CHAPTER LX.
DORIS AFFECTS A LITTLE CURIOSITY.
"You are not looking quite so well as usual this morning, Doris," said Lady Linleigh. "You are nervous, too; you start at every sound. What is wrong, dear?"
"Nothing," replied Lady Doris, "but that I did not sleep well. I had a most unpleasant dream."
"What was it?" asked the countess.
"About Italy—about some one I knew, I saw there. Only a foolish dream, and I am foolish to mention it."
"Of all people in the world, you are the last I ever should have imagined to know what being nervous meant."
"I am not nervous," replied Lady Doris, quickly. "It would annoy me very much to hear any one say so."
But though she indignantly denied the fact as being a very discreditable one, she looked pale, and the laughing eyes had lost something of their brightness. She started at every sound; and once, when a violent peal from the bell sounded through the house, Lady Linleigh saw that she dropped the book she was holding.
Much did the countess wonder what had affected her fair young daughter. Yet it was such a trifle, such a foolish dream that had caused her to stop for one moment in her career of triumph, and look at the possible dangers in store for her.
She dreamed that she was walking in a pretty wood near Florence, when suddenly the tall trees began to assume the most grotesque shapes; huge branches became long arms, all trying to grasp her, leaves became fingers trying to detain her. No sooner had she eluded the clutch of one giant arm than another was stretched out toward her. In vain she tried to elude them. Then she heard her own name called out in a voice which, with a strange thrill of fear, she recognized as Lord Vivianne's. Then she saw him standing underneath one of the giant arms, and he held a long, shining knife in his hands.
"I have been looking for you for some time," he said; "now that I have found you, I mean to kill you, because you were faithless to me."
She tried to escape, but the giant arms clutched her, the fingers clasped round her, the shining steel flashed before her eyes, and she awoke—awoke to feel such fear as she had never before known.
She took herself to task for it. Suppose that the worst should come, that she had to meet him again! Was it likely that in this altered position he would know her? It was most unlikely, most improbable. Suppose that she met him in a ball-room—where it was most probable they would meet—and they were introduced to each other as strangers! Well, even then, she had nerve enough, courage enough, to look at him and fail to recognize him. She would, at the worst, solemnly swear that he was mistaken, and he—well, for his own sake, it was most improbable that he would dare to mention the terms upon which they had lived. Nothing but shame and dislike of all good people could follow such an avowal on his part. It would do him ten thousand times more harm than good.
"So I need not fear," she said to herself. "I have no reason to be afraid, even if I should meet him face to face to-day!"
She did not feel the least regret or remorse for her sin. For her lost innocence, her fair fame, her soul's welfare, she cared but little—yet she would have given much if she had avoided this wrong, not because it was wrong, but because the penalty of it might be unpleasant.
In the bright heaven of her full content it was the one dark cloud; to the full glory of her most brilliant triumph it was the one drawback.
Ah! if they knew—if the royal hearts that leaned so kindly toward her even dreamed of what she had been—farewell to her sweet dream of court favor. If the innocent young princess who had professed so much liking for her only ever so faintly suspected one half of the horrible truth, farewell to all kindly words! Why, if the handsome earl, her father, dreamed of it, he would send her adrift at once!
She shrugged her white shoulders and said to herself, over and over again, that she must keep her secret. When she was once married, her fortune assured—settled upon her beyond recall—then it would not matter so much. Besides, there were ways out of all difficulties. She held up her white, jeweled hands and looked steadfastly at them.
"Smaller, weaker fingers than these have robbed a man of his life," she said to herself. "If the worst comes, I have an example in history that I should know how to follow."
And indeed it would have fared badly with any one who stood in the path of Lady Doris Studleigh.
There was a great dinner that evening at Hyde House. A Russian grand duke, a German prince, and just the very elite of London were among those present. The Countess of Linleigh was a perfect hostess; and in Lady Doris Studleigh's bright presence there was never any want of brilliancy or wit.
It was Lord Charter who mentioned her lover's name. He turned to Lord Linleigh and asked him if he had seen Lord Charles Vivianne lately.
Lady Doris was sitting near him, so that she distinctly heard the question and answer.
"Lord Vivianne!" replied the earl. "I do not even know him."
"I had forgotten," said his questioner, "how long you have been absent from England; of course you would not know him."
"It seems to me," said the earl, laughing, "that a whole generation of young men have come into fashion since I left the country. I do not recollect having ever seen Lord Vivianne. Why do you ask me?"
"I heard him say how anxious he was to be introduced to you," replied Lord Charter.
"I shall be very happy," replied the earl, indifferently.
She had listened at the very first sound of that name which she had grown to hate so cordially; all her attention had been fully aroused.
"Now for the Studleigh courage," she said to herself, and she listened. The color did not fade from her beautiful face; her lips never lost their smile, nor her eyes their light.
When Lord Charter had finished his conversation with the earl, she turned to him in the most winning manner.
"Vivianne, did you say? What a pretty name! Is it English?"
"Yes," he replied. "Most ladies admire the name and the bearer of it."
"Is he a great hero?" she asked, her eyes bright with interest and innocence as she raised them to his face. "Is he a great statesman?"
"No," was the reply; "I am sorry to say he is a great flirt."
"A flirt!" she repeated, in a voice full of disappointment. "I thought you meant that he was some one to be admired."
"So he is admired, for his handsome face," replied Lord Charter.
She repeated the name again, as though she were saying it softly to herself.
"Is there a Lady Vivianne?" she asked, after a pause.
"Not yet," was the reply; "but from what I hear there is a prospect of one." Then he laughed a little. "You are a stranger among us, Lady Studleigh; you will hardly understand that, at one time or another, almost every prominent man in London has been jealous of Lord Vivianne."
"Indeed! He must be a paragon, then."
There was something of a sneer in her voice, but he did not perceive it.
"Not exactly a paragon, Lady Studleigh; but—I repeat it—a flirt."
"And he is to be married, you say? I should not imagine the lot to be a very bright one for the lady."
"You take things very literally, Lady Studleigh. I cannot vouch for the fact that he is going to be married, but there is a rumor afloat that we all enjoy very much. It is that, after flirting half his lifetime, Lord Vivianne is caught at last."
She tried to look politely indifferent. Great heavens! how her heart was beating, how every nerve thrilled, how intense was the excitement! She had not known how frightened she had been at the idea of meeting him until now!
"I am afraid," said Lord Charter, "that you do not take any interest in my friend."
"Yes, I do. To whom has he surrendered his liberty at last?"
"No one knows," was the answer, given with an air of candor that would at any other time have greatly amused Lady Doris. "There is a mystery about it. Lord Vivianne has been spending some little time in Florence, and there it is supposed he fell in love with a princess in disguise."
