A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

"As I would give you the whole world, if I had it," he replied, passionately.

"Because I am so much like some one else?" she replied smilingly. "I ought to be grateful to you."

"If ever harm or evil comes to me," said Lord Vivianne, "it will be through her. I am not master of myself; when I think of her it maddens me. I believe if I met her—found her, and she refused to be my wife, I should——"

"Should what?" she asked, as he hesitated.

"I should kill her!" he said, fiercely.

"How dreadful! You are quite a tragedy hero, Lord Vivianne." She laughed as she spoke, and shrugged her shoulders. "Suppose this lady of whom you speak should be like you, and say the same thing—that she would rather kill you than marry you. What then?"

"Why, then we should fight it out to the bitter end."

"Here is the duchess," said Lady Studleigh, calmly. "Mind, Lord Vivianne, I do not think you have done the wisest thing in trusting a stranger, like myself, with your secrets; however, your confidence in me shall not be misplaced, I will keep them."

Then the duchess and Lady Linleigh joined them. He remained with them, affecting to talk to them, but secretly engaged in watching Lady Doris. But it was all in vain. There was no trace of thought or care on her face. She talked and laughed gayly, as though he had not spoken a word; the only thing was, that in her manner to him he detected a gentle pity that she had not shown before.

"I must be mistaken," he said to himself. "Eyesight, hearing, memory, all must be wrong—all must have failed me; but—she could not possibly be playing a part—she cannot be my lost Dora. No woman could be so utterly indifferent. I must be mistaken, but I will find it out!"

CHAPTER LXVI.
A LITTLE ARTIFICE.

It did not occur to Lady Doris that in all probability Lord Vivianne would recognize Earle. He had seen him once, and once only—that was walking with her, near Brackenside. But his lordship had no eyes then to spare for the rustic lover. He had also known his name—Earle Moray—but he was proverbially careless, forgetful and indifferent. It was a question whether he had paid the least heed to it, not thinking it could even interest him.

On the day of the dinner party at Hyde House it had occurred to her that they would meet. They had both been at the Duchess of Eastham's ball, but in a crowded ball-room even friends often failed to recognize each other. How would it be when they met in the same room, dined at the same table? People would be sure to make some allusion to Earle's poems, some one would be sure to mention Downsbury Castle, then Earle would join in and she would be lost. She might, by her indifference, make him believe that he was mistaken: but if he once found out who Earle was, and that Earle was still her lover, she could blind him no longer. Had she met him only at rare intervals, she might have continued to mislead him. Had she met him casually in society, she could have carried on her deception until it was too late for him to injure her. But now that he was coming, as it were, into the very heart of her home, she had less chance.

If he found out about Earle, he would find out about her, too. Then—well, suppose it came, this discovery that she dreaded so terribly, what would he do if she refused to marry him? "Kill her," he had said; but that was not so easily done. She might compromise and secure her own safety by refusing to marry Earle, and marrying Lord Vivianne. He would keep her secret then. People would only say that she had changed her mind, and say that she was like all the Studleighs—faithless. But she loved Earle with all her power of loving, and she hated Lord Vivianne with an untold hatred.

She said to herself that if she had to save herself from the most terrible death by marrying him, she would not do it. She loathed him; she would have been pleased to hear that he was dead, or anything else dreadful had happened to him, for he had spoiled her life. Of what use was all her wealth, her luxury, her magnificence? Her life through him was spoiled—completely spoiled.

"I wish he were dead," she said to herself, over and over again. "The toils are spreading around me; I shall be caught at last."

She flung her arms above her head with a terrible cry. What was she to do? She must, first of all, prevent them from meeting that night. They must not dine together at her father's house; that was the evil to be immediately dreaded. She flung the masses of golden hair back from her white face.

"If I dare but tell Earle, and let him avenge me," she thought.

Then she wrote to him a coaxing little note, telling him that she had a particular reason for desiring him not to dine at Hyde House that evening—a reason that she would explain afterward, but that she herself desired to see him alone. Would he come later on in the evening and ask for her? She would arrange to receive him in Lady Linleigh's boudoir. Then she rung for a footman in hot haste.

"Take this note to Mr. Moray," she said. "Never mind how long you have to wait. Give it into his own hands, then bring me the answer."

"Oh, these lovers," sighed the servant. "What there is to do to please them!"

Still, he did his best. He waited until he saw Earle, put the note in his hand, and waited for the answer.

Earle only smiled as he read it. He was so completely accustomed to these pretty little caprices, he had ceased to attach any importance to them. He merely wrote in reply that he was entirely at her command.

"You remember the old song, my darling:

"I will come later on in the evening and see no one but you."

He laughed as he closed the note.

"I wonder what pretty caprice possesses my darling now," he said to himself.

The man who took the note back wondered at his young mistress, her face was quite white, her golden hair clung in rich disorder, the white hands, so eagerly extended to seize the letter, trembled and burned like fire.

"They must have had a quarrel," he said to himself, with a knowing nod, as he closed the door. "They have had a quarrel, and my lady wishes to make it all right again."

It was a reprieve. She kissed the little note with a passion of love that was real.

"My darling," she said, "if we could but go away together."

And as she sat there a sudden memory of the time when she had run away from him came to her. She saw the old-fashioned garden at Brackenside; she saw the great crimson roses, and the sheaves of white lilies; she saw the kindly face of Mattie, and heard Earle singing:

Ah, peaceful, innocent days! Blind, mad fool that she had been ever to listen to Vivianne—to let him tempt her—to let him take her from the innocent, happy home! What had she gained? And—ah, Heaven!—what had she lost? If she could but have foreseen, have known, how differently she would have behaved.

"I am strong," she said, pushing away the golden hair with her white hands. "I am strong, but I could not live this life—it would kill me."

She sat for half an hour, thinking steadily, then her resolve was taken. She would tide over the dinner as well as she could, throwing him more and more off his guard. She would see Earle that evening, and tell him that she wanted their marriage hastened; that she was tired of so many lovers, and wanted to go away with him; that she was wearied of London life.

