spoke dreamed how that romance was to end in a tragedy.
The morning being fine, though cold, the earl asked them to visit the conservatories. By this time Doris had come down, and was ready to join them. While they were going through one of the large conservatories, Lady Doris suddenly caught sight of the Indian plant she had admired so much at Downsbury Castle—the plant with scarlet bells and sweet, subtle perfume. She hastened to it, and clasped a spray in her white hands.
"That is like the face of an old friend," she said.
"Why?" asked the earl, amused by the action.
"I saw some flowers like them at Downsbury Castle," she replied.
The earl looked keenly at her.
"Downsbury Castle!" he said. "I know the Duke of Downsbury. What took you there, Doris?"
"What takes half the world everywhere?" she replied. "Curiosity. I wanted so very much to see the interior of a castle, and to see if the people living there really led fairy lives."
"And what did you think?" he asked, still in the same voice.
"I liked it very much; but, papa, I like Linleigh Court better—it is more Italian, with sunshine and flowers everywhere."
"So you saw all the flowers at Downsbury Castle?" he continued, in the tone of one who asks a question.
"Yes, and beautiful enough they were; but I saw something even fairer than the flowers, papa."
"What was that, Doris?"
"I saw—listen gravely—I remember the whole of the name—I saw the Lady Estelle Hereford, only daughter of his serene and mighty highness, the Duke of Downsbury."
He laughed, but there was something forced and unnatural in the sound.
"I know her," he said, trying to speak calmly; "they are very dear friends of mine. What did you think of her, Doris?"
It was wonderful how he learned to appeal to and rely on the judgment of this fair young daughter.
"I thought her perfectly beautiful, perfectly graceful, perfectly gentle, but tame, papa."
"Tame, child! What do you mean?" he asked.
It was such a novel and not over-pleasant sensation for him to hear a mother called "tame" by her daughter, although it was done in supreme ignorance.
"I cannot explain the word, papa, if you cannot understand it by instinct. Earle would if he were here. I liked her very much; but she puzzled me; her face kept changing color: she was proud, yet familiar; haughty, yet gentle. She talked to me about love and marriage, just as Mattie would have talked."
"Poor Estelle!" murmured the earl; then he said aloud: "How would Mattie have talked? Give me an example."
"My lord!" cried Mrs. Brace, in alarm, "I am quite sure that Mattie never said a wrong thing in her life."
"I am equally sure of it," said the earl, kindly.
"Mattie, like Lady Estelle, has great notions, papa—duty and all those disagreeable things were first."
"That is right," said the earl. Even to himself he did not own how the introduction of Lady Estelle's name had startled him.
Doris hastened on among the flowers. Lord Linleigh lingered behind, while he said to Mark and his wife:
"You are tenants of the Duke of Downsbury, are you not?"
"Yes," replied Mark.
"Then I do not mind telling you, in all confidence, that you will probably hear or read something about Lady Hereford and myself which will please you."
Mrs. Brace understood him at once.
"My lord," she said, "I am so sorry that Lady Doris called her tame."
He laughed good-naturedly.
"She speaks her mind frankly," he said, "and that, at least, is a recommendation. Lady Estelle would only be amused if she heard it."
"He means to marry her," said Mark to his wife, as the earl hurried after his daughter; but Mrs. Brace had the strangest expression on her face.
"What is it?" Mark asked. "Surely you are not ill?"
"No, I am not ill; but I will say this, Mark, it is a most awful world—no one can understand it."
"Do as I do, my dear; the world never troubles me, because I take no notice of it."
But that philosophy was not in the way of Mark's wife.
"Doris," said the earl, when he overtook his daughter, "I wish to consult you."
"I am not a very wise person to consult," she replied, with a charming little smile, "but what little wit I have is quite at your service, papa."
"My dear child," he said, "between ourselves, the Studleighs have never been deficient in wit, but there has hardly been one steady head in the whole race."
"That is deplorable enough. We must try to alter it," she said, laughingly. "To begin with, I will steady my own. What do you wish to consult me about, papa?"
"I want to do something substantial and handsome for your foster-parents," he said. "What shall it be?"
"A steam-plow for Mark, and a black satin dress for his wife—that is the highest ambition of both."
"Then you shall present them those gifts. But I mean something substantial. What do you think of a thousand pounds as a dowry for his daughter, and a thousand to be spent in improvements on the farm?"
"I think you are very fortunate to have thousands to spare; and I think also that it is very charming of you to give them so much," she replied.