Despite the Studleigh courage and her own strong nerve, she could not prevent herself from growing pale; her heart beat loud with a terrible fear; the lights seemed to swim in one confused mass before her eyes; then with a violent effort she controlled herself.
"Florence," she repeated; "he went far enough afield for his romance. Why was the princess disguised?"
"It may be all nonsense. I have heard many different stories; some say that his heroine was really a person of low birth and humble position. I cannot tell; I only know one thing."
How her heart beat as she repeated those two words.
"One thing! What is it?"
"Why, that love, or something else, has quite changed Lord Charles Vivianne. He used to be gay, good-humored, slightly cynical; now he is gloomy, sullen, and bad-tempered. I heard a friend of his say that he seemed to be always looking for some one."
The beautiful face, in spite of all her efforts, grew paler.
"Looking for some one! What a strange idea!" she said.
"Perhaps the lady refused him, and he wants to be revenged. Perhaps she jilted him, and he is looking for her," laughed Lord Charter, little dreaming how near he was to the truth.
If it had been to save her life, she could not have uttered another word. Lord Charter went on to relate some brilliant anecdotes of people he knew, and she affected to be engrossed in them, although she did not know one word that he was saying. Then, when he paused, she said:
"It is a strange world, this London; it seems to me full of hidden romances."
"You will say so when you have been here for a few years longer," he replied. "I have seen far stranger romances in the lives of my own friends and acquaintances than I have ever read in books."
She was mistress of herself now; the first deadly pain of fear had passed; her heart had ceased to beat so quickly; the color came back to her lips and face. She wished to make a good impression on this Lord Charter, so that if he spoke of her to her former lover, he could praise her simplicity, her innocence, her ignorance of the world and its evil ways. That would be altogether unlike the cynical, worldly Doris he had known.
Most admirably she assumed the character; indeed, her proper vocation would have been the stage—she could play any part at a moment's notice.
As he looked at her beautiful face, her bright, clear eyes, the sweet smiles that played around her perfect lips—as he listened to the low, musical voice, admired the high-bred simplicity, the innocence that was a charm, the utter want of all worldly knowledge—Lord Charter said to himself that he had never met such a wonderful creature before; while she congratulated herself on the impression she had made.
CHAPTER LXI.
"I MIGHT HAVE BEEN SO HAPPY, BUT FOR THIS!"
"Shall you go to the opera to-night, Doris?" asked the countess, as they lingered over a cup of chocolate. "I think—do not imagine I am over anxious—I think you require a little rest, dear. You are new to this life of excessive excitement and gayety."
"I find it very pleasant," said Doris, with a smile.
"So it is; I do not deny that. But, remember, I am a veteran compared to you. I have been through many seasons, and I know the fatigue of them. Take my advice, and rest a little if you feel tired."
"I do not think I could rest," said Lady Doris.
And there was something sad in the tone that the countess had never heard before. She looked anxiously at her.
"That is what has struck me," said Lady Linleigh. "Your face is flushed, your eyes are too bright; the very spirit of unrest is on you. You have done too much. Do you know that every time the door opens you look round with a half-startled glance, as though half-dreading what you will see."
"Do I? How absurd! It is simply a habit. I have nothing to dread."
"Of course not; but it seems to me rather a pity for you to get confirmed in nervous habits while you are so young."
Lady Doris laughed, but it seemed to the countess the ring of music was wanting in the sound.
"I shall correct myself, now that I know," she replied.
Then Lady Linleigh crossed the room, and laid her hands on the golden head. She bent down and kissed the beautiful face.
"Do not be annoyed that I am so uneasy over you, Doris; I love you almost as though I were your own mother."
The low voice trembled, and the calm eyes grew dim with tears.
"My own mother?" repeated Lady Doris, and for once something like the music of true feeling sounded in her exquisite voice. "You are too young, Lady Linleigh, to be quite like my own mother; you are like an elder sister to me. I wonder if things would have been very different for me if she had lived, and I had known her?"
"Different?" asked the countess, eagerly. "In what way could they be different?"
"I wonder if she would have been fond of me—if I could have told her all my girlish follies and troubles? I have an idea that no one can be like one's own mother."
The soft, white arms tightened their clasp round the fair neck.
"Doris," said the countess, gently, "could you not fancy that I am your mother, and talk to me as freely as you would have done to her?"
The lovely face was raised with an arch glance.
"Dear Lady Linleigh," was the reply, "I am only sentimentalizing. Did you think me serious? I have no secrets. I should not know what to say to my own mother were she here. Do not take any notice of my idle words." Then she laughed. "I could never, even in my dreams, put you in my mother's place. I have a shrewd idea that my handsome papa married some poor, pretty girl for her beauty's sake—you are the daughter of a mighty duke. A truce to sentiment! Why, Lady Linleigh, your eyes are wet with tears! We were talking of the opera—I must go to it. It is 'Ernani' this evening, and I have the music."
"Earle will go with us, of course," said the countess.
She had unclasped her arms from the girl's neck, and had gone over to the little writing-table, beating back her emotion with a strong hand.
"Yes," laughed Lady Doris, "Earle will go. Earle is rapidly becoming a popular man. I am not quite sure whether I ought not to be jealous of him. The Marchioness of Meriton positively introduced him to Lady Eleanor yesterday, and declared him to be a 'most promising young man!'"
Lady Linleigh laughed at the perfect mimicry of voice and accent.
"I see no one to compare with Earle," she said, at length, "and I think you are a very fortunate girl, Doris."
"To tell the truth, I am well satisfied with my good fortune, and with Earle," she said, quietly, as in good sooth she was. She even wondered at herself, but the truth was she was growing passionately fond of Earle.
The secret of it was that he was so completely master of her, that she had learned to have the highest respect for him—that hers, the weaker, had recognized his, the master soul. In his presence she was learning to conceal her thoughts. As time passed on, and a wiser, fuller, consciousness came to her, she grew more and more ashamed of that dark and terrible episode of her life. Rather than Earle should know it, she would die any death; rather than his eyes should look coldly upon her, his lips speak contemptuous words to her, she would suffer anything, so completely had his noble nature mastered her ignoble one. His grand soul obtained an ascendancy over her inferior one—she loved Earle. The time had been when she had simply amused herself with him, when she had accepted his love and homage because it was the only thing that made life endurable to her. That time had passed. She loved him because he had conquered her, and because he was supreme lord and master.
Lady Studleigh had never looked more beautiful, perhaps, than on this evening when she had decided upon going to the opera. She wore an exquisite costume of blue velvet and white lace, the color of which made her more than ever dazzlingly fair. The white arms, with their glorious curves, the white neck, with its graceful lines, were half shrouded, half disclosed by the veil of white lace. The golden hair was studded with diamond stars; a diamond cross, which looked as though it were made of light, rose and fell on the white breast. She carried a beautiful bouquet, the fragrance of which seemed to float around her as she moved.