She knew that Earle would be on the alert to serve her, he would manage it all. She had faith in his great love. Then she would tell the earl that her health and strength were failing her; ask him to take her to Linleigh Court. Lord Vivianne would not dare to follow her there. It was like a haven of rest to her. When the summer came, she would marry Earle quietly and go abroad. Then she would be out of her enemy's power; he could no longer hurl her from her high estate, or compel her to marry him. She would be another man's wife then, and it would be his place to protect and avenge her.

The plan, rapidly conceived, rapidly sketched, was her only resource, her only safety. True, it would spoil her life, the triumphs that she now enjoyed would be hers no longer. She would cease to be the belle of the season, the queen of beauty and fashion. She must lose that part of her life which she valued most—the homage, the adulation, the brightness, and all through him. How her whole soul raged in burning fury against him!

If he had been lying there on the ground, her foot on his neck, she would not have spared him. She would have seen him die with pleasure. It did not lessen her anger and her rage that she had to talk to him, to smile, and charm him.

"If a look could kill him," she said to herself, "he should die."

She longed to be in Italy, where a bravo, for a comparatively small sum, would soon have ended his life. She was obliged to soothe her anger, to still the fierce tempest of rage, to calm her fears, to take an interest in her dress, to smile, to look sweet and winning, with the most vindictive hate in her heart.

Then she went into the little drawing-room. Lord Linleigh went up to her.

"What a pretty toilet, Doris," he said. "White lace and roses. Your taste is simply superb. But, ah, me! ah, me!"

"What is it, papa?" she asked, as he laughed, gently.

"Earle is not coming, my dear. I am afraid you will be disappointed. He has sent a hurried little note to say that it is impossible. He is busy about his election, you know."

A few minutes afterward and Lord Vivianne, with a smile on his face, entered the room. Her fingers clutched the flowers she carried so tightly; the thought passed through her mind that if he could but have fallen dead over the threshold it would have been well for her.

"I shall see him if he comes in later on," she said.

A few minutes afterward he was seated by her side, and they were talking in the most friendly manner. The dinner passed over better than she had hoped. Earle was not mentioned nor did any one allude to Downsbury Castle. Lord Vivianne had contrived to secure a place by Lady Studleigh's side, and he did his best to please her. She could not help remarking how courteous and gallant was his manner in society. She contrasted it with what she had seen of him in Florence. When dinner was over, and they had gone into the drawing-room, he bent over the back of her chair.

"Lady Studleigh, have you forgotten my terrible outburst of the other day?"

"Yes," she replied; "I have seen much that is amusing since then."

"It was not very amusing to me," he said. "When a man lays bare the core of his heart, he does not do it for amusement."

"Not for his own, perhaps," she said; "but if he does it in your tragic style, he cannot help other people being amused."

"I could call you Doris," he said, "when you look at me with that piquant smile."

"I hope you will not, Lord Vivianne. I should always fancy papa was talking to me."

"Did you think I was mad that day in the chestnut grove?"

Lady Doris laughed.

"My experience of the world is not very large at present," she said. "Whenever I see or hear anything unusual, I think it is the fashion of the times."

"Ah, Lady Studleigh, I wish I could persuade you to be serious—you are always laughing at me."

"Tendency to laughter is hereditary with me," she said. "I cannot help it. I am afraid that I have no talent for sentiment. The only matter I find for surprise is why you should have selected such a very unsuitable character as myself for your confidante. I cannot say what may be in store for me, but I do not remember that any love affair ever possessed the least interest for me yet."

"You should have a love affair, as you call it, Lady Studleigh, in Italy, where the air is poetry, and the wind music."

"Papa," said Lady Studleigh to the earl, who was just passing her chair, "do you hear Lord Vivianne's advice?"

"No, my dear; but I do not doubt that it is good."

"He tells me to go to Italy to learn a lesson in love. That is a sorry compliment to England and the English, is it not?"

CHAPTER LXVII.
A QUIET WEDDING ADVOCATED.

"What did that little note mean, Doris?" asked Earle, with a smile. "You see that I obeyed you implicitly."

Even as he spoke he stood still, lost in admiration of the beautiful picture before him.

Although it was summer there was a bright little fire in the silver grate, the lamps were lighted, but lowered, so that the room was filled with a soft light; the hangings of rich rose silk were drawn, the long mirrors reflected the light, the flowers filled the air with perfume, and in the very heart of the rich crimson light sat the Lady Doris. She was half-buried in a nest of crimson velvet, the firelight had caught the gleam of her jewels, the sheen of the golden hair, the light in her eyes, the white dress: it seemed to shine above all on the white jeweled hands, that lay carelessly clasped on her knee. She had told the countess Earle would call, and that she wished to speak to him, so that she knew her tete-a-tete would be quite undisturbed.

Earle looked at her, thinking that there had never been so fair a picture in all the world; then he repeated his question. She looked up at him, and he was struck by the unusual expression in her eyes; he knelt down before her, and took one white hand in his.

"That cruel note," he said, "depriving me of a pleasure I cannot enjoy too often. What did it mean?"

She did what was very unusual with her; she clasped her arms round his neck.

"Oh, Earle! Earle! it is strange what rest I feel when you are near me. I will tell you what the note meant, but you will laugh at me."

"I do not think so, darling; I have laughed with you, but not at you."

"I knew that tiresome Lord Vivianne was coming, and he tries my temper so; he will admire me, and I do not want his admiration."

"Then why keep me away, darling; I might have saved you from it."

"No; I knew you could not. I was obliged to go down to dinner with him, and it would have tried my temper too severely if I had been compelled to sit by him and could not have been with you. You may think it a stupid, childish reason, Earle, but it is a true one. I was determined if I could not talk to you, I would not be annoyed by seeing any one else do so."

He looked slightly puzzled, but, as he said to himself, it was one of her caprices—why not be content?

