CHAPTER LXXI.
THE COWARD'S THREAT.
"That is the first part of your declaration," said Lady Doris, with the calm of infinite contempt; "if I will promise to be your wife, you will promise to marry me. What if I refuse?"
"You are placing a very painful alternative before me," he replied.
"Never mind the pain, my lord; we will waive that. I wish to know the alternative."
"If you will marry me I will keep your secret, Lady Doris Studleigh, faithfully, until death."
"Then I clearly, distinctly, and firmly refuse to marry you. What then?"
"In that case I shall be compelled to take the most disagreeable measures—I shall be compelled to hold your secret as a threat over you, if you refuse to be my wife. I tell you, quite honestly, that I will make you the laughing-stock of all London. You—fair, beautiful, imperial—you shall be an object of scorn; men shall laugh at you, women turn aside as you pass by. Even the most careless and reckless shall refuse to receive you—shall consider you out of the pale. I will tell the whole world, if you compel me to do it, what you were to me in Florence; I will tell the handsome earl, your father, whose roof in that case will no longer shelter you. I will tell your proud, high-bred step-mother—the haughty duchess who presented you at court—nay, even the queen herself, she who values a woman's good name far above all worldly rank."
"You would do all that?" she said.
"Yes, just as soon as I would look at you."
"And you call that honor?"
"No; it is, on the contrary, most dishonorable. Do not imagine that I seek to deceive myself. It would be about the most dishonorable thing any person could do; in fact, nothing could be more base; I grant that. But, if you drive a man mad with love, what can he do? You compel me to take the step, or I would not take it."
She could not grow paler; her face was already ghastly white; but from her eyes there shot one glance that might, from its anger and its fire, have struck him blind.
"You would not spare me," she said, "because it was you yourself who led me to ruin."
"I love you so madly," he said, "that I cannot spare you at all."
"Have you thought," she asked, "what, if you do this deed, the world will say of you and to you? Have you weighed this well?"
"I am indifferent," he said; "I care for nothing on earth but winning you."
"Do you realize that in destroying me you destroy yourself; that you will make yourself more hated and despised than any man ever was before? Do you not see that?"
"I repeat that nothing interests me save winning you, Dora; I am quite willing to be destroyed with you."
"What will the world say to a man who deliberately destroys and ruins a girl as you did me?"
"My dearest Dora, the world hears such stories every day and, I am afraid, rather admires the heroes of them."
"What does it say, then, of cowardly men who, having won such a victory, boast of it?"
"I own that the world looks askance on such a man, and very properly too. It is a base, cowardly thing to do. What other course is left me? You drive me to it: I have no wish to play such a contemptible part; I have no wish to boast of a victory—I shall hate myself for doing it; but what else is there for it? Listen, once and for all. Dora—I cannot help calling you by the old familiar name—I will have you for my wife: I will marry you; nothing, I swear, except death, shall take you from me. I will make you happy, I will see that every desire of your heart is fulfilled; but I swear you shall be my wife. There is no escape—no alternative; either that or disgrace, degradation, and ruin. Do not think I shall hesitate from any fear of ruin to myself; I would ruin myself to-morrow to win you. You might as well try to stem the force of a tide as to alter my determination."
She saw that she was conquered; mortifying, humiliating as it was, she was conquered—there was no help for her.
She stood quite still for one moment; then she said slowly:
"Will you give me time?"
His face flushed hotly; his triumph was coming. A smile played round his lips and brightened his eyes.
"Time? Yes; you can have as much time as you like. You see the solution plainly, do you not? Marry me, and keep your fair name, your high position; defy me, and lose it all. You see it plainly?"
"Yes, there is no mistake about it—you have made it most perfectly plain," she said, in a low, passionless voice. "I quite understand you. Give me time to think it over—I cannot decide it hurriedly."
"What time do you require?" he asked. "I shall not be willing to wait very long."
"It is June now," she continued; "you cannot complain if I say give me until the end of August."
"It shall be so, Dora. Will you give me your hand upon it?"
"No," she replied, "I will not give you my hand. Come at the end of August, and I will give you your answer."
"I shall not be deprived of the happiness of seeing you until then, Dora?"
"I cannot say; I will not be followed, I will not be watched. I claim my perfect freedom until then."
"You shall have it. Do not think worse of me than I deserve, Dora. If I had found you married, I would not have spoken, I would never even have hinted at the discovery; but you are not married, darling, nor, while I live, shall any man call you wife except myself."
How bitterly at that moment she regretted not having been married! If she had known—if she had only known, he should have found her the wife of Earle!
"I have no wish to injure you, or to do anything except make life pleasant for you; but my love for you has mastered me, it has conquered me. You must be mine!"