Was it a wonder that as she took a seat in the box, all eyes were directed to her? A beautiful woman is perhaps one of the greatest rarities in creation, but in the hands of a beautiful woman there rests a terrible power. As she sat there, the light gleaming in her jewels, the golden hair with its sheen, the blue velvet and the crimson of the opera box, she made a picture not easily forgotten. The countess, gracious, fair, and calm, was with her; Earle, his handsome face glowing with admiration and pride, stood by her side. The earl was to join them later on in the evening.
It was a brilliant scene. Some of the fairest women and noblest men in London were there. Lady Doris was, or seemed to be, engrossed by the stage; she affected the most sublime and complete, unconsciousness of the glories of admiration; she was thinking to herself, as she was always thinking lately:
"Now, if he, Lord Vivianne, should be here, should suddenly come and speak to me, I must affect the most complete unconcern and indifference."
While her eyes were fixed on the stage, while so many were looking at her, some with admiration, some with envy, that was the thought which occupied her. The dread, the expectation of meeting him had been strong upon her ever since she heard that he was in London—it could not possibly be otherwise. She knew herself to be the beauty of the season; he, of course, as an eligible man, would mix in the same circles, and they must meet. She was brave enough, but there were times when, at the bare idea of it, the color faded from her face, leaving it ghastly white; great drops would stand on her forehead; she would clasp her hands with a cry of agony.
If her attempts at evading him were all useless, if he recognized her and insisted on the recognition, what could she do? The question was, could she deny having been in Florence? No amount of prevarication could alter that. Suppose—only imagine if he should betray her. He might be a gentleman and keep his secret; it was certainly within the bounds of possibility he might keep her secret; but, remembering his character, she did not for one moment think he would. He called himself a gentleman and a man of honor, but he had not scrupled to take a mean advantage of her youth and ignorance, her vanity and folly. What a triumph it would be for him now to turn round and laugh at the lovely Lady Studleigh, and say that beautiful, admired, proud, and lofty as she was now, she had once been content to be his companion. What if he told all this as a secret at first, and the knowledge of it spread slowly, as a social leprosy always does. What should she do? Great heavens! what should she do?
"How mad I was!" she cried to herself over and over again; "how foolish, how blind! I might have been so happy but for this!"
It was the skeleton always by her side, and despite her nerve, her courage, her strength, there were times when it almost hopelessly beat her down. Then the thought of Earle was her shield.
"If he says one word against me, and I cannot kill him," she said to herself over and over again, "I will ask Earle to fight a duel with him, and he will slay him!"
But for this, how unboundedly happy she would have been—how victorious, how triumphant! Who, looking at that most lovely face, with its calm, high-bred air, would have thought that the heart beneath was torn with thoughts of regret, despair, and even revenge that should lead to murder?
"My darling!" said the voice she loved best in her ear. "Doris, I shall be jealous of that music. I have spoken to you so often, and you have not heard me."
The eyes she raised to him had no shadow in them of the terrible thoughts that filled her mind.
"The music is so beautiful, Earle," she said, gently.
"I wonder," he said, abruptly, "who that is—a gentleman in the center box there? He has never once taken his eyes, or rather his glass, from your face."
A cold thrill passed over her, as though a shower of ice had fallen over her—a cold, terrible chill, a shudder that she could not repress. Her own quick, subtle instinct told her that it was he.
The moment she had dreaded had come—the sword had fallen at last.
He was looking at her; the next step he would be speaking to her.
Now for the Studleigh nerve, the Studleigh courage; now for the recklessness that defied fate, the boldness that was to defy fortune! A minute to collect, to control that terrible shudder, then she held up her flowers with a smile.
"You are very negligent to-night, Earle," she said; "you have not told me that you admire my bouquet."
"There is but little need, darling. I always admire you and everything belonging to you. Your flowers are like yourself—always sweetest of the sweet, fairest of the fair!"
Have men ever paused one minute before swallowing deadly poison, before drawing the trigger of a pistol, before sending a long, gleaming knife into their hearts? Have they ever paused with one foot upon a precipice, with one hand on the stake—paused, before taking the irrevocable step, to look around and enjoy one more moment of life? Even so she paused now; she closed her eyes with a lingering look at his face, she buried her own in the sweet, fragrant flowers.
"Do you love me so very dearly?" she asked.
"My darling, when you can collect the gleaming stars of heaven, or the shining drops of the sunny sea, you will be able to understand how much I love you—not until then!"
CHAPTER LXII.
"I HAVE SEEN SOME ONE LIKE HER."
One moment, only one, she kept her fair face in the fragrant blossoms—one moment, to taste, perhaps for the last time, the sweet draught of love—one moment, in which to curse the folly, the bitter, black sin of her girlhood, and to moan over the impending evil. Then she raised her face again. Surely some of the sweetness of the flowers had passed into it; it had never seemed to Earle so tender or so sweet.
"What were you saying just now, Earle, about a glass, or some one's eyes never being taken from my face? If my grammar is involved, it is your fault."
"I cannot imagine who he is!" cried Earle. "We have been here nearly an hour, and he has never looked at the stage—I do not think he has heard one note of the music; he has done nothing but look at you earnestly."
"Perhaps he admires my jewels or my flowers," she said, coquettishly.
"It is your face," said Earle, impatiently. "What do men care for jewels or for flowers?"
"Who is he, Earle? Where is he? Is it any one I know?"
"I should imagine that it is some one you know, who is waiting for some sign of recognition from you," said Earle. "You cannot fail to see him, Doris, in the center box on the second tier. He seems to be a tall, handsome man; he wears a white japonica. His glass is turned straight upon you."
"I cannot return the compliment and look fixedly at him," she said, "but I will take one glance at him, and see if I know him."
Calmly, slowly, deliberately, yet with the fire and hate of fury burning in her heart, she laid down her dainty bouquet; she took up the jeweled opera-glass, held it for a moment lightly balanced in her hand, then, with a calm, proud smile, raised it to her eyes.
Oh, heavens! that the first glimpse of those dark eyes, looking fire into her own, did not kill her. Her heart gave a terrible bound; she could have cried aloud in her agony, and have died; but the Studleigh nerve was uppermost, the Studleigh courage in full play; her hands did not tremble, nor her lips quiver. Quite calmly she looked, as though she saw a stranger for the first time, and even then a stranger who did not interest her. She laid down the glass, and turned to Earle, with a smile.
"I do not know the gentleman; I have not seen him before."
At that same moment he who had been watching her with such eager interest made her a low bow.
"He appears to recognize you," said Earle; "he is bowing to you."
She did not make even the least acknowledgment in return.
