"I think she will like me," said Lady Doris, "and it will be really a boon to me to have such a graceful, high-bred lady in the house. I shall study her, imitate her. Now, Mattie, does she not, as I said before, seem to move to the hidden rhythm of some sweet music?"
"Yes, she gives me exactly that impression. But how pale she is, Doris, and her hands trembled. She looked as though she was going to faint."
"She is not strong—papa told me so—and traveling has perhaps tired her. Do you think she will like me, Mattie?"
The tone of voice was very anxious. Mattie looked up quickly.
"You will say I am full of foolish fancies, Doris, but do you know I could not help thinking that she loved you; she looked as though she did. Her eyes had quite a strange light in them as they rested on your face, and the expression on hers was wonderful."
"That is certainly all fancy," replied Doris. "I have only seen her twice in my life; it is not possible she can love me. Perhaps she thought I was not so bad-looking—she admires beauty in everything, I know; she told me so herself. She married papa, I suppose, for his handsome face."
"Hush!" cried Mattie, "you must not say such things—it is wrong."
She could say no more; the earl and countess returned, and the dinner-bell rang. During dinner it seemed to Mattie that, so far from being mistaken, she was quite right—the countess certainly loved Doris; her voice took quite another tone when she addressed her. She fancied the earl noticed it too, and was pleased.
When Mattie was near, and Lady Linleigh was arranging some presents she had brought home for the girls, he said.
"The countess will be quite happy now; she is so fond of young girls, and she has two to spoil."
"I don't think I shall spoil either of them," said his wife, with a happy light in her eyes; "they are both too good to be spoiled."
CHAPTER LV.
"MY QUEEN ROSE OF THE ROSEBUDS."
The Countess of Linleigh sat anxiously watching the fair face of Lady Doris. All was going on well at Linleigh. The gentle, stately countess was already half worshiped there. The earl considered himself the happiest of men. One conversation had both pleased and touched Lady Linleigh. When she had been at home some days she fancied Mattie looked grave and almost sad. She had been thinking seriously about the girl—whether it was advisable to ask her to remain with Lady Doris as friend and companion, or whether it would be better to permit her to return to Brackenside. The earl had spoken of their going to London in May, if they did so, could Mattie go with them? Would it not be rather cruel than kind to give her notions, or accustom her to a life which it would be impossible for her to lead?
The countess saw Mattie walking one morning in the early spring alone, with a most thoughtful look on her face, and she went to her.
"I have been looking for early violets," said Mattie, glancing with a smile at Lady Linleigh, "in that pretty little dell—Thorny Dell, Doris calls it. The air is filled with their fragrance, yet I cannot see them. At Brackenside, at this time, the woods are full of them."
The countess laughed.
"There is no place like Brackenside, is there, Mattie?"
"No," replied the girl, earnestly, "none—at least it seems so to me, because I love my home so very dearly."
Then Lady Linleigh placed her hand caressingly on the girl's shoulder.
"Mattie," she said, gently, "you were looking very sad and thoughtful a few minutes since. What were you thinking of?"
"Home—and Earle," was the frank reply.
Lady Linleigh was half startled.
"What about Earle?" she asked.
The brown eyes were raised wistfully to hers.
"Earle will be so unhappy, Lady Linleigh, without Doris. No one knows—no one can imagine how he loves her. I cannot think what his life is without her."
"But he will not be without her long," said the countess. "Did you not know that he was coming here in February?"
She saw a rose-colored flush underneath the brown skin; she saw a sudden warm light in the brown eye; and without a word, almost by instinct, the Countess of Linleigh guessed the girl's secret, and how dearly she loved Earle.
"Coming here!" repeated Mattie. "I am so glad!"
"So am I," added Lady Linleigh. "I have the highest opinion of your friend Earle."
She did not know how grateful those words were to the girl, who never heard Earle spoken of save as Doris' own peculiar property. "Her friend!" She could have blessed Lady Linleigh for it. The words seemed to have made that sweet spring sunshine brighter in some strange, vague way—the odor of the hidden violets and the sound of Earle's voice seemed to harmonize.
"And you yourself, Mattie," said the countess, more touched than she cared to own by that unconscious revelation—"would you be happier to remain here, or to go home? You shall decide for yourself, and do which you will."
"My place is home," was the simple reply. "I have seen my dear Doris happy. I shall always be able to picture to myself what her manner of life is like. I shall know that Earle is content, being with her; so that it seems to me now my place and my duty alike are at home."
"I think you are right, dear child," said the countess.
She had read the girl's secret rightly, and knew that, from henceforward, for Mattie Brace, there would be but one consolation, and that she would find in doing her duty.
"You would like, perhaps," she added, "to wait and welcome Earle?"
But Mattie remembered how many things he would require, what preparations would be necessary for a visit to Linleigh Court; and she divined, with the rapidity of thought natural to her, that she must go home and help Earle. Lady Linleigh was infinitely touched by the young girl's simplicity, her loving heart, her complete sacrifice. Even the earl wondered how it was that his wife showed such sincere affection for Mattie.
Mattie went away, and on this morning, some few days after her departure, Lady Linleigh sat anxiously watching the face of the beautiful Doris. Had she any heart, or was she a true Studleigh? The countess had been thinking of her all the morning, for at breakfast-time the earl, with a smile of happiness, had given her a letter, saying:
"This is from Earle; how he loves Doris. He is coming to-day."
Lady Linleigh's thoughts had flown back to the time when she sat with Doris in the conservatory at the Castle, and had argued so strongly with her on the point of love. She was disappointed, for the beautiful face did not brighten, no warmth came into the lovely eyes, when she heard the announcement of her lover's coming.
"Coming to-day, is he, papa?"
And Lady Linleigh, quick to judge, felt a sure conviction that the tie which bound Lady Doris to Earle Moray, gentleman and poet, was burdensome to her.
"Perhaps she is ambitious," thought the countess; "it may be that with her wealth and title she thinks a marriage with Earle beneath her." Again she felt somewhat reassured when she saw that Lady Doris took some pains to please her lover. He was to reach Linleigh in the evening.