"If my staying away pleased you," he said, "I am doubly pleased."

Yet it struck him as he spoke, that she had lost some of her animation and brightness.

"How beautiful you look in this light, Dora," he said. "Why, my darling, a king might envy me."

One of the white, jeweled hands rested caressingly on the noble head of the young poet. He had never seen Dora so gentle before.

"My darling!" he cried, his face glowing with its rapture of happiness. "My darling, you are beginning to love me so well at last."

"I do love you, Earle," she said, and for some minutes there was silence between them.

She had a certain object to win, and she was debating within herself how it was to be won.

"It is like a fairy tale," he said. "Why, my darling, looking at you I cannot believe my own good fortune; you are the fairest woman in England; you are noble, you are high in station; you have the wit, the grace, the noble bearing of a queen. I have nothing but the two titles you have given me, of gentleman and poet—yet I shall win you for my wife. It is so wonderful—this love that breaks all barriers; money could not have brought you to my side—a millionaire might love you, but you would not care for him; title could not win you—it is love that has made you all mine! All mine, until death!"

She listened to his impassioned words; she looked at the handsome, noble face, and a sensation of something like shame came to her that she should have to maneuver with a love so grand in its simplicity; still she must save herself. Her arms fell with a dreamy sigh; the firelight shining on her face showed it to be flushed and tremulous.

"Earle," she said, "do you remember how I used to long for a life like this? long for gayety, excitement, wealth, pleasure, and perpetual admiration?"

"I remember it well. I used to feel so puzzled to know how to get it for you."

"Now I have it—more than even my heart desired. You will not think me very fickle if I tell you something?"

"I shall never think you anything but most charming and lovable, Doris."

"Well, the truth is, I am rather tired of the life; but I do not like to say so. I cannot think why it is; sometimes I think it may only be fancy, that I am not strong as I used to be; perhaps the great change has been too much for me. Let it be what it may, I am tired of it, though I cannot say so to any one but you."

"The queen of the season tired of her honors?" said Earle, kissing the sweet lips and the white brow.

"I am really tired, Earle. Then, though admiration is always sweet to a woman, I have rather too much of it. That Prince Poermal is making love to me, the Marquis of Heather made me an offer yesterday, and Lord Vivianne teases me. Now, Earle, it is tiresome, it is indeed, dear. My mind, my heart—nay, I need not be ashamed to say it—are filled with you. I do not want the offers of other men—their love and admiration."

"Declaring our engagement would soon put an end to all that," he said, thoughtfully.

But that was not what the Lady Doris wanted; she wanted him to urge their marriage.

"Yes," she said, "we might make it known, but people would not believe it; it would not save me from the importunities of other men."

He looked wonderingly at her. After all, it was a new feature in her character—this dread of lovers.

"That is not all, Earle," she said, clasping her soft, warm fingers round his hands. "I tell you—no one but you—this life is a little too much for me. Before I had recovered from the great shock of the change, I was plunged into the very whirlpool of London life. Do not imagine I have joined the list of invalids, or that I have grown nervous, or any nonsense of that kind: it is not so; but at times I feel a great failure of strength, a deadly faintness or weakness that is hard to fight against—a horrible foreboding for which I cannot account."

Her face grew pale, and her eyes seemed to lose their light as she spoke.

"I am sure," she continued, "that it is from over-fatigue. Do you not think so, Earle?"

"Yes," he replied; "now, what is the remedy?"

"I know the remedy. It would be to give all up for a time, and take a long rest—a long rest," her voice seemed to die away like the softest murmur of a sighing wind.

Earle felt almost alarmed; this was so completely novel, this view of Doris, who had always been bright, piquant, and gay.

"You shall go away, darling," he said, tenderly.

"But, Earle," she said, "my father and Lady Linleigh are enjoying the season so much, they have so many engagements, I cannot bear to say anything about going."

"Then I will say it for you. I shall tell Lord Linleigh, to-morrow, that you have exhausted yourself, and that you must have a few weeks of quiet at Linleigh Court."

"What will he say, Earle?"

"If I judge him rightly, darling, he will say little, but he will act at once; before this time next week you will be at Linleigh."

"Do you really think so? I am so glad," yet she shivered again as she spoke. "I long to go to Linleigh, Earle, yet I have such a strange feeling about it, a strange presentiment, a foreboding; surely no evil, no danger awaits me at Linleigh. Do you know, I could fancy death standing at the threshold waiting with outstretched arms to catch me." Again her voice died away with a half-hysterical sob.

Earle bent over her and kissed her.

"My darling, you are fanciful, you are tired. I am so glad you have trusted me; it is high time you were attended to. These nervous fancies are enough to drive you mad; the evil has gone further than I thought. Doris, my love, my sweet, it is only the reaction from over-fatigue that gives you these ideas, nothing else; what awaits you but a future bright as your own beauty? What shall I live for except to love and to serve and to shield you?"

"Earle," she cried suddenly, "do you know what I wish?"

A long shining tress of golden hair had fallen over her shoulders, and she sat twining it round her white fingers.

"Do you know what I wish?" she repeated.

"No; if I did I should do it, you may be quite sure, Doris."

"I wish that we—you and I—were married; that I was your wife, and that we had gone far away from here, away where no one knows us, where we could be quite happy, alone and together."

"Do you really wish that, Doris?" he asked.

Her face flushed slightly, but her voice did not tremble.

"I do really wish it," she replied. "If papa were willing we would be married this summer, and we could go away, Earle, to some far-off land; then—when we had been happy for some time—we could come home again. I should have grown quite strong by then, and I should have found health, strength, and peace, all with you."

There was a strange mingling of doubt and rapturous happiness on his face.

"Do you really mean this, Doris?" he asked. "Would you—the queen of the season, the fairest object of man's worship—would you give up all your triumphs, all your gayeties, and prefer to live in quiet and solitude with me?"