"He cannot know me," she said, calmly; "he is mistaken. I have never seen him before."
"He must be either very dull or foolish to mistake you, my darling, for anyone else," said Earle. "I defy the whole world to show another face like yours. It is some one whom you have met and forgotten. Be kind, and give him some little acknowledgment, Doris. See, he is bowing again."
She raised her eyes to his face.
"Lady Studleigh returns no bows from strangers," she said, haughtily, and Earle felt himself rebuked.
At that moment Sir Harry Durham entered the box to pay his respects to the belle of the evening. Earle asked him eagerly if he knew the gentleman in the center box, who wore the white japonica?
"Know him!" said Sir Harry, laughingly; "yes, of course I do—every one knows him. That is Lord Charles Vivianne."
The familiar name fell upon her ears like a death-knell. Earle repeated in surprise:
"Lord Vivianne! I have heard of him often enough, though I never saw him before. I have surely heard some romantic story about some love affair."
"Earle," interrupted Lady Doris, "do you think Lady Linleigh looks tired?"
She merely asked the question, the first that came into her mind, to divert his attention. She succeeded perfectly—Sir Harry went to ask the countess if she were fatigued. Earle bent over Lady Doris' chair.
"You have some strange deeds to answer for," he said, lightly.
For one moment she looked startled.
"What do you mean, Earle?" she asked.
"I believe," he replied, "that you have made a conquest of this famous Lord Vivianne."
"Heaven forbid!" she said; and she said it so earnestly that Earle looked at her in utter wonder.
"I am tired of conquests, Earle," she said, trying to smile. "I want nothing—no one but you, no love but yours."
"It is almost cruel, Doris, to make me such a beautiful speech in the presence of a crowded opera house, where it is impossible that I can thank you properly for it."
"How would you thank me properly for it, Earle?" she asked, coquettishly.
"I would count the number of letters in the words, and would give you as many kisses as there are letters."
"Kissing is not fashionable," she said; "it is very well for common people, but ladies of fashion do not indulge in such old-fashioned manners."
"Then I hope you will not be a lady of fashion much longer," said Earle.
The opera was over; Lady Studleigh looked across the house to see if her enemy was gone. No; he was still there, looking earnestly at her.
"Perhaps," she thought to herself, "he is waiting to go out when we do."
"Shall you wait for the ballet, Doris?" said Earle.
Wait! She would have waited until doomsday to have avoided him.
"Yes," she replied; "I should like to see the ballet."
Then she asked herself if she had not done a very stupid thing in trying to defer the evil day. He would speak to her, that was evident; perhaps it would have been better over and done with. He had still to wait during the brilliant scenes of the ballet. She sat, as it were, with her grim fate in her hands; she talked, she laughed, she played with her flowers, coquetted with her fan, she listened to love speeches from Earle, she exchanged smiling remarks with the countess, yet, all the time she was perfectly conscious that he sat silent, immovable, his burning glance fixed on her face, never for one moment releasing her.
Some friend joined him, of whom he asked a question. From the quick glance given to her, she knew that it was of her they spoke—asking her name in all probability. What would he think when he heard it? Surely, he would say to himself that he was mistaken; the Lady Studleigh and the girl who had been so dazzled with his gold could not be the same.
She was right in her conjecture. He had asked her name, and learning it, had been bewildered. When he first saw her—first caught a glimpse of her face—his heart had given one fierce bound of triumph. He had found her; there was not such another face. He had found her; he knew the graceful lines of the figure, the shapely neck, the sheen of the golden hair, the beautiful face. At first he thought of nothing but that he had found her.
Then doubt came to him. Could it be Doris?—this lovely, high-bred lady in the sheen of her jewels and splendor of her attire? Besides, how could Doris be in that box, evidently one of an august circle; the gentleman talking to her had a star on his breast. It could not be Doris; yet he knew—who so well?—the graceful bend of the proud neck, even the pretty gesture of the little white hands. It must be Doris. Who was the gentleman with the white star on his breast? Who the calm, graceful lady? Who the young man with the face of a poet? He could not solve the enigma, but he would find it out. If it were not Doris, then it was some one so much like her that he could not take his eyes from her face.
A friend joined him, no other than Colonel Clifford, who laughed to see him sitting with that intent look.
"So you are doing what you said you never would do," he said.
"What is that?" asked Lord Vivianne.
"Joining in popular devotion," was the laughing reply.
"Clifford," said Lord Vivianne, "do you know that girl—the one with diamonds in her golden hair, and white flowers in her hands?"
Colonel Clifford laughed to himself.
"Yes," he replied, "I know her. She is the Lady Studleigh, the handsome earl's only daughter, Lord Linleigh's heiress, the queen of the season, the belle, par excellence, of St. James'."
"Lady Studleigh!—that Lady Studleigh!" he repeated. "I do not believe you—I cannot believe you!" he gasped.
"It is a great pity, as it is most certainly true. Do you not know the Earl of Linleigh? The other lady with them is the countess. She was the Duke of Downsbury's daughter."
"That Lady Studleigh! I cannot believe it! It cannot be!"
"Perhaps," said the colonel, laughingly, "we should come to some surer conclusion if you would tell me whom you imagine it to be?"
Lord Vivianne looked impatiently at him.
"I did not say that I imagined her to be any one else," he replied, hastily. "So that is really the young beauty over whom just at present London is losing its head?"
"You are right. If you would like an introduction to the earl, my brother is here; he knows him well. What do you think of Lady Studleigh? Report has not exaggerated her beauty?"
"What do I think of her? I will tell you, Clifford, when I have spoken to her, not before."
"You are difficult to please if she does not please you."
"I—I cannot help thinking I have seen some one like her," he said, slowly. "I wonder if I am right?"
"Hardly; it is not a common type of face. You may have done so: I have not."
Colonel Clifford dearly loved gossip. If he had found Lord Vivianne in a better temper, he would have told him the romance of the earl's marriage, and how his daughter was brought up in a very different position of life to that she now occupied. As it was, he did not tell him, feeling that his lordship lacked civility; so it happened that not until long afterward did Lord Charles hear the story that would have solved many of his doubts.
He sat and watched her, sometimes so convinced of her identity that he could have called out "Doris:" again, wondering how he could be so foolish as to imagine he had found his lost love in Lord Linleigh's daughter. He could not take him eyes from the beautiful face. He longed to hear her speak, to see if the voice was that of Doris: he remembered its low, sweet music so well; if he could hear her speak, he would be a thousand times more sure.
He waited until he saw them leave the box, and he hastened so as to be in the dressing-room with them. Standing nearer to her, he would surely be able to judge.
"Are you cold, my darling?" asked Earle, as he saw her drawing the hood of her opera-cloak over her head.