When the dressing-bell rung, Lady Estelle hastened her toilet, in order that she might do what she was very fond of doing—spend a short time in Lady Doris' dressing-room. She loved to see the shining ripples of golden hair loose and unbound, she liked to watch the glorious face, and to see the graceful figure arrayed in dress of fitting splendor.
There were times when Lady Doris herself wondered at the great tenderness of the duke's daughter.
"As fate ordained me a step-mother," she would say to herself with a smile, "I cannot be sufficiently thankful that she likes me so well."
On this evening Lady Linleigh started with surprise. Accustomed as she was to the girl's beauty, it had never seemed to her so striking or so graceful. Lady Doris had indeed arrayed herself so as to charm the eyes of her lover.
A little cry of admiration came from Lady Estelle; it escaped her without her knowledge.
Lady Doris looked round with a blush and a smile, and nodded her graceful head.
"I am being poetical, Lady Linleigh," she said, laughingly. "Earle is a poet, and I am dressing in character, as a poet's bride, you see."
There was the least possible suspicion of mockery in her words and laughter, but looking at her, the countess could find no fault. The tall, graceful figure seemed to rise from clouds of rich white lace; the white, rounded arms were bare to the shoulder; the graceful neck was clasped by neither diamond nor pearl; on the white breast a diamond glittered like flame; the golden hair, with its shining waves, was beautifully arranged; the little ears were like pink sea-shells; a few green leaves were carelessly entwined in the golden hair—she looked like the very spirit of love, beauty and song.
"Then you do care to please Earle?" said Lady Linleigh, as she kissed the fair face.
"Certainly," was the coquettish reply. "I have no thought of failing, either."
Even the earl stood and gazed for a few moments in mute admiration of his daughter's loveliness; then he shook his head, and said, gravely:
"There was no need for it, Doris—no need."
It was characteristic of this father and daughter that they understood each other perfectly; they were so much alike that the medium of words was not always required; they seemed to read each other's thoughts by instinct. While Lady Linleigh stood by, quite ignorant of her husband's meaning, Lady Doris understood it perfectly. It meant that Earle loved her already so dearly, there was no need for her to try to win more love from him.
The earl did not profess to be a man of sentiment. As a rule, he considered love a kind of weakness to which one was especially liable in youth, but this wondrous love of Earle Moray's impressed him greatly. He had decided to drive himself to the station to meet his young guest, to whom he desired to show all honor; then Lady Linleigh had said it would be less embarrassing for them to meet alone.
"What a fund of sentiment you have, Estelle," laughed the earl. "By all means, arrange a tete-a-tete for them. My honest belief is that women never tire of love-stories."
He did not know how such speeches as these jarred upon the tender, sensitive heart of his wife. But Lady Linleigh was considerate.
"Doris," she said to the proud young beauty, "it is some time since you have seen Earle, and he will perhaps feel some restraint in my presence, and not talk to you as freely as he would in my absence; I will leave you to receive him."
And Doris laughed with some of the earl's half-contempt for sentiment.
Yet she owned to herself that she was really glad there was no one to see poor Earle's extravagant delight and wild worship of her.
In the burning intensity of his desire to see her, all other things were entirely lost. It never occurred to him that the Earl of Linleigh had purposely put himself to inconvenience to meet him at the railway station; he never gave even a passing thought to the grand carriage, the liveried servants, the magnificent mansion; he thought only of Doris—the birds sang of her, the wind whispered her name. Lord Linleigh smiled more than once as his remarks were unheard, his questions unanswered.
After all, there was something very beautiful, half-divine, in such love. He envied the young poet who felt it and the girl who was its object. He understood that all the glories of Linleigh were for the present quite lost on Earle.
When they reached the Court, the earl looked at the poet with a smile.
"If you were an ordinary visitor," he said, "I should suggest the dining-room and instant refreshment; but knowing you to be far away from all such earthly matters, I merely mention them. My daughter, the Lady Doris, is in the drawing-room there—will you join her?"
Earle had longed with the intensity of longing to see her again. His life had been one long fever, one fire of desire, one constant thought of her; yet, when he stood once more in her beautiful presence, he was mute, dumb. She smiled at him, and held out her white, jeweled hands to him.
"Earle," she said, and at the sound of her voice his whole soul seemed to wake up. "Earle," she repeated; and the next moment he held those white hands in his, he drew her to him, he kissed her face, her brow. It was pitiful to see a strong man's soul so bound down with a mighty love.
"Earle," she repeated a third time, "it is certainly an excellent thing that I do not wear chignons. How do young ladies manage, I wonder, with chignons and such a rapturous lover as you. Look at my flowers and dress; it is not, really, etiquette to kiss any young lady en grande toilette."
He only laughed at the mocking words. What cared he, when his arm was round her, and he looked into her face again.
"My darling," he said; "my queen rose of the rosebuds."
She laid her hand on his lips.
"That is Tennyson's poetry," she said, "not your own. Are you so very pleased to see me, Earle?"
"So pleased that I cannot find words—so pleased that the wonder to me is that I can bear so much happiness."
"If you think you are too happy, Earle, I can soon alter that state of things," she said, laughingly.
"You cannot alter yourself," he replied. "While you are what you are, and as you are, I must be the happiest of men—I cannot help it. Mattie told me that I should find you changed. Why, my darling, you are beautiful, graceful, noble as a queen. In all the wide world I am quite sure there is no one like you—none."
CHAPTER LVI.
"WHEN SHE WAS YOUNG, PERHAPS SHE LOVED SOME ONE LIKE ME."
Dinner was over, and Earle had recovered some little sense and reason. He had hardly looked at Lady Estelle. They had met as perfect strangers, and the earl introduced them.
It struck the earl that his wife looked pale and strange; but whenever there was anything about Lady Linleigh that he did not understand, he always attributed it to sentiment.
Then in her calm, high-bred fashion she bade Earle welcome to Linleigh; she spoke to him several times during dinner. That dinner seemed to Earle more like a dream than a reality. Whenever he looked at her he thought of Quainton woods and the strange story she had told him there, the truth of which seemed only known to herself and him. He wondered if she would speak to him about it—if she would allude to it in any way. He had never seen her since, although he had so well carried out her commands. After dinner all wonder on that point was at an end.
"Doris," said the countess, "sing some of your pretty French chansons for us. Mr. Moray, will you look over these sketches by Dore?"