Lord Linleigh looked wistfully at her.
"Money could never repay such a benefit as Mark Brace and his wife have conferred upon me, Doris," he said. "I am an aristocrat, it is true; but I shall be more proud of reckoning that honest farmer among my friends than I should of calling a king brother."
"That is a very grand sentiment, papa," laughed Doris. "It is almost worth printing in a book. I must confess I would rather have a king for my brother than any man for a friend. I think Mark will be delighted with the steam-plow. After all, what you are pleased to call the benefit they conferred on you was not without its reward. Mark Brace was very fond of me—he always said I made the sunshine of Brackenside."
The earl looked amused at this fashion of making matters straight; but before they went away, he gladdened the hearts of the farmer and his wife.
"A thousand pounds!" said Mark, looking in the most bewildered fashion at the check he held in his hand—"a thousand pounds, my lord, to spend as I like! It is impossible—it cannot be true. I must not take it—I have done nothing to deserve it."
But Lord Linleigh greeted his scruples with:
"You have done for me and my daughter that which few would have done so well," he said.
"I did my duty, my lord—no less, no more; and a thousand pounds for doing my duty is an enormous reward."
But his surprise was redoubled when, added to this, the earl insisted that he should take a thousand pounds for Mattie's dowry, and would not hear of any refusal. Then, indeed, the tears stood, warm and bright, in Mark's eyes, and Mrs. Brace wept like a child. "A dowry for Mattie!"—the brightest hope, the maddest dream they had ever entertained. Mattie to have a fortune! Not that it would make her a wealthy heiress, but it would at least secure her from all want. Let them die now, whensoever Heaven pleased—their daughter would never want.
Lord Linleigh could never forget the thanks that were lavished on him—the gratitude, the warmth of emotion.
"And now," said the earl, "there is one thing more that I wish you to do for me. It relates to my daughter's engagement with Earle Moray."
Mark looked at him with anxious eyes.
"We have been speaking of that, my lord—my wife and I. It may not perhaps seem much of a match for her, now that she is my lady; but if you were to search the wide world over, you would never find any one who loved her so dearly as Earle—no one so honest, so good and true. It will be but a poor chance for her, my lord, if she finds a fortune and loses Earle."
"So I believe," said the earl. "It is about that I wish to speak to you. You will see Earle on your return; tell him from me that the change in my daughter's position need make none in her engagement to him; tell him, from me, that as far as my consent can ratify and approve it, I most freely give that consent. Tell him also that I will do my best to push his fortune."
Mrs. Brace looked at him with grateful approval.
"My lord," she said, in her simple fashion, "they speak truthfully when they call you a noble man."
Lady Doris, proud of her name, her fortune, her position, did not feel quite so pleased when she heard this. It had been all very well when she was Doris Brace—it had been all very well in Florence, when Earle had become tiresome, she had been compelled to repeat her promise of marriage, and pledge herself to him over and over again; but there had been a faint hope in her mind that when she was once with her father, under the shelter of his roof, he would never allow her to fulfill the engagement. She never dreamed that he would chivalrously exact its fulfillment. Still, she was wise enough to be silent, and not say what was in her mind. She had learned that great lesson women so often fail in—when to be silent and when to speak.
When they were once more alone, Mrs. Brace expressed her great sense of the earl's kindness and real goodness. She thought it so noble of him that he should wish the engagement to continue.
"It would break Earle's heart to lose you," she said. "When you went away—abroad, I mean—I thought he would have died."
Lady Doris raised her head with the lofty air natural to her.
"You do not understand," she said. "The earl could not break his word, or persuade another person to break a promise. Noblesse oblige!"
"Ah, my dear," said the kindly woman, "you are far ahead of me—I never did quite understand you—you are clever and learned; you have speech of your own that I cannot follow: but however great or grand you may be, you will never find any one to love you so truly as Earle does."
"I am sure of that," she replied, then turned hastily away. She was growing tired of hearing of nothing but Earle. Surely they were all in a conspiracy, all plotting for Earle. Yet, despite her impatience, she owned to herself that all the love she had to give away was given to him.
CHAPTER LII.
"BE KIND TO HER, AS THOUGH YOU WERE HER OWN CHILD."