"The house was warm," she replied, in a low voice.
No movement of her enemy was lost upon her. She knew that he was close to her, that the fragrance of her flowers reached him; she saw that he pushed his way even nearer, and stood where he could have touched her. He looked intently at her. Her face was shaded and softened by the crimson hood.
Once she looked around, as though curious to see who was near her; then her eyes met his—quietly, coldly, without the least light, or recognition, or shadow of fear in them. She looked at him for one half moment, indifferently, as she glanced at every one else, then looked away again, leaving him more puzzled than ever.
CHAPTER LXIII.
LORD VIVIANNE PERPLEXED.
It was no wonder that when she reached Hyde House again Lady Studleigh should look ill and exhausted; she had passed through a severe ordeal, and no one but herself knew what it had cost her.
"One more such victory," she said to herself, "and I should be undone."
She lay back in one of the lounging-chairs, while Earle hastened to pour out some wine for her.
"You look so tired, my darling," he murmured—"so tired. I wish we were away from this great London, out in the fresh, fair country again, Doris. Why, sweet, there are tears in your eyes!"
She looked so wistfully, so longingly at him—tears in the eyes he had always seen so proud and bright. She bent her beautiful head on his breast, longing with all her heart to tell him her terrible secret, her dreadful trouble, yet not daring the least hint.
"They are tears of fatigue," she said—"real fatigue, Earle."
"I wish I were Earl of Linleigh for ten minutes," he said; "I would forbid you to go out again, though you are queen of the season and belle of St. James'."
"I should obey you," she replied; and then she bade him good-night, not daring to say more, lest she should say too much.
She wanted to be alone, to collect her thoughts, to look her danger in the face, to gather her forces together, and prepare to give the enemy brave battle. It was a wonderful relief to her to find herself alone.
The worst had happened—she had seen him, he had seen her; he had looked in her face, he had watched her intently, yet she felt quite sure he was not certain of her identity—he fancied that he knew her, yet could not for certain tell; so that the worst, she believed, was over. It might be that he would talk to her, that he would try every little ruse and every possible maneuver, but what would that matter? She would defeat him again with her calm and her nonchalance, just as she had done this time. Then he would assuredly give it up, and say no more about it—make up his mind that he had been mistaken.
So she comforted herself with vague ideas, never dreaming that each hour brought the somber face of tragedy nearer to her.
The next day was the Duchess of Eastham's ball, one of the best of the season—one to which she had looked forward as a crowning triumph. A night's rest, a natural facility for shaking off disagreeable thoughts, a fixed reliance on her own kindly fate, all contributed to make her throw off the dark cloud that oppressed her.
When she joined the earl and countess the following morning, her face had regained its lost color and brightness, her eyes shone like stars, her lips were wreathed with smiles.
"We shall have a large gathering to-night," said Lady Linleigh. "I hear the Eastham ball is considered the best of the season; all the elite of London will be there."
"Then Lord Vivianne is sure to be there," she thought. Her spirits rose with the emergency. "I will look my best," she said to herself; "I will dazzle him so completely in my splendor and magnificence that he shall not dare even in thought to associate me with the Doris he knew."
She spent some hours of the bright, sunny morning in the park, smiling to herself, as she thought what an old-fashioned recipe was fresh air and exercise for keeping a brilliant bloom. She rested after lunch, and spent some time in the evening combining jewels and flowers, so as to form a marvelous effect. To her maid she said:
"Eugenie, I want to be the belle of the belles to-night; you must exert all your skill."
The pretty Parisian stood with her head on one side, studying the face and figure she had to adorn.
"What kind of style does my lady wish? Shall it be gay, brilliant?"
"Magnificent!" said Lady Studleigh, laughing. "I wish to be magnificent as a queen—an empress!"
"It will not be difficult, my lady," was the smiling reply.
Nor did there appear to be any difficulty when she was dressed for the ball. She looked every inch a queen. She wore a superb dress of white brocade, embroidered with small golden flowers, the effect of which was gorgeous in the extreme. Sometimes, and in certain lights, she looked like a mass of gold, in others, like white creamy clouds. The firm white throat was clasped with a diamond necklace, the Duke of Downsbury's gift; large diamond ear rings hung from the pretty ears, a cross of diamonds and sapphires gleamed on her white breast, the fair arms were bound with diamonds, and she wore a circlet of diamonds in her hair. Even her flowers matched her costume. They were fragrant white blossoms of a rare plant, with tiny golden bells.
Eugenie wondered why the beautiful lady stood looking so long and earnestly in the mirror. She was not admiring herself—no light of gratified vanity came into her eyes, no flush of delight colored her cheeks. She was examining herself gravely, critically, severely, trying to estimate in her own mind the exact impression that she would produce on others. Her thoughts were evidently favorable to herself. No one looking at the beauty of that patrician face would dare to recognize her as anything less lofty than she seemed to be. As for believing what Lord Vivianne might say of her, who would do it?
Just as she had foreseen, she was the belle of the ball. The Duke of Eastham selected her for the opening of it, and the evening was one long ovation and triumph for her. Yet, though flattery and homage were all round her, she never for one moment forgot her chief object, which was looking for Lord Vivianne. She knew by instinct when he entered the room; she saw him look round, and knew, as well as though he had told her, that he was looking for her.
Now was the time! Her face flushed into rarest loveliness; her eyes grew radiant. She had the world at her feet to-night. Let him come and do his worst; she could defy him.
She saw him go up to the Duchess of Eastham, who listened to him with a smile, then they both looked in her direction, and in a few minutes were standing by her.
She never betrayed the least sign of fear. He looked curiously at her. The light flashed in her jewels, but the diamonds lay quite still on the white breast; the golden bells of the flowers never trembled.
In a few smiling words the duchess introduced Lord Vivianne to Lady Studleigh. She bent her graceful head and smiled. He begged to know if she had yet one dance to spare, and she answered "Yes." He listened attentively to the voice; it was certainly like that of Doris, but he fancied the accent was more silvery, more refined.
"It is very warm," she said, looking straight in his face; "I should like an ice."
"Quite a happy inspiration," he replied, and they went away together.
If she felt the least tremor of fear she did not show it; she laughed and talked quite gayly to him, with the simple innocence of a child, not shrinking even in the least, while his eyes looked deep down into hers, as though he would read every thought of her soul. If she had shrunk from him—if she had shown the least fear—if she had avoided his glance, refused to dance with him, he would have had more reason to suspect her; as it was, he was fairly bewildered, and more than once he called himself a simpleton for his suspicions. The bright, fearless glance, the child-like smile, the frank gayety, would have puzzled a wiser man than Lord Vivianne.
"I will try her," he thought. "If she be the girl who went to Italy with me, I shall find it out."