Such passion shone in his eyes, gleamed in his face, that she shrunk back half frightened. He laughed, as he said:
"It is one thing, you see, Dora, to light a fire, another to extinguish it."
"Now, will you leave me, Lord Vivianne? You have placed the pleasing alternative very plainly before me; we have agreed upon a time until you come for my answer—that will be at the end of August. Until then your own good sense will show you the proper course to pursue; you need neither seek nor avoid me."
He bowed.
"I hope, Lady Studleigh, you will have overcome your great objection to my presence before you see me again. I will now go. Let me give you one word of warning. A desperate man is not to be trifled with; if you attempt to escape me, if you place yourself in any way legally out of my reach, you shall answer to me, not only with your fair name, but with your life! You hear?"
"I hear," she replied, calmly, "but I do not come of a race that heeds threats. Good-morning, my lord."
"Dora," he said, "for the sake of old times—of the old love—will you not give me one kiss?"
"I would rather see you dead!" was the reply, given with an angry bitterness she could not control.
He laughed aloud.
"I shall soon see that pretty spirit humbled," he said. "Good-morning, my lady."
And the next minute he was gone.
She stood for some little time where he had left her. Such fiery passion and anger surging in her heart as almost drove her mad. Her face flushed crimson with it, her eyes flamed, she twisted her white hands until the gemmed rings made great dents in them. She hated him with such an intensity of hatred, that she would have laughed over his death. Her graceful figure shook with its heavy strain of anger—her lips parted with a low, smothered cry.
"I pray Heaven to curse him!" she cried, "with a terrible life and a terrible death; to send him a thousandfold the torture he has given to me! I—I wish I could kill him!"
In the might of her wrath she trembled as a leaf upon a tree. She raised her right hand to heaven.
"I swear I will never marry him," she said. "Let him threaten, punish, disgrace, degrade me as he will, I swear that I will never marry him. I will lose love, happiness, wealth, position, nay even life first; but I swear also that I will torture him and pay him for all he has made me suffer!"
She walked to and fro, never even seeing the brilliant blossoms and the glossy leaves, trampling the fragrant flowers she gathered underfoot, moaning with a low, piteous wail. It was too cruel—too hard. She had sinned—yes, she knew that—sinned greatly; but surely the punishment was too hard. Others sinned and prospered; why was she so heavily stricken? She was young when she sinned—careless, ignorant, heedless; now she was to lose all for it. She had beauty that made all men her slaves; she had wealth such as she had never dreamed of; she had one of the highest positions in the land; she had, above all, the love of Earle, the love and fealty of Earle. Now, in punishment for this one sin, she must lose all. Would Heaven spare her?
Was it of any use in this her hour of dire need, praying? Why, in all her life—her brief, brilliant life—she had never prayed; was it of any use her beginning now? She did not even remember the simple words of the little prayer she had been used to say with Mattie at her mother's knee—it was all forgotten. She knew there was a God in heaven, although she had always laughed and mocked at religion, deeming it only fit for tiresome children and old women; surely there was more in it than this.
She knelt down and stretched out her hands with a yearning look, as though some voice in the skies would surely speak to her; then she could not remember how it happened, the fragrance of the flowers seemed to grow too strong for her, the glass roof, the green, climbing plants, the brilliant blossoms, seemed to fall on her and crush her. With a long, low cry she fell with her face on the ground, a streaming mass of radiant white and golden hair.
It was there, that, going in an hour afterward, Earle found her, and raising her from the floor, thought at first that she was dead.
Great was the distress, great the consternation; servants came hurrying in, the doctor was sent for. The earl and the countess returning, were driven half frantic by the sight of that white face and silent figure. It hardly reassured them to hear that it was only a fainting fit.
"Brought on by what?" asked the earl, in a fever of anxiety.
"Nothing more than the reaction after too great physical fatigue," replied the doctor.
"The Lady Doris looks stronger than she really is; the best advice I can give is, that she should leave London at once, and have some weeks of perfect rest in the country. Medicine is of no use."
Lady Linleigh quite agreed in this view of the subject, and the earl declared impetuously that they should go at once—to-morrow if she is better, he said, "I should not like such another fright."
That evening when Lady Doris lay on the little couch in Lady Linleigh's boudoir, and Earle sat by her side, he said to her:
"What caused that sudden illness, my darling? Did anything frighten you?"
"No; I was only tired, Earle."
"Tired! I am beginning to dread the word. Do you know what they told me, Doris?"
"No," she replied, looking at him with frightened eyes; "what was it?"
"One of the servants said she was quite sure that she had heard some one talking to you in the conservatory; but when I went in you were quite alone. Had any one been there?"
"What nonsense," she cried evasively; time and experience had taught her that it was foolish to risk the truth recklessly.
"I thought it was a mistake," said loyal Earle. "Who would be likely to be with you there, when you had reserved the morning for me?"