While Doris' rich voice filled the room, and Earle sat with the sketches in his hand, she, feigning to be interested in them, said:
"I have never had a chance to thank you, but I thank you now, with all my heart, with gratitude that words cannot express. Can you understand how grateful I am to you, Earle Moray?"
There was a pretty, musical lingering on his name which charmed him. He looked into the proud, fair face, and said, simply:
"A man might be proud to give his life for you, Lady Linleigh. I am happy to think that it was in my power to be of service to you."
"You will keep my secret always, Earle?"
"Always, Lady Linleigh, as I would guard my life or my honor."
"Even after you are married, when it will be most difficult to keep a secret from Doris, you will keep this—you will never let her know that I am her mother?"
"No; you may trust me until death," he said.
Then for some minutes there was silence. Lady Linleigh was the first to break it.
"Do you know how I shall try to reward you, Earle?" she asked.
"I think less of the reward than of the kindness that prompts it," he replied, gratefully.
"I shall do my best to further your interests in life—to help you to reach such a position as shall please Doris. I will hasten your marriage by every means in my power, and I will love you as though you were my own son. Do not look so grateful; they will wonder what I am saying to you. You understand, once and for all, I shall never allude to this again."
The next moment Lady Doris was laughingly accusing the countess of having asked her to sing, in order that she might talk at her ease.
"We are quite a family party," said Lord Linleigh. "Earle, do you play billiards?"
"No," he replied, "I do not."
"Then come at once, and let me give you your first lesson. No man can hope to succeed in this world who cannot play billiards."
Doris went into the billiard-room to see the first lesson given and received, while Lady Estelle pondered over the same problem—did Doris love Earle, or did she not?
On the morning following the earl and the poet had a long conversation. It was a fine spring day, with the odor of early violets and the song of the birds in the air.
"Come out with me, Mr. Moray," said the earl; "we can talk more at ease under the broad blue sky."
Then, as they walked through the stately domain, the earl talked more seriously than he had ever done before.
"Some men," he said, "might object to seeing an engagement of the kind fulfilled. I do not. When Doris, as you knew, had no name, no home, you would have been proud to make her your wife; she, in her turn, should be, and is, I do not doubt, proud to reward your love. Now, it would be very easy for me, Earle, to imitate one of the fathers in heavy comedy, and say: 'Take her—be happy; here are fifty thousand pounds and my blessing.' I repeat, that would be easy, but it would be an injustice to you. I prefer that you shall make a position for yourself, and win her; you will be happier."
"Yes," replied Earle, "a thousand times happier. I love her so dearly—pardon me, my lord—so dearly, that I would work, as Jacob did, seven years to win her, and, because of my great love, they would seem as one day."
"I will take your fortunes in hand," said the earl, "as I told you before. It would be easy to give you one; but I will give you what is far better—the means of making one. I will place you in such a position that it shall not be in the power of any person to say, when he hears of my daughter's marriage, that she had made a mesalliance."
"I thank you, my lord; my deeds, my life shall thank you," said Earle, earnestly.
"You have already," continued the earl, "made for yourself some reputation as a poet; now tell me, have you ever turned your attention to politics?"
The young poet's face glowed again; it was so sweet to him, for her dear sake, this high hope of fame.
"I have studied the leading topics of the day," he replied, modestly.
"I know you have the gift of eloquence, and my first effort on your behalf shall be that you be returned a member for Anderley. The late member died a few weeks since, and I am repeatedly asked to put forward a candidate. You shall be that candidate, Earle Moray, and you shall succeed. When you are M. P. for Anderley, we will talk of the next step."
"I cannot thank you," said Earle, breathlessly; "it would be quite useless for me to try."
"In the meantime there is an appointment in London, in the civil service, vacant, and I think my influence can procure it for you. It will bring you in an income of seven or eight hundred pounds per annum. The expenses of the election will, of course, be mine."
Earle raised his hand to his head with a bewildered expression.
"I think," he said, "I must have had a fairy godmother."
"Genius is a fairy godmother," said the earl, laughingly. "We shall all be very happy, Earle. Doris is young—too young to marry yet; a year or two in the great world will not hurt her. I do not think anything will ever take her from you, Earle."
"I am sure of it, my lord. I have full faith in my love."
That very evening Lord Linleigh wrote to London, to secure the appointment of which he had spoken. It was characteristic of him that more than once during the course of that letter-writing he laughed to himself for being sentimental.
"I should have done better," he thought, "to have given the young man something handsome, and have let Doris marry as my daughter ought to marry."
Then, again, he would reproach himself with the thought, and his heart would warm with the consciousness of doing a good and generous action.
It would have been impossible, even had he desired it, to have kept the household in ignorance over Earle.
He had not been there twenty-four hours before the whole body of domestics were interested in his wooing. He was universally admired; the susceptible portion of the establishment declared that he was as handsome as Apollo, with a voice like real music, while languid footmen and knowing grooms declared him to be the "right kind of gentleman."
The Lady Doris had said little, but she had watched him with jealous eyes. If he had failed in any little observance of form or etiquette, she would never have pardoned him; if she had heard even the least hint that he was not perfectly well-bred, that he was not accustomed to the manners of good society, her angry resentment would have known no bounds. As it was, she was flattered by the universal praise and admiration. Earle might have lived with dukes and earls all his life. It never occurred to him, this terrible distance in rank; he did not think of it. As he once said to Doris, "He was a gentleman—a king was no more." She had half anticipated feeling ashamed of him; she found, on the contrary, that she had ample reason to be proud of him.
The earl told his wife and daughter what he hoped and intended to do for Earle. He almost wondered that the countess should be so pleased; her face flushed and her eyes filled with tears.
"You are very good, Ulric," she said, very gently.
He fancied that it was for her daughter's sake that she felt pleased. But there were no tears in his daughter's beautiful eyes.
"I am a deal of trouble to you, papa," she said. "It is not enough that you must have a grown-up daughter, but you must also provide her with a husband! It is rather too hard on you."
"But, Doris, you—you love Earle?" he said, anxiously.
"Oh, yes, I love Earle. It is a thousand pities, though, that he has not a ready-made fortune and position—it would save you so much trouble."