He offered her his arm, so that he could feel her hand tremble, if tremble it did. He began by admiring her bouquet.
"You have some very rare flowers there, Lady Studleigh," he said—"white blossoms with golden bells; it is an exotic. Is it Indian or Italian?"
She looked at him with a frank smile.
"I am very ignorant," she said. "I love flowers very dearly, but I never made them a study. Long Latin names frighten me."
"Yet it is a beautiful study," he said.
She laughed again.
"I believe, honestly," she said, "that if I knew, for instance, the Latin and Greek name of this lovely flower, with its whole history, I should not enjoy it half as much as I do now. That is a mystery to me."
"Do you like mysteries?" he asked, quickly.
"I can hardly tell; I think I should if I had one."
He looked into the very depths of her eyes—they were as clear and open as the day.
"You are too frank to care for mystery," he said.
"Yes, frankness is what Lord Linleigh calls one of my failings."
"Why is it a failing?" he asked.
"Because I carry it to excess. I have an unfortunate habit of saying whom I like, whom I dislike, what I care for, and what I do not care for."
That frank abandon was not much like the Doris he had known.
"That is very nice," he said; "I wish I dare ask if you are likely to like me?"
"I will tell you when I know more of you," was the reply. "I have a fashion of showing my liking, which I am quite sure is a little outre."
"Have you ever been in Italy?" he asked, watching her intently as he spoke.
If there had been the least change of color, if her eyes had drooped in the least from his, he would have said: "Doris, I have found you!"
As it was, the only expression on her face was one of innocent surprise.
"In Italy?" she repeated. "Oh, yes, I finished my education there!"
He made no reply, but began to think to himself that he must indeed have been mistaken. Then he talked to her about many things. Her answers gave him the impression that she was very quick, very clever, but innocent, almost with a child-like simplicity.
He had but one resource, one more question to ask, and if he were baffled in that, he should be at a loss what to think. He gazed earnestly into the beautiful face.
"Lady Studleigh," he said, "I cannot help fancying that I have seen you before—that we have met before, and have been good friends. Is it so?"
There was no trace of emotion in her face—nothing but girlish surprise.
"Met before? I do not remember it, Lord Vivianne. I have been introduced to so many strangers, it is possible I may have forgotten some. Still, I think I should have remembered your name."
"It was not in London we met," he said. "Carry your memory back to last year—only last year. Have you no place for me in it?"
"No," she replied, "I have not. Last year I spent at Linleigh Court. Have I really seen you before, Lord Vivianne? Indeed, I apologize most sincerely for not remembering you."
"It may be only a fancy," he said.
"But if you knew me, and knew that I ought to recognize you, why did you ask for an introduction to me?" she asked, wonderingly.
"Because I was not sure," he replied, gloomily. "I am not sure now—I am bewildered."
Then when he saw the surprise on her face deepen into annoyance, he said:
"I beg your pardon. I did know some one once who was like you—oh, so like you!—some one who made me very unhappy. That is our dance. Lady Studleigh, smile, that I may know you have forgiven me."
She smiled, and they went away to the ball-room together.
CHAPTER LXIV.
A TERRIBLE TRIAL.
"Earle," said Lady Doris, "it seems so long since you left me."
She was standing in the ball-room with the countess. Her late partner, Lord Vivianne, had gone to fulfill his engagement elsewhere.
"It seems so long," she repeated.
And Earle, who knew every tone of her voice, detected something unusually sad in it. His face grew bright with happiness that she had missed him.
"I saw you dancing with the gentleman who admired you so greatly the other evening," he replied. "You seemed so interested in his conversation that I never dreamed you would miss me."
"He has tried me so, Earle," she said, gently. "Before I can enjoy myself again, I must go somewhere and rest for a few minutes. Where shall we go?"
Earle silently placed the little white hand on his arm, and led the way to a brilliantly-lighted conservatory, where the rippling of the fountain mingled with the songs of tamed birds. There was no one else in that spacious fragrant place. He drew a chair to one of the fountains and placed her in it. She drew a deep breath of unutterable relief, as one who had passed through mortal peril and escaped it. Looking at her, Earle saw that her beautiful face was ghastly white; the eyes she raised to him were dim and shadowed with horror.
"Earle," she said, with a faint attempt at a smile, "I do not look much like the belle of the ball now, do I?"
He was full of concern.
"Not much," he replied. "What is the matter, darling?—what has made you ill? I have thought so often lately that you looked ill and unlike yourself."
She tried to smile, but the expression on her face belied the smile.
"I never did faint in my life," she said—"it is an achievement quite beyond me—but I feel much inclined to do the deed now. Earle, fetch some brandy for me."
"Brandy!" he repeated. "Wine would be better, my darling; brandy is very strong."
"Wine tastes like water," she said. "I want something that is all fire—all fire! to make me strong. Be quick, Earle—be quick! I have to dance with Prince Poermal before supper. I would not be seen looking like this for all the wide world!"
"I do not like leaving you alone," said Earle.
"No one will come here," she said impatiently. "That is the 'Elisir d'Amor' waltz—no one will miss us. Go quickly, Earle."
He bent down and kissed the pale face, then he went quickly to the buffet, poured some brandy in a small glass and carried it to her. She sat just as he had left her—the white arms had fallen listlessly by her side, the white blossoms with the golden bells lay at her feet. Earle thought she looked like some one whose whole strength had been expended in a dire struggle.
"Doris," he said, gently, "drink this dear."
She raised her head and drank the brandy as though it had been so much water. He looked at her in wonder. Then the color slowly returned to her face.
"I understand, Earle," she said, "now, for the first time, why people take to drinking."
There was something so strange in her manner that Earle felt almost frightened.
"Do not talk in that fashion, my darling," he said. "I cannot endure to hear you. Sweet lips like yours should not utter such words."
She laughed; her lips were quite red now, and there was color in her face.
"I can understand it," she repeated, laughingly. "When you brought that to me I was almost dead—it seemed to me that all strength had left me, all the life in me was freezing; now I am warm, living, and well. The next time I feel ill I shall take brandy."
He did not know whether she were laughing or not, whether she meant the words seriously or not, but they impressed him most disagreeably.
"Doris," he said, gravely, "never do that. You are only jesting, I know, dear, and this unhealthy style of life will soon be over for you. You exhaust your strength by over-doses of gayety and excitement. Do not fly to stimulants to restore it; you could not do anything more fatal."
She laughed.
"Of course I am jesting. This is a rest to sit here with you. Lord Vivianne tired me so dreadfully." She shuddered as with cold, and laid her head back on the chair. "How is it, Earle, that some people are so disagreeable and others so nice?"
Earle laughed, so happy to think that she called him nice.
"Which is Lord Vivianne?" he asked.
"Oh, disagreeable, you may be sure of that. See how he has tired me."