The atmosphere seemed clearer to Lady Doris Studleigh when the kindly farmer and his wife were gone; she wanted nothing to remind her of what she chose to call that miserable period of her life. She was always vexed that the earl had spoken so frankly of them as her foster-parents. There was no need, surely, for all the house to know that she had been brought up at a farm. She would have been surprised if she could have known the amount of respect that the servants, one and all, felt for Mark Brace. No person could know him without feeling for him the greatest possible liking; his honesty, the simple, rugged grandeur of his character, attracted all. She, who measured men by the length of their pedigree and purses, was quite unable, even in her own mind, to do justice to Mark Brace. He might be as chivalrous as Bayard, self-denying as Sir Philip Sydney, brave as the Black Prince, but, for all that, he was only a farmer. Therefore it was a relief to her when he was gone. She felt more at ease in her father's house when they were gone.
When Lord Linleigh, after seeing them off from the station, had returned to the Court, he sent for his daughter to the library.
"Now, my darling," he said, "it is quite time we had a little serious talk together. How strange it seems to me to have a grown-up daughter like you. Sit down; I have so much to say to you. To begin with, do you find yourself at home?"
"I have never felt more at home in my life," she replied, calmly; "and I think it is because I am in my right place at last."
"Most probably so. Now, Doris, there are several things that you want, and must have at once—a Parisian waiting-maid, and a wardrobe suited to your position. Do you ride?"
"Yes; it is one of my favorite amusements."
"That is right; you must have a horse and groom; there will be a carriage also at your disposal. But over your wardrobe we must have some advice. You will require everything, just as though you were being married."
"That is certain," she replied, with a quiet smile; "but I do not think I shall need advice. I am quite competent myself to select what I want."
"But, my dear child, how can you be?"
"You forget that I went out as governess, and so had the opportunity of studying those things. Trust me and see. I shall go at once to Madame Francois, the head court milliner, and you will be satisfied, I am sure, with the result."
"I shall be delighted, I am sure, if that be the case," said the earl. "Then you will want jewels. Studleigh jewels are very fine ones—I suppose we have the finest jewels in the world."
"Why will they not do for me, then?" she asked.
"Because they must go to my wife. The family jewels are always the property of the reigning Countess of Linleigh."
"But, papa, there is no reigning Countess of Linleigh," she said, with a little laugh.
"No, my dear—not just at present; but I hope that there soon will be."
His face flushed slightly, and he looked confused for a few moments. Then he said:
"That is another of the things I want to speak to you about. I ought, perhaps, to tell you that I think of marrying again."
There was a few minutes of dead silence. She did not quite like it; it was not what she had expected. She had anticipated being mistress of Linleigh Court. The earl continued:
"It will be much happier for me, Doris, and decidedly better for you. You labor under great disadvantages at present, although I acknowledge your beauty, your grace, and your tact to be perfect; still, you require, before you make your debut in the great world, to spend some little time in the society of a well-trained woman of the world."
She was quick enough to know that this was perfectly true.
"You are right, papa," she said, and the admission pleased him.
"It will also be greatly to your advantage, Doris," he continued. "When you make your debut in the great world, you will find the chaperonage of a lady essential to you. Still, my child, although there are many advantages for you, do not let me mislead you. It is not for your sake I am going to marry; it is for my own, because I really love the lady who will soon, I hope, be Countess of Linleigh."
She made a violent effort to conquer herself. There was nothing to be gained, she knew, by opposition—everything by cheerful acquiescence. She went to him and clasped her arms around his neck, and kissed his face.
"I hope you will be happy, papa," she said—"I hope you will be very happy."
"Thank you," he replied, cheerfully; "I do not doubt it, darling. I think we shall all be happy together. Guess, Doris, who it is that I hope soon to bring here."
"I can't guess, papa. I do not know the ladies of your world."
"You know this one," he said, laughingly, while she, half-frightened, said:
"How can I?"
"You have been to Downsbury Castle, have you not?"
A sudden light came over her face, then she laughed.
"Can it be Lady Estelle Hereford?" she cried. "Oh, papa, you will never forgive me for calling her tame."
"I have forgiven you. Do you not think you will be very happy with her?"
"I am sure I shall like her very much; she is so fair, so well-bred, so gentle. How little I dreamed, papa, on that day I was sitting so near to her, that she would be my step-mother—that I should ever live with her. I am so glad!"
She did not understand why his face quivered, as with pain. He drew the bright golden head down to his breast.
"My darling," he said, gently, "you shall have all the love, the care, the affection that a father can show his child—you shall have everything your heart desires and wishes for, if you will do one thing in return."
"I will do anything in return," she said.
And for once there was something like deep feeling in her voice.