There was a slight hesitation for one half moment; he was so noble, so true. It was pitiful to use his great love for the obtaining of her own ends; but she must save herself—she must do that.

"You may believe me, Earle," she replied, gently; "if it could be, I would far rather it were so."

"Then, darling, it shall be—my head grows dizzy with the thought of it—you, my peerless, my beautiful Doris, will be my own wife when the summer comes. Why, Doris, listen! oh, listen, love! Do you know that I never fully realized that I was to make you my wife, though I have loved you so passionately and so well? You have always seemed of late far above me, like a bright shining star to be worshiped, hardly to be won. When I said to myself, that at some time or other you should be my wife, it has been like a dream—a bright, sweet, unreal dream. I do not know that I ever fancied you, sweet, with bridal veil and orange-blossoms; yet now, you say, you will marry me in the summer!"

"That I will, Earle," she replied.

"Heaven bless you, my own darling! Heaven speed the happy summer. Why, Doris, I can see the gold on the laburnums, I can hear the ring-doves cooing, I can see the smile of summer all over the land! Mine in the summer, dear; Heaven, make me worthy!"

"There is but one thing, Earle," she said; "I—you will think I have changed, but I cannot help that—I want a quiet marriage. It would please me best if nothing were said, even about our engagement, but if we could go quietly to Linleigh and keep the secret of our marriage to ourselves; that is what I should really like, Earle."

"Then it shall be so, my darling! Now, do not give yourself one moment's anxiety. Shut those beautiful eyes and sleep all night, dreaming only of summer roses and your lover, Earle. I shall see your father to-morrow, and I shall tell him; he will be quite willing, I am sure."

"You are very good to me, Earle," she said, gratefully. "How foolish I was ever to think that I did not care for you, and to run away from you, was I not?"

"That is all forgotten, love," he said, and she felt that she would have given the whole world if it had never happened.

CHAPTER LXVIII.
A CLEW AT LAST.

The morning that followed was beautiful. The Lady Doris felt more cheerful than she had done for many long days. Earle would manage it all for her; she should find a way out of all her difficulties. Lord Vivianne would not follow her to Linleigh; even if he did, she could foil him again and again. When once she was Earle's wife, she could defy him; it was not likely that she would fear him then.

Her heart and spirits rose alike, she smiled at her own fair image in the glass; early as it was, a fragrant bouquet of white hyacinths lay on the toilet table, sent by some adoring lover who evidently hoped that the flowers would say for him what he could not say for himself. She smiled over them, inhaling the rich odor with delight, thinking to herself the while, "What a poet Earle is; what a rapture he went into last night about flowers and summer."

She felt better. The sun was shining in at her windows, the sweet breath of the hyacinths reached her. It seemed impossible that sorrow or death should come into such a bright world. She smiled to herself when she heard that Earle was with her father.

"He has most certainly lost no time," she said to herself.

Yet, nearly an hour passed before the earl left the library; then, owing to strangers being present, he could not speak to her of what had passed. He merely touched her hand.

"Doris," he said, "I have been having a long talk with Earle, and I must have one with you before dinner."

"I will remember, papa," she said.

Then as the day was so fine Earle prayed her to ride out with him.

"An hour in the park would be so pleasant," he said.

And Lady Linleigh thought the same. Doris was quite willing to go.

When they were under the shade of the trees, Earle went more slowly.

"My darling," he said, "I knew that you would be anxious to hear what has passed. I think," he continued, bringing his handsome face on a level with hers, "I think that I shall make an excellent diplomatist in time."

"I never doubted it," replied Doris.

"I was quite pleased with myself," Earle went on to say; "I made quite an impression on the earl."

Her lips grew pale, and parted with a long, quivering sigh; she looked at him anxiously.

"In one word, Earle, is it to be as I wished or not?"

"Yes," he replied, "in every particular."

Then she resigned herself to listen.

"I never mentioned you at all in the matter," he continued. "I told him that I had observed your health and strength failing, and that I felt quite convinced, unless you rested at once, you would suffer seriously from the effects of over-fatigue. He agreed with me, and said that Lady Linleigh had remarked the same thing, and was equally anxious over you; and said that the wisest thing to do was to leave town at once, and go to Linleigh."

"But would he and Lady Linleigh be willing to give up the remainder of the season?" she asked.

"They care more for you than for the season," he replied. "My opinion is, that Lady Linleigh secretly enjoys the idea of leaving town."

"And about—you know what I mean, Earle."

"About our wedding, darling? It is to be in the sweet summer-time, that is, if you are willing. I urged it; and the countess joined me. Lord Linleigh—Heaven bless him!—did not raise the least objection. He said he would speak to you, and was perfectly kind and good about it; it will be for you to tell him, dear, your wish to have it all managed very quietly, and to speak of going abroad. Now, is not that glorious news for a bright sunshiny day? How green the trees are, and how blue the sky! Was the world ever so fair, love—ever one-half so fair?"

Suddenly he saw her start, and looking at her, saw an angry flush on her face, a bright light in her eyes. She was looking intently at some one who returned the glance with interest.

Following the direction of her eyes, Earle saw Lord Vivianne watching her most intently. There was a smile that was yet half a sneer on his lips, he was talking to a gentleman whom Earle instantly recognized as Colonel Clifford.

"There is your bete noir, Doris—Lord Vivianne," he said.

"I see him," she replied, quietly.

He did not know the hot impulse that was on her, he did not understand why she clinched the little jeweled whip so tightly in her hand. She would have given the whole wide world if she dare have ridden up to him, and have given him one stroke across the face with her whip—one stroke that would have left a burning red brand across the handsome, insolent face! She would have gloried in it. She could fancy how he would start and cry out, the coward!—how he would do his best to hide the shameful mark given to him by a woman's hand.

In all her life Lady Doris Studleigh never had such difficulty in controlling an impulse as she had in controlling that.

Then she was recalled to herself by a bow from Lord Vivianne and a look of unqualified wonder on her lover's face.