"But the world in general considers him a very agreeable man," said Earle.
"I do not. We will not talk of him. Say something very loving and very pleasant to me, Earle, that will send all tiresome thoughts out of my mind."
"You have no right with tiresome thoughts. What are they? Tell me them," he said.
She laughed, but the laugh was a sigh.
"What tiresome thoughts can I have, Earle, except that I regret youth and pleasure are not immortal? I can have no other. Say something loving to me, Earle."
He bent over her and whispered words that brought a sweet, bright blush to her face; then she stood up.
"Now give me my flowers, Earle."
He did so, shaking the little golden bells.
"Do I look bright and brilliant again?" she asked—"like the belle of the ball?"
"Yes, bright as the morning star."
"Now for Prince Poermal and some sugared German compliments," she said.
And they returned to the ball-room.
The prince, all smiles, all gallantry, all devotion, came up to claim her hand. Earle watched her as she danced with him; she was all smiles, all brightness, all light. She talked gayly, she laughed, and the prince appeared to be charmed with her.
Earle wondered more and more. Was it possible this brilliant, beautiful girl was the one he had seen so short a time before, white, cold, and silent, as though some terrible trouble lay over her. He saw what universal admiration she excited; how many admiring glances followed her; he saw that in that brilliant assembly there was no one to compare with her, and he wondered at his own good fortune in winning so peerless a creature. Yet he felt that there was something strange about her, something that he could not understand. Her spirits were strangely unequal; one minute she was all fire, animation, and excitement, the next dull and absent. He tried to account for it all by saying to himself the life was new to her—new and very strange—and it was only natural that she should feel strange in it.
Later on in the evening, when the brilliant ball was almost over, Lord Vivianne sought Lady Studleigh again.
"I am going to ask a great favor," he said; "it is that I may be permitted to call. I have had the pleasure of an introduction to the Earl of Linleigh."
"I shall be much pleased," she replied, indifferently—so indifferently that he could not possibly tell whether she were pleased or otherwise.
"Shall you remain much longer in town?" he asked, determined to keep up a conversation with her.
"I hope so," she replied. "I think London is incomparable; I cannot imagine any other life half so delightful."
"You should see Paris," he said, looking earnestly at her.
"Yes, I should like to see court life in Paris. I was there as a child, but, as a matter of course, I have no knowledge of French society. I was too young to know much about it."
"You must try to spend some time there; there is a brilliancy about French society that we do not find in England."
She looked as politely indifferent as possible, not sufficiently so to offend him, but enough to show him that she felt no great interest in the conversation. He could not find any excuse for delaying any longer, but he left her with the determination to see her again as soon as possible.
"The ball has been a brilliant success," said the earl. "Have you enjoyed it, Doris?"
"Yes," she replied, "I liked Prince Poermal, and I liked the Duke of Eastham, but I did not like all my partners."
Lord Linleigh laughed.
"That is hardly to be supposed," he said. "If it be not a rude question, which of them did your ladyship dislike?"
"Dislike is too strong a word, papa. I did not care about Lord Vivianne; he tired me very much. How can people admire him?"
"You do not like him?" said the earl. "I suppose it does not much matter, but I am rather sorry. He seemed to take a great fancy to me, and pressed me to try shooting with him. If you do not like him, I shall not."
She laughed.
"There is no need for that, papa: it does not quite follow that because he is not to my taste, he is not to yours, does it?"
"No; but he spoke of calling on us, and did his best to make me understand that he wished to be on visiting terms with us."
"Why not?" she asked, indolently.
"If you do not like him, Doris, I should never care to see him inside our doors."
"I do not like him as a partner, papa; perhaps as a visitor to the house I might like him very well indeed. He tired me with his incessant questions and compliments."
"Perhaps he was very much charmed with you," said the earl, laughingly. "I must say, no one ever showed a greater desire to be on intimate terms with me than he did. I asked him to dine on Thursday—the Bishop of Lingham is coming—and we shall see if he improves upon acquaintance."
"He seemed to me very polite and pleasing," said the countess, quietly.
And then they spoke no more of Lord Vivianne, but Lady Studleigh thought of him incessantly. She had made the greatest effort, which was talking to him, parrying his questions, assuming a part, and carrying it on for some time. She had said to herself that the danger was averted, that she had no more to fear, but she found that she was wrong. In his eyes she read a fixed determination to know her—a doubt that all her skill had not been able to solve, all her talent had not prevented. She felt this; she understood that although he had seemed to acquiesce in all she said, in his own mind suspicion still lingered.
CHAPTER LXV.
"IF SHE REFUSES, LET HER BEWARE!"
Standing in the solitary splendor of her room, Doris looked round her with despairing eyes. Was it possible that this sin, of which she had thought so little, would be the means of dragging her down from the brilliant height on which she stood? What were those words haunting her? "Be sure your sin will find you out." Was it possible that her brilliant life, her triumphant career, her happiness, should all be ended by this secret coming to life? Would it be of any use throwing herself on his mercy, and asking him to keep the horrible story to himself? Bah! she hated him so that she would ask no favor from him—not to save twenty lives! The only thing for her to do was to go on baffling him—to treat him, not with unkindness, but with such calm indifference that he would find it impossible to break down the barrier—to avoid conversation with him, and to marry Earle as soon as possible. Once married, she could easily persuade her husband to take her abroad. She would keep out of England a year or two, and then Lord Vivianne would have forgotten his fancy.
"There is one thing I must do the next time I see him," said the unhappy girl to herself. "I must tell him, in some way or other, that my name is Doris. He is sure to find it out. I had better tell him."
She went to rest in her luxurious chamber, perhaps one of the most luxurious in London, and in the whole of that vast city there was not a heart more restless or more sad than hers.
Lady Doris met Lord Vivianne next at a flower-show at Chiswick. It pleased the fair ladies of fashion to congregate there. The Duchess of Downsbury, the Countess of Linleigh, and Lady Doris, had driven together. It was a brilliant fete; the sky overhead was blue and cloudless, the golden sun was shining, the air was filled with the songs of countless birds, and each laden with the fragrant odor of a thousand flowers. The charm of sweetest music was not wanting; from under the shade of the trees came the clear, bright sounds. It was like fairyland.
The earl had ridden down: Earle was prevented from going.
It was there that, for the second time, she met the man who was fast becoming her mortal foe. There was a long, shady avenue of trees, with beautiful chestnuts in full bloom; the air seemed alive and warm with their fragrance. The duchess and her daughter had gone to look at some exquisite specimens of white heath; Lady Studleigh walked slowly down the chestnut grove. She heard footsteps behind her, and thinking it was the duchess, she did not turn. Then the voice that she hated most in the world sounded in her ears.