"My dear Doris, there can be no trouble for me where you are concerned; you know how anxious I am that you should be happy. You will be happy with Earle?"
"I am one of those singularly fortunate people, papa, who are happy anywhere," she replied. Then, seeing a very discontented expression on his face, she hastened to add: "Remember how often you have called me a true Studleigh, papa. I find it more in my nature to laugh than to sentimentalize; indeed, under pain of instant execution, I fear that I should not, could not grow sentimental. At the same time believe me no one could be more grateful than I am to you about Earle."
And with that the earl was forced to be content. She sat down to the piano shortly afterward, and he heard the gay voice singing of love and flowers. He looked at her—the same puzzle came to him.
"Has she any heart?" he asked himself.
That was a question which no one yet had been able to answer.
"Earle," said Lady Doris, as they sat together in the morning-room, "do not read any more to me. I always tell you that reading poetry aloud to me is a waste of time and of talent. I want you to talk."
The next moment he had closed the book, and was sitting on the little ottoman at her feet.
"I am only too delighted," he said. "It is not often that my beautiful queen wishes to talk to me."
"Your beautiful queen wishes to know, Earle, what you think of my lady?"
"My lady!" he repeated wonderingly.
"Yes! try and not be dull of understanding—nothing tries me so severely as that. My lady! I mean, of course, the Countess of Linleigh. What do you think of her, Earle?"
"I think she is very kind, very beautiful, very stately, and very charming."
"I agree with you; but do you not think that she is rather sentimental?"
"I hardly know. Why, Doris?"
"She has a fashion of dropping into my dressing-room at all hours, of taking this long hair of mine into her hands, and looking as though she would fain kiss it, of kissing my face, and talking about you."
"That seems very natural, Doris, and very kind," he said.
"When she talks about you, Earle, the tears come into her eyes, and she is so eloquent about love. Do you know what I fancy sometimes?"
"No," he replied, "I do not."
"You need not look so strangely at me; but I do fancy at times that when she was young, perhaps she loved some one like me, who is dead. What do you think, Earle?"
"It is very possible, darling. I should be so kind to her, Doris, were I in your place."
"I am kind, I never interfere; I let her do just as she likes with me. I am sure, Earle, it is not possible to be any kinder than that."
CHAPTER LVII.
THE YEARNINGS OF A MOTHER'S HEART.
The appointment was secured. It was hardly probable that the Earl of Linleigh should ask anything from the government and be refused. He was the rising man of the day, and the government was anxious for his support. He had great influence, and it was all needed. When, therefore, he made a special application for this choice bit of patronage, it was agreed on all sides that it would be most unwise to refuse it.
Earle was made perfectly happy. The income of eight hundred pounds a year did not seem such a great or wonderful thing to him as the fact that he was a public man, that his footing was firmly established, and that every day brought him nearer to Doris.
In his simplicity, he often wondered how it was that little paragraphs continually appeared in the leading papers of the day about him. One time it was to the effect that it was not generally known that Earle Moray, Esq., recently appointed to the royal commission service, was the poet with whose last work all England was delighted. Again, that Earle Moray, Esq., the poet, intended to contest the borough of Anderley. He found himself continually mentioned as one of the leading men of the day, one to whom the eyes of the country turned with hope. Earle could not imagine how it was, and in his perplexity he spoke of it to Lord Linleigh.
"If I did not know that it was impossible," he said, "I should imagine some one was always sending little paragraphs to the newspapers about me."
"It is the price of celebrity," said the earl. "A man who wishes to advance with the public must always keep himself before the public eye. You would be surprised how famous these little paragraphs, as you call them, have made you already. People often ask me about Earle Moray. You will have a greater name than this some day, and you will wonder how you have acquired it."
In the meantime he was wonderfully happy. He was not to commence his engagement until the middle of April, and the earl insisted upon it that he should continue at Linleigh Court.
"Lessons in social life are as needful as any others," said Lord Linleigh. "You cannot do better for the next few weeks than spend as much time as possible with Lady Estelle. I will introduce you to the chief magnates of the county; and so you will be acquiring knowledge of one kind, if not of another."
The next great event was a visit from the Duke and Duchess of Downsbury to Linleigh Court. The duke had long desired to go, but the duchess, prouder than himself, constantly refused. At last curiosity prevailed. Lord Linleigh wrote such glowing accounts of his happiness, and such descriptions of the beauty of his daughter and the happiness of his wife, that it was not in human nature to keep away any longer.
Then, indeed, was Lady Doris puzzled. The countess seemed to have but one anxiety: it was not for herself at all, but for Lord Linleigh's daughter—that she should look beautiful, that they should admire her, that she should make the most favorable impression on them, seemed to be her sole desire. The young beauty was highly amused at it. They were talking one morning, and Lady Estelle held a long, shining tress of Doris' hair in her hand.
"I hope," she said, suddenly, "the duchess will admire your hair, Doris."
"Do you, Lady Linleigh?" was the reply, with a little raising of the eyebrows. "I am not very anxious about it myself."
"My darling," said the countess, impulsively, "do not say that. I want my mother to admire and to like, even to love you."
"It is very kind of you, Lady Linleigh, but it is very improbable. I fancy that I remember her grace. She is very tall and stately, is she not? with a proud, high-bred face—not handsome at all, but very aristocratic?"
"Yes," said Lady Estelle, faintly, "that is she."
"Then I am quite sure, dear Lady Linleigh, she will not like me. I must have been quite a child when you paid that memorable visit to Brackenside, but I remember her much better than I remember you, and I am quite sure that she looked as though she would like to shake me."
"But, Doris," said the countess, earnestly, "you must try to make the duchess like you. You will try, will you not, my dear?"
"Will you tell me why, Lady Linleigh?" asked the young girl.
The countess grew pale and agitated.
"Do it to please me, my darling, because I want her to like you—do it for my sake. Will you, Doris?"
The girl laughed—a low, rippling laugh, that had no music in it.
"I will do anything, Lady Linleigh—anything to please her, but if my own mother were living, provided that I loved her myself, I should not be very anxious for any one else to love her."
Lady Estelle drew back with something like repulsion in her face.
"You are mistaken; you cannot judge. It is only natural that we wish every one to love and admire what we love ourselves."
Doris looked at her with laughing eyes.