"Doris," he said, "my dear child, what are you going to do to Lord Vivianne? You look inclined to ride over him."

"So I am," she replied, with a smile.

But the beauty of the morning had gone for her—there was no more warmth in the sunshine, no more fragrance in the flowers and trees, no music in the birds' song; the sight of that handsome face, with its evil meaning, had destroyed it all, had made her heart sink. Oh! to be away from him, where she should never see him or hear of him again.

"I am tired, Earle," she said.

"Tired so soon!" he replied.

But one look at her told him the words were quite true.

"We will ride back again, Doris. Tell me why do you dislike Lord Vivianne so much?"

"I am not sure that I dislike him," she replied.

"You do, sweet; your face quite changed when you saw him."

"Did it? I do not like him because he teases me so with compliments. I dislike many people; he is no great exception."

Earle laughed.

"It is very unfortunate to admire you, Doris, if admiration brings dislike."

They rode home again, while Colonel Clifford turned with a smile to his companion.

"That looks like a settled case," he said.

"What do you mean by a settled case?" was the irritable reply. "I defy any man to understand his own language in these degenerate days."

"A settled case means that, to all appearances the queen of the season, the feted, flattered Lady Doris Studleigh is in love with our young poet, the latest London celebrity."

"A young poet?—who is he?" for suddenly there flashed into his mind the words Doris Brace had so poetically used to him:

"My lover is a gentleman and a poet."

At the time he had thought it idle bombast, intended only to heighten her value in his eyes—yet it might have been true. He looked up with unusual interest.

"Who is he, Clifford?" he repeated.

"I can hardly tell you, except that he is Earle Moray, a great protege and favorite of the Duke of Downsbury, of Lord Linleigh, and of the public in general, for he is a charming writer. He is also member for Anderley—he took his seat last week."

"Earle Moray! I am sure I know the name."

"Most English readers do," said Colonel Clifford.

A sudden flash of light seemed to illuminate his mind.

"Earle! Earle! Why that is the name Doris used to murmur in her sleep. She used to dream that Earle was coming—I remember it well. Great Heaven, it is she!"

"What is the matter?" asked Colonel Clifford; "you look as though you had seen a ghost."

"So I have, the ghost of my—— Oh, what nonsense I am talking. So that is the young poet; he is a very handsome man. Lady Studleigh is something like the earl. Is it known who her mother was?"

"No. People say that the earl contracted a low marriage before he went abroad, one that he was ashamed to own, therein consists the romance."

"What romance?" asked Lord Vivianne, hurriedly.

"About Lady Doris. The earl, when he was simply Captain Studleigh, married beneath him, went abroad, leaving his daughter to be brought up by some humble friends of his wife. The romance consists, I suppose, in the sudden change in the young lady's fortune, from comparative obscurity to splendor. It might have been an unfortunate thing for the earl, but that the girl turned out to be beautiful, graceful, intelligent, and well bred."

"I have it, by heavens!" cried Lord Vivianne, in a loud voice.

"You have what?"

"A—a fly that has been buzzing round me and teasing me half the morning," he replied, confusedly.

"Ah!" said the colonel. "My opinion of you, Lord Vivianne, is not a very complimentary one. I fancy, unless you take better care of your wits, they will leave you. I never saw any one grow so peculiar in all my life. I saw no flies about."

Lord Vivianne made no reply, but went away laughing—it seemed to him now that he held the clew in his hands.

"If I am right," he said to himself, with a bitter sneer, "I will humiliate her: I will lower that magnificent pride of hers; I will change places, and she shall be the wooer. But I must make quite sure first. I will go down to Brackenside this very day."

He kept his word. Much to honest Mark's surprise, when he entered the house that evening, he found a fashionably dressed stranger, bent upon being very agreeable to his wife and daughter.

"You will be surprised to see me," said his wily lordship, "but I was passing through Brackenside and could not help calling. I am quite a stranger. Allow me to introduce myself as Lord Vivianne. You," he continued, holding out his hand to Mark, "are Mr. Brace."

Mark replied in a suitable manner, then sat down, with a look of resignation that highly amused Mattie. If it would rain lords he could not help it. Such wonderful events had happened that Mark felt he should never be surprised again. Then he looked in his lordship's face as though he would fain ask what he wanted there.

"I had the pleasure once—it is some time since—of meeting your daughter, Miss Doris Brace. If she is at home, I should like to see her."

At the first sound of that name, Mark was on the alert. This was just what they had cautioned him about. The earl had bidden him beware of impertinence and curiosity. Mark had passed his word not to speak of Doris' history, and he meant to keep it. "Wild horses," as he expressed it, would not have torn it from him.

"Miss Doris Brace is not at home," he replied, grimly.

"Indeed!" said the stranger. "I am sorry for that; I had relied upon seeing her. Perhaps I may be more fortunate to-morrow."

"I do not think you will," was the reply; "she will not be at home."

"Perhaps, then, the day after?" was the insinuating comment.

"No, nor the day after," replied Mark; "she will not be at home—she is not in Brackenside."

Now my lord had laid all his plans most prudently; he did not intend to compromise himself at all. If the whole affair turned out to be a huge mistake, as it might do, he would not say anything that could prejudice his cause in the least. No harm could possibly arise if he said that he had met Miss Doris Brace; he had seen her at the Castle; and if hardly pushed he could quote that meeting. But the farmer was a very fortress—he returned none but the most simple, vague, and honest answers, saying that she was not at home, she would not be at home, but looking most amiably deaf when any allusion was made to change of fortune.

CHAPTER LXIX.
LORD VIVIANNE PROPOSES A LITTLE DISCUSSION.

"If I may take the liberty," said Lord Vivianne, turning with his most amiable smile to Mrs. Brace, "I should so much like to ask for a cup of tea. I was anxious to see your daughter, so did not wait to take any refreshments at the hotel. It is a great disappointment to me."

"Yes," said Mark, quietly, "it is wonderful how many disappointments we have to bear."