"I want you to be kind to this wife of mine, Doris. She is not very strong: she has been petted and spoiled all her life. Be kind to her as though—as though you were her own child, or her own younger sister. Will you, Doris? Promise me that, and you will give me the greatest happiness that it is in your power to confer upon me."
"I do promise," cried Doris. "I cannot say that I will love her as my mother, but I will be everything that is gentle and obedient."
"Thank you, my darling! Only do that, and you will see what return I will make to you. There is another thing, Doris, I wish to speak to you about. You heard and agreed with what I said to Mrs. Brace, that I wish your lover, Earle Moray, to understand that I shall consider the engagement between you as binding as though you had always remained at the farm."
"You are very kind, papa," she said; but this time there was no ring of truth and tenderness in her voice.
"It is but just, Doris. I shall make his advancement in the world my chief study. Money can be no object in your marriage—you will in all probability have a large fortune—still I should like the man you marry to hold some position in the world. From what you tell me of Earle Moray, I should imagine that he is a man of great talent. If so, there can be little difficulty."
"He has something more than talent," said Doris, proudly; "he has genius."
"My dear child, you will know, when you are as old as I am, that talent and industry are worth any amount of genius."
"I am sure that he has industry, papa," she said.
"Then, if he has industry and genius, his fortune is sure," said the earl. "As soon as we have a Countess of Linleigh to do the honors, we must ask Earle Moray to come and see us."
Of all things, that was what she desired most, that he should see her in her true place, surrounded by all the luxury and magnificence that belonged to her station. It was the strongest wish of her heart.
"Can we not ask him before then, papa?"
"No; there, you see, Doris, the laws of etiquette and ceremony step in. Until you have some lady to chaperone you, we cannot receive any young gentlemen visitors. That will be one convenience of a step-mother."
"Yes," she replied: "but the traditional step-mother generally interferes in the love affairs of the household. However, I feel quite sure Lady Estelle will never interfere with mine."
"The Duke of Downsbury goes to Paris this week," continued the earl, "with the duchess and Lady Estelle. I thought of following them."
"That will be very nice for you, papa," she said.
"It is really some comfort to have a daughter whom one can consult about such matters. I want to marry as soon as I can; but marrying a duke's daughter in England is a tremendous undertaking, Doris. The amount of ceremony and form to be gone through with is something dreadful. I should not mind about that; but, you see, the great embarrassment is this—the duke is very particular, and he would naturally think it too soon after the late earl's death for me to make any great public sensation—that is the difficulty."
"Yes, that is a difficulty," said Doris.
"All that would be obviated entirely if I went to Paris, and could obtain their consent to a quiet ceremony at the embassy, or something of that kind."
"It would be a very wise course, papa."
"So I think, my dear, and I shall start for Paris next week. I may be a month absent. Now comes the great difficulty of all, Doris—what is to be done with you?"
"I can remain here," she said.
"Not alone, my dear, not alone—it would not do. I thought if I were to ask that nice daughter of Mark Brace's she would stay with you; then I should feel quite at my ease."
"I should be much pleased," said Doris.
It would indeed be a triumph to show Mattie, upon whom she had always looked down, the difference that really existed between them.
"Then all our difficulties are silenced," said the earl. "I have often heard people say how difficult their daughters are to manage; but if they are like you, Doris, there cannot be such great difficulty."
She laughed, wondering to herself if he would say the same in a year's time.
"You understand, Doris, that it will not do for you to go into society at all just yet. You must neither receive or pay visits. No young lady does anything of that kind until she has been presented at court."
"When does my presentation take place, papa?"
"If all goes well, I think next May. Lady Estelle or the duchess will present you; then you may consider yourself fairly afloat—until then, solitude. You can spend the intermediate time in the acquisition of all kinds of little accomplishments; not that you are deficient, for you are a perfect wonder to me. The next thing to be done, Doris, is that you must choose a suit of rooms for yourself. I give you permission to choose which you will; and when we go to London, you shall go to Mantall & Briard's, the famous decorators and house-furnishers, and choose anything you like. It will amuse you during my absence to superintend the fitting-up of four rooms—it will give me a fair idea of your taste."
They went together through Linleigh Court. Until then Doris had no just idea of the immense extent of the place—she was amazed at it. And the rooms were all so light, so sunny, so bright, she was quite at a loss which to choose. One suit delighted her very much—four large, lofty rooms, with ceilings superbly painted, looking south, so that the warmth and brightness of the sun was always on them. The windows were built after the French fashion—long, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, and opening on to balconies filled with flowers. The great charm to Doris of these rooms was, that the boudoir opened on to a balcony, and a small flight of steps led from the balcony to the ground, so that she could go from her own rooms to the gardens without passing through the house.