"Good-morning, Lady Studleigh; I esteem myself very fortunate in meeting you here."
Again he looked narrowly into her face, to see if there was the faintest trace of confusion or fear. It was calm and bright as the morning itself; her eyes shone like two stars, her lips were all smiles.
"Good-morning," she replied, laughingly; "I shall have my ideal of fairyland after this, Lord Vivianne."
"What will it be?" he asked.
"A flower-show. It is really very beautiful; I cannot tell you how much I enjoy it."
"Perhaps novelty adds to the charm," he said. "The most beautiful flowers I have ever seen are at Downsbury Castle. You have been to Downsbury Castle, Lady Studleigh?"
"Yes," she replied, with the frankest unconcern, "I was there last year. I thought the flowers very beautiful."
"I once saw a flower," he said, "that I would defy all creation to equal."
"Did you? For my part, I think them all beautiful alike. Have you seen the japonicas here?"
"No, I have only just arrived."
To himself he added, despairingly:
"I must be wrong. She could not be so frankly unconcerned. Besides, how could the girl I took to Florence with me be Lord Studleigh's daughter?"
"Did you like Downsbury Castle?" he asked, again.
"Yes, but I cannot say that I was ecstatically happy there."
"Why not?" he asked. "You ought to be happy everywhere."
She laughed a low, musical laugh.
"I do not think," she said, "that I was a great favorite with her grace."
"With the duchess—why not?"
"For many reasons. She did not like the color of my hair, because it is brighter than Lady Linleigh's. She did not like my name; she said it had the flavor of common poetry about it."
"Your name? If I am not presumptuous, what is it?"
"Doris," she replied, and she raised her eyes to his with a look of most angelic innocence. He was bewildered.
"Doris," he repeated. "I knew a Doris once—the one so like you."
"Doris—how strange." Again the low, sweet laugh that maddened him. "I assure you," she continued, "that I am like the duchess—I dislike the name exceedingly."
He was looking at her in a maze of perplexity. She was so like; it must be his Dora. The name, too; it could not be a coincidence. Yet, if she were the girl he had betrayed, it was not natural that she could refrain from showing some little emotion, some fear, some surprise. She did not appear to notice that there was anything strange in his silence or his fixed regard.
"I have a theory of my own about names," she continued, "and I think it the most cruel thing in the world to give a child either an ungainly or an unusual one. If I had had a sensible name, I should not have been full of caprice, as I am now."
He laughed, still wondering. Could it be his Dora, the girl he had learned to love with such a fierce, mad love—the girl to recover whom he would have cheerfully laid down his wealth? He would not have believed it possible, if any other man had told him such a story; he would have said it could not be, that it must be clear at once whether she were the girl or not; yet he was puzzled. If a kingdom had been offered to him at that moment to say whether this was the girl he had loved or not, he could not have told. Still, he would try her, and try her until some incautious word, some half-uttered exclamation, some sudden look of fear would betray her. If none of these things happened, he would take further steps—go down to Brackenside, where he had first met her, and see what he could find out there.
Then, as he listened to her, his faith was shaken again. Surely, if she dreaded recognition, she would be less natural, she would seek in some measure to disguise her voice, her laugh; but no one could be more frank or natural. Then a new idea came to him. If she were really Dora, as sooner or later he must discover, then he would compel her to marry him by threats; if she were not, he would win her love and marry her.
Looking at the exquisite face, the proud eyes, all the mad, fierce love that he had felt for his lost Dora came over him. Then he was startled to find the laughing eyes looking at him with some curiosity.
"I have heard of day dreams, Lord Vivianne," she said, "now I have seen a day dreamer. We have been through this chestnut grove twice, and you have not spoken; you have been building castles in the air."
"I have been building castles of which I have dared to make you the queen," he replied.
"I should like to be the queen of something more substantial than an air castle," she replied laughingly.
"You do not know," he said, "that being with you, Lady Studleigh, is at once the highest happiness and the greatest misery."
"I ought to be flattered at producing such a variety of emotion," she replied, with a laugh.
"You would be serious—you would pity me if you knew all," he said.
"Shall I pity you without knowing anything?" she replied.
"No; but, Lady Studleigh, you are so pretty, so exactly like some one I—I loved and lost; you are the very counterpart of her—her true likeness. I have never seen anything so marvelous!"
"How did you lose her?" she asked. "Did she die?"
"No. To me it was almost worse than that. She, this lovely girl whom I so dearly loved, was beneath me in station, yet I worshiped her. She affected to love me—whether she did or not, Heaven only knows. But just as I had made up my mind to marry her, because I loved her so dearly I could not live without her, she disappeared—went away out of my life, and I have not seen her since."
"What a strange story," she replied, indifferently, "and how strange that you should tell it to me, Lord Vivianne."
"Because," he cried, with sudden passion, "you are so much like her—do you not see? You are so much like her that I could look in your face and cry out—'Dora, Dora, have you forgotten me?'"
She laughed again.
"Could you? How strange! I should feel very much surprised if you did."
"You are so like her. When I look at you my heart seems to leave me."
Her violet eyes, with their proud light, looked into his calmly.
"I did not think the men of the present day knew much about love," she said; "but you seem to have loved her."
"Loved her!—but I forget myself, Lady Studleigh; you might as well try to imagine what the heat and thunder of battle are like, from seeing them painted on canvas, as guess how I loved her from hearing me use the word love."
"You should find her and tell her all this," she said.
And from the half-tired expression that for one moment crossed the beautiful face, he knew she was growing politely wearied of the theme.
"I am searching for her," he said, his lips growing white and hot as he spoke. "I am looking for her. There are times when I believe that I have found her."
"That is well," she replied.
"No, it is hardly well. When I am sure that I have discovered her, I shall ask her to marry me; and if she refuses, let her beware! let her beware!"
The words came from him with a hiss. Her sunny laughter smote him like the edge of a sharp sword.
"How dramatic, Lord Vivianne! I shall begin to think you are rehearsing for a tragedy."
He looked confused.
"If she be not Dora," he thought, "what will she think of me?"
Then he continued:
"I ought to apologize, Lady Studleigh. I cannot help it, you are so much like her. I loved her so dearly that, do you see, I would lose my life rather than my hope of winning her for my wife."
"But how can you make her your wife, Lord Vivianne?" she asked, wonderingly. "If she had loved you, and had been willing to marry you, she would not have run away, would she?"
"I have never understood it; there was a mystery in her disappearance that I never fathomed. But I will fathom it, I will find her, and make her my wife."
"Did she run away from all her friends, too?" she asked.
He turned to look at her, and they glanced for one half minute steadily at each other.
"If I have asked an intrusive question," she said, with a smile, "it was your fault for telling me. Remember, I did not ask your confidence—you gave it to me."