"I cannot see it. I should like every one, for instance, to admire Earle, but I do not care about any one loving him."
Lady Linleigh sat in silence for some minutes, then looking up, she said:
"We will not argue over it, my dear child; but you will promise to be very nice to the duchess, and try to win her liking?"
"Certainly, I promise, Lady Linleigh. Tell me, is the duchess a lady of great importance?"
"Yes, she is, indeed, she has much influence at court and in society."
"Then I will do all I can, not only to make her like me, but to make her speak favorably of me. Shall you be pleased, then, dear Lady Linleigh?"
Yes, she would be pleased; but she owned to herself, with a deep sigh, that it was impossible to arouse any deep or true feeling, any noble sentiment, any generous idea, in the girl's mind. Appeal to her vanity, her interest, her ambition, you were sure to find some answering chord. Appeal to anything else was utterly in vain.
Lady Doris laughed to herself as the countess, with something like disappointment in her face, quitted the room.
"I have heard the proverb, 'Love me, love my dog,'" she said to herself. "I never heard, 'Love me, love my mother.'"
Still, the fact that the coming visitor was a duchess, and a person of very great importance, the wife of one of the wealthiest dukes in England, was not without its influence on her; she resolved, therefore, to be most charming and gracious.
She was secretly amused at Lady Linleigh's anxiety over her dress. On the day when the visitors were expected, she said to her:
"Take great pains with your toilet this evening, Doris—wear that set of pearls and rubies."
"If the duke were a widower," laughed Lady Doris to herself, "I should feel sure that the countess wanted me to make a conquest."
She was awed and impressed, in spite of herself, when she stood before the Duchess of Downsbury. The duke she remembered well; she felt no especial awe of him; she could tell, from the expression of his face, that he thought her beautiful. She was accustomed by this time to see men fall prostrate, as it were, before her beauty, but there was something in the high-bred, stately duchess before which my Lady Doris owned herself vanquished. She did not understand the emotion in Lady Linleigh's face as she led her to the duchess.
"Mamma," she said in a voice that trembled, "this is Lady Doris Studleigh, my husband's daughter."
The jeweled hands of the duchess trembled as they lay for one half minute on the golden head.
"I am pleased to see you," she said. "You are very fair; I hope you are as good as you are fair."
Lady Doris wondered why, for one half minute, every one around her looked so solemn, why her father's debonair face had lost its color, why Lady Estelle turned so hastily away, why Earle stood looking on with a strange light in his eyes. It was droll. Then she dismissed the thought. They were all more or less sentimental, and there was no accounting for sentimental people at all.
She was destined the same evening to feel a little more surprised. There had always been the most perfect harmony and sympathy of taste between the earl and his daughter, they resembled each other so closely. Lady Doris felt half inclined to dislike the duchess; her exclusiveness, her hauteur, awed her after a fashion that was rather disagreeable than otherwise. As usual, she went to the earl for sympathy.
"Papa," she said, "the worst enemy her grace ever had could not call her lively."
"She is no longer young; liveliness is one of the attributes of youth, you know, Doris."
"Yes, but a little more of it would certainly not hurt her, papa."
The earl went to his daughter and laid his hand on her shoulder.
"Doris," he said, "I want to speak to you most particularly, and I want you to pay the greatest attention to what I have to say."
She looked up in wonder at this preamble.
"Let me impress upon you," he said, "that it is my earnest wish that you should treat the duke and duchess with all the respect, attention, and affection that lies in your power. You cannot show them too much, and the more you show them the better shall I be pleased. They are my wife's parents."
"I suppose," thought Doris, "he expects they will leave him a fortune. However, I must trim my bark according to the sea I have to sail on."
So she promised to show all deference, all homage, all respect. She did so. The duke admired her beyond everything; he thought her one of the most beautiful, most graceful, one of the cleverest girls he had ever met. But the duchess did not like her; she had never forgotten her first impression, that the girl was both vain and wanting in goodness. She tried to like her, to make the most of her beauty, her talent, but there was no real warmth in her heart toward her daughter's child. Earle, on the contrary, won her honest liking. In her own mind, although she knew that Doris was the daughter of Lord Linleigh, and the descendant of the Herefords, she thought her inferior to Earle Moray. So this strangely assorted household remained until the time drew near when the earl thought of going to London.
The Duke of Downsbury had promised to do his best in helping to forward the fortunes of Earle Moray. He by this time had recovered from the shock his daughter's story had inflicted on him; still, he considered it best, for many reasons, that the secret should be kept. Lady Doris wondered often how it happened that she was so great a favorite with the duke. He made her costly and beautiful presents; he liked to ride out with her; he enjoyed watching her beautiful face.
"Your daughter is unique," he said one day to Lady Estelle, and her face grew white as she heard the words.
"My daughter!" she repeated. "It seems so strange, papa, to hear that; no one has ever called her 'my daughter' before."
How the gentle heart yearned over her, the proud young beauty, in the flush of her triumph, never knew. She looked upon Lady Linleigh's great love for her as rather tiresome than otherwise; it was annoying to her that she should be visited every evening, and that the countess should study so attentively her every look and word. More than once she spoke impatiently of it to Earle, and wondered that he looked so gravely at her.
"It seems to me," she cried, "that every one studies Lady Linleigh a great deal more than they study me."
She wondered why it was that the fair, proud face was always so tender for her; why the calm eyes always rested on her with a loving light; why the voice that never varied for others, faltered and grew so loving when speaking to her. Once or twice it occurred to her that if her own mother had been living, she could not have shown greater affection for her than did Lady Estelle Linleigh.
CHAPTER LVIII.
BEFORE THE QUEEN.
Such a May day! like one of those that the poets of old described when they wrote of mead and honey. A flash of heaven's own sunshine, a murmur of heaven's own music, a foretaste of the golden glories of summer which were soon to shine over the land. A May day, when, in the green heart of England, the hawthorn was budding, the perfume of violets filled the air, the cuckoo remained lord of the meadows, the wood pigeons began to coo, the butterflies to coquette with sweet spring flowers—a very carnival of nature.