"That is very nice," said the earl, "for young ladies who love the early dew and the flowers. Do you think it safe, Doris? Suppose you forgot to fasten the door leading on to the balcony?"
It was an evil fate that led Lady Doris to choose that suit of rooms.
CHAPTER LIII.
A YOUNG LADY PLEASANTLY OCCUPIED.
A few days afterward the Earl of Linleigh, with his daughter, went to London. He had decided not to go to his own house, which was one of the most beautiful mansions in Hyde Park—Hyde House. They were going simply on business, and would spend the greater part of their time driving from one store to another. The first visit, of course, was to Madame Francoise, to whom the earl explained that his daughter required, in one word, everything needful for a young lady of rank and position.
"It will take many hours, Doris," said the earl; "such things cannot be hurried. I can leave you here while I drive on to my lawyer's, to transact some business with him. Remember, my darling, you have carte blanche—every whim to be gratified."
Then he drove away, leaving her with Madame Francoise. How forcibly it recalled to her the time when Lord Vivianne had done the self-same thing.
"Truly," she laughed to herself, "history repeats itself. How little then did I foresee this."
So little that if even in a dream she could have been warned of it, she would never have spoken to Lord Vivianne.
"Never mind," she said to herself, with the light-hearted insouciance of her race. "Never mind, no one knows—nothing will come of it; but it would certainly be a relief to me to hear that Lord Charles Vivianne was dead."
The pity of it was that Lord Charles could not hear the remark; it would have given him a lesson that he would not have forgotten.
Madame wondered what had brought so grave an air of preoccupation over the beautiful young face. Surely, if any human being was to be envied, it was the young girl who had carte blanche in her elegant establishment.
"She must know what she is about, though," thought madame. "Dreaming is useless here."
She little knew Lady Doris. Going up to her with a book of patterns in her hand, she was almost startled by the clear, keen gaze that met her own—by the perfect judgment and cool, clear, calm sense of the earl's daughter.
"There will be some few things, madame," said the clear, haughty voice, "that you will understand far better than I do, others in which I shall prefer to please myself."
And madame found that Lady Studleigh had a taste and artistic sense of what is beautiful far superior to her own. The next few hours were delightful to Doris. The rarest and most costly laces, the most beautiful embroidery, the finest silk, the richest velvet—there never were such purchases made. She did not limit herself either as to quality or quantity, and nothing was forgotten—tiny slippers fit for Cinderella, dancing shoes, fans, gloves. She might have been a practiced old dowager, selecting a trousseau for her youngest daughter. The sum total was something enormous. Even madame, accustomed as she was to large accounts, looked slightly frightened.
"My Lord Linleigh placed no limit," she said to Doris.
"No, I must have all I require; I shall not return to town until the season begins," was the perfectly self-possessed reply.
Then Lord Linleigh returned, and madame watched his face intently as that wonderful account was placed before him.
"It takes four figures," he said, with a smile; "that is quite right, my darling. I hope that you have everything you want. To-morrow we will pay a visit to Storr & Mortimer's, the jewelers. These packages, madame, are all to be sent to Linleigh Court."
Doris was in the highest spirits. She said to herself—and it was probably true—that no girl in England, not even a royal princess, had such a trousseau; but she had too much good taste to show any undue elation over it. When they had dined she said to her father:
"Papa, you will not care to spend the evening here; it will be dull for you, and I cannot go out. Should you not like to go to your club?"
"Yes; but what of you, my dear?"
"I am tired, and shall be very glad to take a book and go to my own room with it."
"My dear Doris," said the earl, who had slightly dreaded the long, lonely evening, "you are a most sensible girl. If you treat Earle as you treat me, he ought to be the happiest husband in the world."
"I hope he will be, papa," was the quiet reply. And she wondered what her father, the Earl of Linleigh, would say if he knew from whom she had taken her early lessons in the art of managing men.
"If you want a man to be really fond of you, Doris," he used to say, "to feel at home with you, and never to be bored in your society, let him have his own way—offer him his liberty, even when he does not seem inclined to take it; suggest to him a game at billiards, a few hours at his club—you have no idea how he will appreciate you for it."
She had found the charm work perfectly in the case of Lord Charles, and now her father, too, seemed to admire the plan. What would he say if he knew who had instructed her?
She went to her room. Lady Doris never traveled without a pleasant little selection of light French literature—"it prevented her from forgetting the language," she said.