The tea was prepared, and Mrs. Brace's heart was won by praise of the excellent tea, the thick cream, the fresh golden butter, and ripe fruit. Woman-like, her heart secretly inclined to the handsome stranger whom Mark kept so sternly at bay, but where could he have possibly seen Doris? Mark saw symptoms of relenting in his wife's eyes; under pretext of speaking to her about the milking and cheese, he drew her into the larder.

"Now, look here, Patty," he said, "my word is passed, and I do not mean to break it. I told the earl that, no matter who came, who asked, or what was wanted, Doris' name and history should never be told, and it never shall."

"I am sure, Mark," said his obedient wife, "this is a gentleman; there can be no mistake about him."

"Gentleman—oh! There, now, my dear, do not look so frightened! I never swore in my life, not even in the hottest of weather. I am not going to begin now. He may be a gentleman—he is, I do not deny that; but it has nothing to do with the matter. Why does he come here to talk about Doris? What has it to do with him? It means mischief. He shall go away from here as wise as he came—no wiser."

"You are right, Mark," said his wife.

"That is a sensible woman. Yet," added Mark, with shrewd irony, "the sight of his handsome face and the smoothness of his tongue may cause you to betray a secret you have promised to keep, so you had better keep out of the room."

"I will," said Mrs. Brace. "I have no more wish to talk than you have, Mark. Still he looks so wistful, I will stay away."

"That is the best woman in England," said Mark to himself, as Mrs. Brace closed the door after her. Then he returned to his guest. He apologized for his wife's absence, but Lord Vivianne knew just as well as though Mark had told him, that she was gone lest she should be tempted to talk to him. Mattie wisely imitated her mother's example, leaving her father alone with his guest.

"What a grand old farm this is of yours," said his lordship. "I never saw grounds in such fine condition."

Mark had made up his mind to be urbane and polite, but it was with some little difficulty he refrained from showing his contempt. What did this lord know of farming. Above all, why did he want to flatter Mark Brace?

"I am rather pleased," said the visitor, drawing his chair nearer to the farmer, "that I have a chance of talking quietly to you, without the ladies being present. I wanted that opportunity."

"You have it," said Mark, briefly.

"Yes. I have it, and will try to avail myself of it. I met, as I told you, Miss Doris Brace some time since, and I was deeply impressed by her—most deeply."

"Were you?"

"Yes; and I resolved, if possible, to see her again."

Mark sat silent.

"I quite believed at the time that she was your daughter, but I have heard a strange romance since—terribly strange. May I ask, Mr. Brace, if it be true?"

"No, my lord, you may not ask me—at least, I do not mean that—you may ask what you will, but you must excuse me if I do not reply. The fact is this—if you ask as to the state of my farm, my balance at the bank, my hopes of a crop, I will tell you; but when it comes to the ladies of my family, you must really excuse me if I distinctly and plainly refuse to answer one question concerning them. I am sorry to seem rude, my lord."

But, like every one else who saw him, Lord Vivianne admired Mark Brace. He held out his white, slim hand to touch the farmer's sunburnt one.

"There is no offense, Mr. Brace," he said. "You are an honest man, and I shall think better of all other men for having seen you. If you decline any conversation on the matter, it is, of course, useless for me to offer any explanations."

"Quite useless, my lord; a waste of time."

"Then, thanking you for your hospitality, I may as well go," said his lordship, with a smile.

To which remark the farmer, not knowing what politeness required him to answer, made no answer at all.

Although he was baffled, Lord Vivianne could not feel angry.

"It would be a straightforward world," he said to himself, laughingly, "if all the men in it were like Mark Brace." Still he felt that he had in some measure won a victory—he had found out that, in connection with Doris, there was something to conceal.

He went to Quainton and took up his abode for the night in the Castle Hotel. There he fancied he should be sure to hear something or other. Nor was he mistaken. In the billiard-room the conversation turned upon Earle Moray—they were very proud of him, they said that Lindenholm had given to England one of her finest poets—they boasted to each other of having known him, of having spoken to him; they talked of his election for Anderley; there had been no bribery—all had been open as the day. Yes, he had been returned almost without opposition. They spoke of Lord Linleigh's interest in him, and then one or two of the wisest among them told how he was to marry Lord Linleigh's daughter, the beautiful girl who, for some reason or other, had been brought up at Brackenside. It was impossible to keep such a secret quiet; some few in Quainton knew, and others guessed it.

Lord Vivianne listened without a comment, the veins in his forehead swelled, his face flushed a hot crimson flush, his hands trembled. It was a victory he had hardly expected to win.

Then he muttered to himself something that sounded like a fierce oath:

"She shall pay for it," he said to himself. "Madly as I love her, I will not spare her. When I have humbled her pride, I will worship her and marry her; not until then. So it was she, all the time; she looked into my eyes without recognition; she dared me, braved me, laughed at me. She shall suffer. She is the most magnificent and dauntless creature I ever beheld; she is grand enough for a Charlotte Corday, a Joan of Arc. By Heaven! how many girls would have come to me crying, praying that I would keep their secret; she laughs at me, defies me. I will repay her!"

His whole soul was torn between passionate love and passionate anger; at one time he felt inclined to weep at her feet, to pray and beseech her to love him, to be his wife; at another time to feel that he must upbraid her with her perfidy, her falsity, her deceit. Which spirit would master him when he stood in her presence he hardly knew; it would depend upon herself. If she were defiant, so should he be; if she were gentle, he would be the same. Of one thing he was quite determined—do, say what she might, she should be his wife. It would be a most dishonorable thing to threaten to hold her secret over her; but, if she compelled him, he would do it. No thought of pity came into his mind, but he wondered much. That news—the news of her father's succession to the earldom, and his return home—must have reached her while she was in Florence with him. No one even knew where he was; how, then, could she learn it.