London had never looked so bright or so gay. The queen had thrown off the black mantle of sorrow, and had come forth once more to gladden the hearts of her faithful people. She had opened Parliament, and a series of royal fetes had been announced that cheered the whole city with the hope of future prosperity. Trade, commerce, literature, and art were all encouraged; as all drooped in her absence, so they all revived in the gracious promise of her serene presence.
There was to be on the third of May a grand drawing-room. Great excitement was caused by the announcement that the Countess of Linleigh and the Lady Doris Studleigh were both on this eventful day to be presented, the countess on her marriage, the Lady Doris as a debutante.
Rumor was very busy. There was nothing to wonder about over the countess—she was well-known for many London seasons; she had been a belle and a reigning beauty, she was married at last to a popular nobleman, and would doubtless take her place as one of the queens of society; she would give brilliant fetes, head the gayeties of the season. Hyde House would doubtless become one of the most fashionable resorts of the day; but there all sensation about her ceased.
With Lady Doris it was different; more curiosity was felt to see Lord Linleigh's daughter than his wife. People heard that she was a regular Studleigh, and the memory of the handsome, debonair race was still living among them.
In the time of Charles the Second there had been ladies of the Studleigh family whose names were proverbs for beauty, wit, and recklessness. Strange stories were told of deeds of fun and daring that in people less noble would have been called crimes.
And now on the great world—always a little blase, a little tired of itself, always athirst for novelty—a new star was to shine—a Studleigh, with all the fatal, witching beauty of her race, and the inheritance of wit that was always pointed.
Rumor said she was the loveliest girl on whom the English sun had shone for many years. She would be wealthy, too, for Lord Linleigh was rich. Expectation was for once fairly aroused; then, too, there was something of romance about her story. The marriage of the handsome, popular earl had been a private one; the Lady Doris, it was said, had been educated in the strictest retirement. People were impatient to see her and pronounce their verdict. She was to be presented by the Duchess of Downsbury, whose name was a guaranty for every good quality.
The eventful day dawned at last. Lord Linleigh had been somewhat anxious over it. True, his daughter's fate in life was fixed—he would not have had her engagement with Earle Moray broken on any account—yet he desired that she should receive all the homage due to her rank and her beauty. No word of her engagement had been made public; that was by Lady Linleigh's advice.
"Give her all the time possible, all the liberty that her heart can desire, and then we shall see if she really prefers Earle to all the world," she said to her husband.
Though he laughed at the advice, he owned it was good.
On that May day surely Lady Doris' dressing-room was one of the prettiest scenes in all London. The sunbeams crept through the rose-colored blind, and fell on the shining jewels, the costly dresses, the flowers and laces. For the first time in her life Lady Doris was arrayed in full court costume, and certainly nothing could have suited her better. The Duke of Downsbury had insisted on presenting her with a magnificent set of diamonds for the occasion, and she wore them now for the first time. She stood in all the splendor of her marvelous beauty and rich costume, smiling at herself in the mirror.
"I do not look much like Doris Brace, the farmer's daughter, now," she said to herself.
Then Lady Linleigh entered the room.
"I could not rest, Doris," she said, "until I had seen you, and knew whether you felt nervous or not."
Something like a smile of contempt wreathed the beautiful lips.
"Nervous, Lady Linleigh! not one whit," she replied. "Now, if I were about being presented to a handsome young monarch, who wanted a queen to reign by his side, I might feel nervous."
"When I was presented," said Lady Linleigh, "I did feel very nervous. I thought of it for days and weeks beforehand."
"You and I, dear Lady Linleigh, differ considerably," said Doris. "I often think myself it is strange, but I am really wanting in that respect—I have no organ of reverence; I do not believe that I stand in awe of any human being."
"It is strange; and I am not sure that such total independence is altogether good for you, my dear. I should like you to bear more on others, less on yourself."
"I am as I was made," laughed the girl; then she blushed slightly, for the earl stood at the door of her dressing-room, looking at her with such admiration in his eyes as they had seldom expressed before. She could not help feeling embarrassed by it. Then she went up to him, saying:
"Now, papa, imagine yourself the queen; let me make you my grand presentation courtesy."
He never forgot her as she stood there, the light flaming in her jewels and falling on the golden hair, the face softened into unusual beauty by the slight flush.
"My darling," said Lord Linleigh, us he laid his hand on her head, "my darling, I am proud of you."
The words were few, but they expressed a whole volume.
"There will not be a fairer girl at the drawing-room to-day," he continued, "Yet you must look out for your laurels, Doris. Lady Blanche Trevor is presented to-day, and the Trevors have always been considered the handsomest family in England."
"I am not afraid, papa," was the calm reply. "We should be going now; it is some time since the carriage was announced."
"Doris," said the countess, "stop one minute, dear."
Doris turned, wonderingly. She detected a faint tremor in the voice; Lady Linleigh's face, too, was very pale.
"Come here one moment," she continued, and Lady Doris went up to her.
The pale, lovely face looked into hers, the gentle hands touched her, the sweet lips caressed her. The countess took one long tress of the golden hair in her hands.
"I could not let you go out into the world, my dear," she said, slowly, "without first wishing you all happiness."
All her heart was on her lips, and her voice trembled with emotion. Lady Doris looked at her in a perfect bewilderment of surprise.
"You are very kind to me, Lady Linleigh," she said; and there was something of haughty surprise in her voice which fell like cold snow on the gentle heart. "You are very kind," she repeated, "but I have no fear."
"It is such a brilliant world, Doris, but so full of pitfalls—oh! my dear, so full of pitfalls for the beautiful and young."
"I will steer clear of them, dear Lady Linleigh," said the impatient voice. "While the May sun is shining and the carriage is at the door, there is hardly time to talk about the dangers of the world. I am quite willing to take them for granted."
Lady Linleigh said to herself that she could not alter her nature—that she was brilliant, polished, cold, beautiful, without warmth of heart, and that she could not help it. Yet she felt most bitterly disappointed; her heart had yearned for one kind word, for one token of affection from her, but it was not to be.
The earl looked in surprise from his wife to his daughter, but he made up his mind never to interfere between them, or to appear to notice anything that passed. Then they entered the carriage and drove to St. James'.