The earl, inwardly hoping his wife would be as sensible as his daughter, went off to spend a quiet evening at his club.
The day following was one of genuine delight to Lady Doris. The first visit the earl paid was to the establishment of Messrs. Storr & Mortimer; there she was to select for herself what jewels she would. She had glanced once wistfully at the earl.
"Jewels are not like dress, papa. It is a dangerous thing to leave me unlimited powers here."
"Lady Doris Studleigh must have jewels fitting her position," he said. "Dress wears out, but jewels last forever."
So Lady Doris stood in that most tempting place, almost bewildered, while sets of pearls, of diamonds, of rare emeralds, of pale pink coral, then case after case of superb rings, were placed before her. She thought of those so securely packed in her box, and wondered what would be thought if their history could be known.
She chose some magnificent pearls; there were none fairer, even in that place where the finest stones abound. Then she chose a set of emerald, golden-green in their beautiful light; a set of pearls and rubies mixed; rings until she had more than enough to cover the fingers of both hands; golden chains of rare workmanship and beauty; watches of great value; and when she could think of nothing else she could desire, she looked up in the earl's face with a smile.
"That is not bad, my dear, for a beginning," he said, laughingly—"not bad at all."
"You do not think I have purchased too much, papa?"
"No, my dear, you have not enough yet. I merely said it was very well for a beginning."
What the amount of the bill was, or how many figures it took, she never knew. The earl had said good-naturedly to himself that it did not matter—he had many thousands to spare.
"There is yet another place," he said; "we must go to Parkins & Gotto's. You require many things from there. You must have a dressing-case, a lady's writing-table, and all kinds of knickknacks for your rooms."
The day following was spent at Mantall & Briard's, where Lady Doris gave such orders for the fitting up of her four rooms as made even those gentlemen open their eyes in undisguised wonder. Nothing was spared—no luxury, no comfort; and that evening, when they sat together, Lady Doris said to her father:
"I wonder if, in all the wide world, there is another girl in my position."
"What position?" he asked.
"Why, it is a positive fact that I have not one single wish left ungratified. If a fairy were to come and ask me to try and find one out, I could not—I have not one."
He stooped down to kiss the beautiful face.
"I am glad to hear it," he replied. "I certainly do not think any one else could say quite as much. I could not."
It was not of herself alone that Doris had thought that day. She had been with the earl to give orders respecting the steam-plow; she had chosen such a dress, such a shawl and cap for Mrs. Brace, that she knew would bring tears of delight into that lady's eyes; she had chosen a box full of millinery, with pretty ornaments, for Mattie; she had chosen for Earle a box full of books such as she had often heard him long for. And Lord Linleigh, while he admired her goodness of heart, her affectionate memory, never for one moment thought that her quick study of him had led her to do these different things. She longed for the hour in which she should return to Linleigh; she wanted to see all the magnificent purchases she had made placed at her own disposal. The Parisian waiting-maid was found and one bright, clear, frosty morning they returned to the Court.
"It looks like home," said Lady Doris. Her heart warmed to it, and beat faster with a thrill of pride. It was her own home, from which nothing could dislodge her!
She had had one fright in London; and though her nerves were strong, her courage high, it had been a fright.
She was driving with the earl through New Bond Street, when on the pavement she saw Gregory Leslie. There was no avoiding him—their eyes met. His were filled with recognition and surprise—hers rested on him with calm nonchalance, although her heart beat high. Then he smiled, bowed, and half stood still; but the calm expression of her face never wavered.
"Is it some one who knows you?" asked the earl.
"It is some one who has made a great mistake," she replied.
And then they passed out of sight—not, however, before Gregory Leslie had seen the coronet on the panel.
"What a mistake I have made," he said to himself. "I certainly thought that was my beautiful 'Innocence.' How like her! It cannot be such an uncommon type of face, after all, when there are three now that different people have seen—all so much alike. What would my 'Innocent' do in an earl's carriage?—that is, if all be well with her; and Earle said all was well."
She would not recognize him, for the simple reason that she feared to do so. He was a man of the world, always in London, familiar with all the little rumors at the clubs, and she dreaded what he might say afterward. If by chance she should meet him when she was with the earl and countess, she would recognize him, but not just then.
"It was an unfortunate thing for me," she said to herself, "having that picture painted. If I had known then what I know now, it never would have happened. Mark Brace and his wife were foolish to allow it."