It struck him that was the reason she had left him; he had not thought of that before; it was because this news came to her, and she would not be found with him. But who could have told her?—that was the puzzle. Some one must have gone straight from England to Florence. The more he thought of it the more he was puzzled.

He felt quite certain that on the morning he left her to secure her opera box, and to purchase flowers for her, she knew nothing of it. He had left her by the river-side; when he returned she was gone. During that interval, short as it was, some one must have found her, have told her, and brought her to England. Who could that some one be?

Not Earle, surely not Earle, her lover—surely not he! "He would have been more likely to kill her than to bring her home if he had found her with me," he said to himself.

He was keen enough, but it never occurred to him that she had the skill to deceive Earle as well.

He returned by the early train to London; he should be in time then, he said, to give her a morning call. He smiled to himself as he thought of her confusion. He reached Hyde House when the earl and countess had just driven to a fashionable dejeuner, and Lady Doris was left alone; she desired it should be so; she wanted time to arrange her thoughts, to recover herself; and they, believing in her plea of fatigue, had been quite willing to leave her. She had made up her mind, no matter what it cost her, not to see Lord Vivianne again. It would be easy to manage it; she would decline all invitations on the plea of ill health, and she would refuse to receive visitors at home. Strict orders had been given to that effect--the servants understood that their young lady was tired, and would see no one, except, as a matter of course, Mr. Moray.

She believed herself quite safe; that morning Earle had promised to spend with her, and they would arrange about their wedding and the honeymoon that was never to end.

She had dressed herself so prettily for Earle—she went to the conservatory intending, there, to spend the morning with him. She walked among the flowers, singing in a soft, low voice to herself; it would all soon be over, she should so soon be away from London, where her terrible secret seemed to have taken bodily shape. She should so soon be safe in her own home in Linleigh; above all, she should soon be Earle's wife.

"Earle's wife—how he loves me!" thought the girl, "how true and good and noble he is, my Earle!"

Then a shadow fell over the brightness of the flowers. She raised her eyes, believing it was he, and they fell on the smiling face of Lord Vivianne.

For one instant she looked at him spell-bound, fascinated, as one sees a fluttering bird charmed by a snake. Her heart gave one great bound.

"He knows me!" she thought, "and he is come to tell me so!"

How he gained admittance matters not; how he bribed a servant, who afterward lost his place for taking the bribe, matters not.

He was there, and in the contemptuous insolence of his smile, in the expression of his face, she read that no evasion would be of service to her. Still she did not lose her self-possession.

"How did you obtain admittance, my lord?" she asked, imperiously.

"Oh, Dora, Dora! I have found you. Did you really think you would deceive me for long? I have found you; and now, if you please, we will discuss matters in a proper business-like form."

CHAPTER LXX.
THE PRICE OF A SECRET.

He went one step nearer to her and looked at her with an evil smile; his heart was full of passion—half intense love, half furious anger.

"You thought to deceive me," he said, and the breath came like hot flame from his lips. "You thought to blind and dupe me, but I know you now—I have known you all along, though I could not believe the evidence of my own senses."

He never forgot the regal grace with which she drew her slight frame to its utmost height, the anger, the haughty pride that flashed from her eyes.

"I do not understand you," she replied; "and I repeat my question; when I gave orders that I should be denied to all visitors, how dare you enter here?"

"It is late, Lady Doris," he said, "too late for that kind of thing now, I repeat that I know you—to the rest of the world you may be Lady Doris Studleigh, to me you are simply the girl who lived with me and ran away from me."

She looked at him; if a glance from those proud eyes could have slain him, he would have lain that instant dead at her feet. He continued:

"You may deny it, you may continue to carry on the same concealment, the same deceit, but it will be all in vain; I know you, and I know you for what you are. You can say anything you please, if you think it advisable to waste words; I repeat that it will be in vain." She grew white, even to the lips, as she listened to the insolent words. "I felt sure—convinced of your identity from the very moment I saw you at the opera," he continued. "I watched you then; I have watched you ever since."

Her white lips opened, but all sound died away from them—he heard nothing.

"I have admired your talent for acting," he continued; "it is a grand one. It is ten thousand pities that you are not upon the stage; you would be its brightest ornament. I was not wholly, but half deceived, by your superb nonchalance; then I determined to find out the truth for myself. I have done so."

He waited to see if she would utter one word of denial, one word of explanation. She stood before him—pale, beautiful, silent as a marble statue.

"I have tracked you," he said, triumphantly. "I can tell you the whole story of your life; how you lived as a child at Brackenside; how you carried on a pretty little love affair with your poet and gentleman, until I saw you; how you went to Florence with me, in total ignorance of your true origin; how on the morning I left you by the river side, some one came from England, told you the true story of your birth, and brought you back here. I have been to Brackenside; I am not speaking without proof."

If she could have spoken, she would have told him that no one at Brackenside would ever betray her; she would have liked to cast his words back in his teeth, but the strength to speak was no longer hers.

"You thought then of being very clever. If you had never heard the true story of your birth, you would have been content to abide with me all the days of your life—you would have thought your lot a brilliant one. But you were too clever, Dora; you thought to escape and to live as though you had never heard of me. It could not be done. Did you speak?"

He might as well ask the question, for a sound that resembled no ordinary, no human sound, came from her lips. He went on:

"Why were you not frank and honest with me, Dora?—why did you not await my return, and tell me?—why did you not trust me? Do you know what I should have done if you had so trusted me? I should have said that my proposition to you had been made under a great mistake, not knowing your true name; and I should have released you then and them from all ties that bound you to me."

She saw her mistake then; saw what short-sighted, miserable policy hers had been; but it was all too late.

"Surely," he continued, "you had lived with me long enough to know that I had some semblance of a gentleman, some faint notions of honor. There is no need to sneer, my lady; men do not reckon honor when they deal with what you were then."

"I know it," she cried, with sudden bitterness, in a voice that had no resemblance to her own.

"Why did you not trust me! I cannot—I shall never forgive you for the way in which you deserted me. Had you left me one line—only one line—telling me your true parents had claimed you, Doris, it would have saved all this."