Those present will not soon forget the beauty of the women or the splendor of the whole scene. Never since the days when her royal consort stood by her side had the queen looked better or happier than on this day, when she woke to the sense that the great voice of a mighty nation was calling her. Noble sons and fair daughters stood around her; the noblest of the realm had hastened to do her homage. The sun that shone upon the palace walls and streamed through the windows, fell on no more calm or royal face than hers.
There was some little excitement when the name of the Countess of Linleigh was announced. Many there remembered her years ago, when she had made her debut, and smiled to think that for love of the gallant earl she had remained unmarried all these years. With the entrance of Lady Doris Studleigh into the royal presence, there was a sensation such as had not been made at the court for many long years. The girl's glorious beauty, her imperial grace, the proud carriage, the splendor of her jewels, the fascination that seemed to clothe her as a garment—even the royal face lighted up with admiration as the queen's eyes fell on her. Words more kind than usual came from the royal lady's lips, and her heart beating high with triumph, her position secure, the Lady Doris passed from that gracious presence. Even as she stood bending low before the queen, she said to herself that she should be a favorite at court, if looks promised anything.
The Duchess of Downsbury was well pleased with her young protegee.
"My dear," she, said to her, when the ordeal was over, "whatever else you may lack, you certainly have plenty of nerve."
Lady Doris raised her eyes unflinchingly to her grace's face.
"Different people," she said, "give other names to the quality I possess. Your grace calls it nerve—the Studleighs call it courage."
"Well," said the duchess, grimly, "I will call it courage, then; you have plenty of it, Lady Doris."
"I have no doubt," was the smiling reply, "that as I go through the world I shall need it all."
The duchess knew that in a passage at arms, even she, well versed as she was, had no chance with Lady Doris. In one way she was pleased at her granddaughter's success, although she disliked so much calm self-possession in one so young.
But the earl saw no drawback, he admitted none. Every one was enraptured with Lady Doris, every one praised her, spoke of her wonderful beauty, and complimented him on having so peerless a daughter. His heart beat high with pride, yet never once did he wish her engagement with Earle Moray broken. He saw Lady Estelle alone a few minutes before dinner, and then he wondered at the paleness of her face, the depression of her spirits.
"Estelle," he said, gently, "what is the matter?"
It seemed as though the question broke through the flood-gates of her sorrow. She raised her eyes to his—they were streaming with tears.
"I am ungrateful, Ulric," she said. "I am wicked and discontented. I see my darling so beautiful, yet I cannot go to her and clasp her in my arms. I cannot say, 'Child, how I rejoice in you, for you are my own.'"
"No, you cannot say that; but you may love her and be as kind to her as you will."
The countess shook her head sadly.
"You do not understand," she said. "Doris is not affectionate by nature, and I can see that my love annoys and teases her. I do not repine, for you love me, Ulric, do you not?"
Love her? Yes, assuredly he did; how could he help it? Yet, all the same, he did wish that Lady Doris would show greater affection for her unknown mother.
CHAPTER LIX.
THE NEW BEAUTY DISCUSSED.
A group of young aristocrats stood in the billiard-room of Bar's Club. Some one had played a game and won it, some one else had lost; there had been high betting, but, strange to say, for once money had lost its charm—billiards their attraction.
"I am told," said the Honorable Charlie Balsover, "that it is a treat to look at her. My sisters were both at the drawing-room, and they declare that they have seen nothing like it."
"Women cannot judge of women," said Major Maitland, contemptuously.
The Honorable Charlie looked up haughtily.
"My sisters are as good judges of beauty as any one in England," he said, hastily.
"There can be no question about it," interrupted Lord Piercy; "Lady Studleigh is, par excellence, the beauty of the season. I saw her myself, and—well, it takes a great deal to satisfy me, but she did it."
"We shall have the noble Piercy, spurred and booted, going in for a conquest," laughed another.
"No, my dear boy; I am, fortunately for me, in the full possession of all my senses. I took my own measure very accurately long ago, and I, for one, should never aspire to such a conquest as that of the Lady Studleigh."
"What rare and touching humility," laughed a fair-haired officer. "I should like to see this paragon."
At that moment they were joined by a tall, handsome man, who, until that moment, had been standing alone at the billiard-table, practicing a stroke he wished to master. He sauntered to the little group.
"I have not heard one word that you have been saying, but from the peculiar expression of Piercy's face, I would wager that you are talking of beauty in some shape or other," he said.
"We are talking of a new star which has suddenly arisen in the fashionable skies—the beautiful, golden-haired Lady Studleigh, Lord Linleigh's daughter."
"What of her?" asked Lord Charles Vivianne. "If anything interesting, tell me quickly. At this moment the click of the billiard-balls is sweeter to my ears than the praise of fair woman."
"It is my opinion," said Colonel Clifford, laughing, "that in Vivianne's case 'a burnt child dreads the fire.' A little bird whispered to me some romantic story about Florence and some lovely being to whom he was devoted there."
Lord Vivianne turned fiercely on him—so fiercely that those present looked grave.
"It would be as well for you, Clifford," he said, "to refrain from talking of that which does not concern you."
"My dear boy," replied the colonel, "I meant no harm. If I had known that Florence was a sore subject with you I would not have touched upon it."
"Who said it was a sore subject?" cried Lord Vivianne, passionately.
Then, seeing that in all probability a quarrel would ensue, Major Maitland interfered.
"We are forgetting the subject under discussion," he said. "You asked me what it was, Lord Vivianne. We were speaking of the wonderful beauty of Lady Studleigh, the handsome earl's daughter. Have you seen her yet?"
"No," he replied, "I have not."
"Then, by all means, contrive to do so. The Prince of B—— is almost wild about her. Every one ought to see her, just to know what a really beautiful woman is like."
Then Colonel Clifford, anxious to make up the quarrel, went off in a long and rapturous description of the fair lady's beauty and grace.
"I shall be sure to see her," said Lord Vivianne, briefly. "To tell the truth, I do not feel much interested. A beautiful face is a rarity, and the chances are ten to one the owner is either a simpleton or a flirt. I, for one, shall not offer my admiration at the new beauty's shrine. Au revoir."
And with his usual proud, careless step, Lord Vivianne walked away. The others looked curiously after him.
"I never saw a man so completely changed in all my life," said Colonel Clifford. "He used to be so good-humored, fond of a jest, and able to bear any amount of teasing; and now, one word, and he is like a madman. I shall begin to think what I have heard of him is true."