But she had forgotten the whole matter when they reached Linleigh Court. All the packages were there, and she was as happy as a queen superintending the arrangements, the unpacking, the stowing away in beautiful old wardrobes made of cedar.
Even the Parisian waiting-maid, who rejoiced in the name of Eugenie, owned to herself that not one of the great ladies with whom she had lived had a wardrobe like Lady Doris Studleigh's!
Then came the day for the earl's departure—he would not go until Mattie had arrived.
"You cannot be left alone, my dear," he said, so decidedly that Doris had not dared to urge the matter.
Mattie came, and was delighted. She cried a little at first, for, despite all her faults, she had most dearly loved the young girl she believed to be her sister. The story of Doris had been a great trouble to her, and she had felt it bitterly; but after a time she forgot her grief in the wonder excited by the magnificence of Linleigh Court. Lady Doris was very kind to her; nothing of patronage or triumph was to be detected in her manner.
The first time they were left alone together in what was to Mattie the bewildering glories of the drawing-room, the brown eyes were raised timidly to the fair face.
"Doris," said Mattie, "who could have believed that you were such a great lady after all?"
"I had faith in myself, my dear," was the superb reply, "and that is a great thing!"
CHAPTER LIV.
"I MUST BEAR IT FOR HIS SAKE."
The great world did own itself to be surprised—not angry, nor shocked, nor even vexed or offended, but surprised. It had not taken newspaper rumors for gospel truth. It had prided itself on superior knowledge, and had seen nothing of the kind; but this fine spring morning it was taken by surprise.
The fashionable morning papers all told the same startling story—the Earl of Linleigh was married, and married to Lady Estelle Hereford, the Duke of Downsbury's only daughter. They had defrauded the fashionable world of a grand spectacle. The marriage of a duke's daughter with an earl would naturally have been a grand sight—such a grand duke, too, as his Grace of Downsbury. Then private rumor came to the rescue, and told how it would have been impossible for the marriage to have been celebrated with any degree of ceremony in England, owing to the fact that the late earl had not so very long been dead. Rumor added also, how, long years ago, when he was a penniless captain, Lord Linleigh had been hopelessly attached to the duke's fair, proud daughter, and how, on his accession to the estates, he had instantly renewed his suit; how he had followed them to Paris, would take no nay, and had married Lady Estelle in spite of all obstacles. There was one singular omission, though it was not of the least consequence—none of the papers said where the marriage had been performed, or by whom. Those who noticed the omission thought it would be supplied next day, then forgot all about it.
The earl had been absent six weeks, and Lady Doris had spent them very comfortably, with the help of Mattie. There was nothing in Mattie to be ashamed of. True, she was only a farmer's daughter; but for all that she was a well-bred girl. Her politeness and natural grace of manner came from that best and sweetest of all sources, a good heart. She might be deficient in some little matters of etiquette, but she was always true, sincere, kind and good. Not even in outward appearance could the fastidious Lady Doris find the least fault with her foster-sister, while her thoughtful consideration made her liked and esteemed by every one in the house. Indeed, there were some who compared the two unfavorably, and wished that the haughty Lady Doris had some of her foster-sister's gentleness.
The suit of rooms were finished, and Doris had taken possession of them before the earl returned.
The fair spring was coming; already the cuckoo had been heard in the woods; the first sweet odors of spring seemed to fill the air; the green buds were on the hedges—such a fair, sweet, odorous spring. It seemed to have touched the heart of Earle, the poet, and have turned his poetry into words of fire. He wrote such letters to Lady Doris that, if it had been in the power of words to have touched her heart, his would have done so; but it was not; and one morning, when the sun was shining more brightly than usual, when the first faint song of the birds was heard, Lady Doris received a letter to say that day the earl and countess would be at home.
The earl gave many directions how his beautiful and stately wife was to be received; how the Anderley church bells were to ring, the servants be ready; how a grand dinner was to be prepared an hour later than usual, so as to make allowance for any little delay in traveling.
"I trust everything to you, Doris," said the earl, "and I know that I may safely do so; you will keep your promise."
He trusted well. Her energy and quickness were not to be surpassed. Every arrangement was made, every trifling detail attended to, and the astonished servants, looking at each other in wonder, owned that their young lady was a "regular locomotive" when she liked. Great fires were burning in the dressing-rooms, the bedrooms—every place where she thought a fire would be pleasant.
"The Countess of Linleigh shall have the three things that I like best to welcome her home," she said, laughingly.
"What are those?" asked Mattie.