"I had not time."

"Because you did not wish to make it. Even suppose that, to avoid detection, you had hurried from Florence, you might surely have sent me a line from England; even if you could not trust me with your name and address, you might have done that."

"I see it now. I might, nay, I should have done it. Will that admission satisfy you?"

"There is nothing in it to satisfy me," he said, angrily; "you had no right to desert me as you did, to treat me as you did—none in the world. Do you know what you cost me? Do you know that I went mad over losing you? that I searched for you day after day, month after month, hating my life itself because you no longer formed part of it! Do you know that the loss of you changed me from a good-tempered man into a fiend?—can you realize that, Lady Doris Studleigh?"

"No," she replied, "I cannot."

"It is true. Fair, bright, frivolous women like you cannot realize a man's love—they cannot even estimate it! And strange—oh! strange to say—women like you win strong, passionate love, for which the pure and noble of your sex seek in vain."

Alas! that she had given him the right to speak thus to her—that she had placed herself in the power of such a man! Oh! fatal, foolish, and wicked sin! Yet true to herself, true to her own light, frivolous nature, it was not the bitter sin she repented so much as its discovery.

He drew nearer to her, and placed one hand on her arm.

"Do you know, Doris," he said, "that when you left me I had begun, even then, to love you with such a passionate love that every pulse of my heart was wrapped up in it."

She shook his hand from her as though there were contamination in his touch.

"I did not know it. I do not believe it. You never loved me—you have loved nothing on earth one half so dearly as you have loved yourself!"

His face grew dark with anger.

"Remembering how entirely you are in my power," he said, "I ask you, is it wise to anger me?"

"You never loved me," she repeated; "Earle loved me, and would have died any day to save my fair name! You never loved me, you loved yourself!"

"I repeat it, I loved you with a passion so terrible, so fierce, so violent, it frightened me! I loved you so, that I would have lost wealth, fortune, position—ah! life itself—for you!"

Her white lips smiled scornfully; that calm, proud, scorn drove him beside himself.

"You have been some time in discovering it," she said.

"That is your mistake," he replied; "do you know, Doris, I swear what I am saying is true. Do you know why I was so gay, so happy, so light of heart on the day you left me? It was because my love had beaten down my pride, and on that very evening I had resolved upon asking you to be my wife."

"I do not believe it," she cried.

"It is true; I swear it on the faith and honor of a gentleman. I swear it on the word of a man."

"I should need a stronger oath than that," she said.

"I swear it then by your own falseness, and by your own deceit; can any oath be stronger than that? On that very evening I had resolved upon asking you to be my wife. I was determined to make our union legal. I loved you so that I could not live without you."

She made no reply for one minute, but looked steadily at him: then she said:

"I do thank Heaven that I have been spared the degradation of becoming your wife."

"Yet you were content to be my companion," he said.

Her face flushed hotly at the words.

"I have lost you, how long, Dora, how many months? Do you think my love has grown less in that time? Do you think it has faded or grown cold. If you imagine so, you do no justice to your own marvelous beauty; you do no justice to your own fascination; a thousand times no! It is a burning torrent now that carries all before it: it is a tempest that will know no abatement—Dora, you had lost your usual shrewdness when you thought that absence would cure such love as mine."

"My name is Lady Studleigh, not Dora," she said proudly. "Once for all, Lord Vivianne, your love does not in the least interest me."

"You will have to take an interest in it," he replied; "I swear, for the future, you shall know no other love."

"I will never know yours," she replied.

He laughed contemptuously.

"It is no use, Dora," he said; "you must really excuse me; I cannot help enjoying my triumph; I would not laugh if I could help it, but, my dear Dora, I cannot help it. Did you ever see a fly in a spider's web? Did you ever watch it struggle and fight and strive to escape, while the spider, one could fancy, was shaking his filmy sides with laughter? Have you ever seen that terrible phenomenon in natural history? You, my poor Dora, are the helpless little fly, I am the spider. It is not an elegant comparison, but it is perfectly true; you are in my power completely, thoroughly, and nothing can take you from me."

She looked at him quite calmly, her courage was rising, now that the first deadly shock had passed away.

"Perhaps," she said, "you will tell me what you want. Spare me any further conversation with you; it does not interest me. Tell me, briefly as you can, what you want."

"What do I want?" he repeated.

"Yes, just that—neither more nor less—what do you want? I own you have me in your power, I own that you hold a secret of mine. What is to be its price? I cannot buy your silence with money. You are a gentleman, a man of honor, having my fair name in your power—what shall you charge me for keeping it? I am anxious to know the price men exact for such secrets as those. You wooed me and won me, after your own honorable fashion—what are you going to exact now as the price of your love and my mad folly? I was vain, foolish, untruthful, but, after all, I was an innocent girl when you knew me first. What shall be the price of my innocence? Oh, noble descendant of noble men—oh, noble heritor of a noble race. Speak—let me hear!"

Her taunts stung him almost to fury; his face grew livid with rage; yet, the more insolent she, the more deeply he loved her; the more scornful she, the deeper and wilder grew his worship of her.

"I will tell you the price," he said; "I will make you my wife. Consent to marry me, and I will swear to you, by heaven itself, that I will keep your secret faithfully, loyally, until I die."

"I cannot marry you," she replied; "I do not love you. I cannot help it, if you are angry. I do not even like you. I should be most wretched and miserable with you, for I loathe you. I will never be your wife."

"All those," he replied, slowly, "are objections that you must try to overcome."

"What if I tell you I love some one else?" she said.

"I should pity him, really pity him, from the depths of my heart; but, all the same, I should say you must be my wife!"

She longed to tell him that she loved and meant to marry Earle, but she was afraid even to mention his name.

"I shall conquer all your objections in time," he said. "It is nothing to me that you say you dislike me; it is even less that you say you like another."

But he never even thought that she really liked Earle. Had she not run away from him?