"What is that?" asked the Honorable Charlie Balsover.
"I was told that he fell in love at Florence. I did not hear all the particulars, but I was told that he completely lost his heart there."
"He never had a heart to lose," said one.
"Who was the lady?" asked another.
"I do not know. Some one said she was a princess in disguise; others, that she was of low origin, but of marvelous beauty. The whole affair was a mystery. Some said she was English, others that she was Florentine; in any case, it is believed that she jilted him, and he has never been the same man since. He used to boast that no woman had ever resisted him. I believe that he fancied he was irresistible. Perhaps he does not like learning his lesson."
"The biter generally gets bitten," said the Honorable Charlie. "I should not wonder if some one has avenged the wrongs of the sex upon him. He has certainly gone to great lengths."
"Why not call a spade a spade?" said Major Maitland. "Give his follies the right name. He has broken more hearts, ruined more homes, dragged more fair faces through the dust, than any man of his age in England. Serves him right, I say, if he has something to suffer in his turn."
Which was all the sympathy Lord Vivianne received when he was supposed to have suffered at the hands of a woman.
He thought but little over what had been said about Lady Studleigh.
"Men were always making idols of some woman or other," he said to himself. "If they choose to go mad in crowds over the handsome earl's daughter, let them; I, for one, shall not join them."
It had been a great blow to him, the loss of Doris. That one love was the master passion of his life. He had not intended it to be; he had only thought of her at first as one whose beauty was well worth the winning. Afterward, when her strange fascination, her wonderful grace, her marvelous talent and wit had bound him fast in her chains, he gave her the one great love of his life, none the less fierce and passionate because he had had many love affairs.
While they were still at Florence, he had made up his mind to one of two things, either to be true to her all his life, and spend all his life with her, or to marry her. As his love increased, his scruples died away; he would marry this beautiful girl, whose coldness had a charm for him that nothing else ever possessed. His love grew fiercer as she grew colder; he had made up his mind that she should never be parted from him—that he would slay any one who tried to separate them.
When he found that she had left him, many long months did he spend in searching for her. He had quite decided what to do when he did find her. If any one had bribed her to leave him, the crime should be most dearly avenged. He would tell her that he was willing to make her his wife, and then he would marry her.
"Marry her!" he repeated the words to himself, with a bitter laugh. He would have done anything, have slain her and killed himself, rather than leave her again, or let her go out of his life. She would, of course, be delighted to be Lady Vivianne; it was not likely that she would refuse such an offer. He sneered at himself for being willing to make it; he sneered at himself for his own great, overweening love. He hated himself because it had won such power over him—because it had humbled him even to the yoke of marriage.
"I shall be the first Vivianne who has ever done anything of this kind," he said to himself, yet all the same he resolved to do it. Having wrought himself up to this height of heroism, it was humiliating in the extreme to find it all in vain—he could find no trace of the girl he intended to marry. Whether she had left him in a fit of pique because he had not married her, whether she had gone away in a sudden access of sorrow and regret, he did not know. He was only sure of one thing—she was gone.
Had she left him for any one else, or in one of her sudden caprices? She was capricious enough for anything—it was just one of the things that she was likely to do. For all he knew, she had been near him all the time; she was quite capable of that. He knew that to her his long search, his fever of anxiety, his despair, would only be a comic entertainment; yet, knowing all this, judging her as he did, believing her to be capable of almost anything, still he could not help loving her with the whole force and power of his soul; it was the influence that a wicked woman does obtain at times over a wicked man, and it is stronger than any other.
He came to England at last, despairing to hear any news of her abroad. He argued to himself that if she were still in Italy he should certainly have heard of it; a face like hers could be remarked anywhere; he should have heard of this golden-haired beauty, whose style of loveliness was one so rarely seen in sunny Italy.
He had been in London now for some weeks, but he had heard nothing, and was puzzled what to do next. He never dreamed of looking for her there, in the upper world of fashion; he had no idea, not even the faintest, of ever seeing her. If she were the reigning star in any other world, he would have heard of her before this. With his mind so perplexed and agitated, his soul tossed on a tempest of love, he had no thought to spare for any one else. Let people rave about Lady Studleigh, let her be as beautiful as she would, she could not surpass Doris.
In the meantime Lady Studleigh was creating a sensation to which the fashionable world had long been a stranger. She was the queen of the season. Hyde House was the most popular resort in London; to be admitted there was to have the entree to the most exclusive circle; to be unknown there was to be unknown to fame.
It was not often that one house held two such women as the Countess of Linleigh and Lady Studleigh. The countess was all grace, and suavity, and high breeding; Lady Studleigh all brilliancy, beauty, and wit. Even old courtiers, who had seen some of the first beauties of both empires, declared there was nothing to equal her. Another great attraction to all clever people was the constant presence of the now famous poet, Earle Moray, at Hyde House. His conversation was a great charm, although some, wiser and more thoughtful than others, said it was hardly right to expose a young and talented man like Earle Moray to the constant fascinations of Lady Doris Studleigh.
She bore her triumph with a certain grand calm that impressed her parents wonderfully.
"Race does tell, after all," said the duchess, as she watched the young beauty. "Any other girl would have shown some elation at the great amount of admiration offered—Lady Studleigh shows none. After all, race will tell."
Invitations came for a royal ball, and it was remarked by all present that the whole of the royal circle seemed to look upon the proud young beauty with great favor. Then came invitations to a royal concert. One of the young princesses, whose marriage was then on the tapis, declared that she would have the Lady Doris on the list of her bridesmaids. No fete was considered a success without her—a ball without Lady Studleigh was almost a failure.
"That girl has homage enough paid her to turn her head," said the earl, laughingly, to his wife.
The countess sighed.
"My dear Ulric," she said, "I think it would require a great deal to move either her heart or her head; both seem to me equally safe."
"You always sigh when you speak of Doris. Why is it, dear?" asked Lord Linleigh.
"I cannot help wishing that she had less beauty and more love," she replied. "There are many perils in this world—perils of soul and of body—but I think the greatest of all is certainly the perils of beauty."
"I think you are right," observed the earl; "but we must hope, having escaped so far, she will escape the rest."