"Warmth, light, and flowers. Those are three grand luxuries, Mattie, and if people either appreciated them better, or cared more about them, the world would be a much more comfortable dwelling-place than it is now."
Lady Doris took especial pains over her own toilet that evening. The Countess of Linleigh was a duke's daughter, and her good opinion was worth having. She wished to impress her favorably, and she knew that she must choose the happy medium. She must not be too plain—that would seem like rusticity: nor too magnificent—that would be ostentation.
"I wish now," she said to herself, "that I had never gone near Downsbury Castle: it was one of the most unfortunate things I ever did in my life. I wonder what she thought of me that day?"
She did look exceedingly beautiful when she was dressed. She had chosen a costume of pale lilac silk, with golden ornaments. The silk was shaded by fine white lace—nothing could have suited her better. The ripples of golden hair were drawn loosely together, and fastened with a diamond arrow; the lovely face, with its dainty flush and bright, deep eyes; the lovely mouth, so like the soft petals of a rose; the white, graceful neck, the polished, pearly shoulders, the rounded arms—all made up a picture not often seen. Mattie looked at her in honest amaze.
"You are very beautiful; you dazzle my eyes, dear," she said. "What shall you do with your beauty, Doris?"
"Enjoy it," was the laughing reply.
But Mattie looked grave.
"It seems to me," she said, "that beauty such as yours is full of peril."
"I do not see it," was the laughing answer. "Now, Mattie, it is time we went to the drawing-room; in one half hour from this my lord and my lady will be at home."
Faster and faster they seemed to drive; and with every minute that brought them nearer, Lady Linleigh grew paler.
"It is an ordeal, Ulric," she said, in her clear, sweet voice; "it seems to me that all I have gone through is as nothing compared to this. It was very hard of papa—very hard."
"He meant it for the best, Estelle, and we must bear it, love; it might have been much worse."
"Yes; but to hear her speak, to be with her every moment of the day, yet never once to call her child, or hear her say 'mother'—it will be very hard, Ulric—you do not know how hard."
"I can guess, my dear; but why dwell on this, the darkest side? Think of the happiness in store! Your father and mother both friends with us, having quite forgiven us, and, I venture to think, growing quite fond of me; they will come to see us, and we shall visit them; and you will always have Doris with you. Think of all those things!"
"Do you think I shall betray myself, Ulric?" she asked, simply.
"No, my wife, I do not. You kept your secret when you saw her at Downsbury Castle, and you will keep it now. As for loving her, indulging her, saying all kind and gentle words to her, that will be quite natural in your position. Try to be happy, my darling wife; there are happy days in store for us."
"I will try," she said.
At that moment they heard the chiming bells of Anderley Church, filling the air with rich, jubilant music.
"Listen, Estelle," said Lord Linleigh; "that is our welcome home."
Listening to the joyous bells, watching the last golden gleam die out in the western sky, no dream of tragedy to come disturbed them.
"Home at last," said the earl, as the carriage stopped. "I really think, Estelle, I am the happiest man in the world."
He looked wistfully at his wife's face—it was white as death.
"My darling," he whispered, as he led her into the house, "for my sake try to cheer up. Do not sadden the happiest hour of my life."
She made a violent effort to arouse herself. She returned with her usual high and gentle courtesy the greetings of the domestics, and walked with graceful steps to the library; then she hardly knew what took place. She saw a face and a figure before her lovelier than the loveliest dream of an artist. She saw two white arms around her husband's neck, while a voice that made her heart thrill said:
"Welcome home, dear papa—welcome home!"
"I must bear it," she thought, "for his sake."
Then the beautiful face was looking in her own.
Oh, Heaven! that she should bear such pain, such joy, yet live.
A soft voice said:
"Welcome home, dear Lady Linleigh. I hope you will let me love you very much."
She felt as though she held her heart in her own hands when she kissed the white brow, saying:
"I am sure to love you very much."
The earl, who was watching her closely, saw that she had just as much as she could bear—it was time to interfere; so he took Mattie by the hand and led her to the countess. He introduced her in a few kindly words, and then Lady Linleigh replied:
"I remember you, my dear, though you have probably forgotten me. I saw you when you were quite a little child."
"I do remember you," said Mattie, gratefully.
Then Lord Linleigh interfered again.
"Estelle," he said, "we are just ten minutes behind our time. You would like to change your traveling dress."
She looked at him like one roused from a dream, hardly seeming at first to understand him; then she walked slowly from the room. Lord Linleigh followed her, leaving the two girls alone.