She closed her tired eyes, and said to herself how thankful she should be when all this was over.
CHAPTER LXXII.
THE EARL RELUCTANTLY ASSENTS.
Three days later they were once more at Linleigh Court. The earl would hear of no opposition; he ruthlessly broke all engagements, sacrificed all interest and pleasure; his daughter's health, he said, must be paramount with him, and so it was. The only drawback was that Earle could not go; he might run down for two or three days, but until Parliament broke up he could not be away for very long. The earl and countess were amused to see how both lovers felt the separation.
"Thank Heaven!" said Lady Estelle. "Ah! Ulric, you do not know how I thank Heaven that our child loves Earle."
"Did you ever doubt it, my lovely, sentimental darling?" said Lord Linleigh.
"I was not sure; I was always more or less afraid," said the countess. "She spoke so lightly of love; but now she seems very fond of Earle."
"I do not think the woman is born who could help loving Earle," said Lord Linleigh; "he is the finest, noblest man I know. She shows her good taste in loving him."
"She will be very happy," said Lady Estelle, with tears in her eyes. "She will be one of the happiest women in the world, and I am so grateful for it, Ulric; it might have been all so different for the poor child."
Lord Linleigh looked thoughtfully at her.
"Do you know, Estelle, I have an idea that Doris is very much changed? Have you noticed it?"
"She seemed to me much fonder of Earle, and not so strong as she was; I have not noticed any other difference."
"Then it must be my fancy. She has seemed to me more thoughtful, at times even sad, then strangely reckless. A strange idea has come to me—do you think she has any secret connected with that former lonely life of hers?"
"I do not think so," replied Lady Estelle, growing very pale.
"That was a strange notion of yours, my dear, sending her there. Still, those good people seem to have done their best for her."
"I believe," said Lady Estelle, hastily, "that she was quite as safe as she would have been under my own roof. I think I have noticed what you mean—a nervous kind of uncertainty and dread: but I am quite sure it is not because of any secret. Ulric; it is rather because she has been overtaxed. I remember speaking to her about it some time since. She will soon be well now."
Lady Estelle was right. Away from that terrible incubus, the dread of meeting the man she feared and detested; away from his baneful influence, she speedily recovered health and spirits; the dainty color flushed back in her lovely face, her eyes grew radiant, sweet snatches of song came from her lips; she was once more the bright, gay Doris, whose winsome smiles and charms had won all hearts. Lady Linleigh laughed at her fears, and for a short time all was happiness at Linleigh Court.
Earle came down for a few days, and then the wedding-day was fixed. It was to be on the tenth of August, and when the wedding was over they were to go right away until Lady Doris had recovered her usual strength.
It was not until afterward that Earle remembered how strange it was that she should have hurried on the wedding; when he came to think it over, he found that it was so. It was Doris who planned and arranged everything; he had but acquiesced, he had not been the prime mover in it. So it was settled—the tenth of August; not many more weeks of suspense and anxiety, not much more dread. Her revenge and her love would be gratified alike. She should be Earle's wife on the tenth; on the twentieth, when Lord Vivianne came, she should be far away with Earle to protect her; Earle to shield her. It would be useless to pursue her then; even if he did his worst, and betrayed her, she did not care, her position would be secure. Oh, it would be such glorious revenge, to find her married, after all his solemn oaths that she should be his wife, and belong to no other—either to him or to death!
"I will deceive him to the very last," she thought. "I will delude him until the very hour which sees me Earle's wife."
She bent all her energies to this. It was easy enough to win from Earle a promise of total silence; it was not quite so easy to win that same promise from the earl and countess. She did win it, though.
On that same evening that Earle left, a superb night in June, when the stars were gleaming in the skies, and the night air was heavy with sweet odors, Lord and Lady Linleigh had gone out into the grounds. The evening was far too beautiful to be spent indoors, and she followed them. They were sitting under the great drooping beeches, watching the loveliness of that fair summer night.
The same thought struck both of them as Doris came to them, that neither starlight nor moonlight had ever fallen on so fair a figure as this. Her long dress of white sweeping silk trailed over the long grass, she wore fragrant white lilies on her breast and in her golden hair; she might have been the very spirit of starlight, from her fair, picturesque loveliness. She went up to them, and bending down to kiss Lady Linleigh's hand, she knelt on the grass at their feet.
"You are alone," she said, "the two arbiters of my destiny. I am so glad, for I have a favor—a grace to ask."
"It is granted before it is asked," said the countess.
But Lord Linleigh laughed.
"No," he said, "that would hardly be wise; we cannot allow that."
She raised her face to his, and he saw how earnest it was in its expression of pleading and prayer.
"Dear papa," she said, gently, "you must not refuse me this."
"I will not, my darling, if it be in reason," he replied.
"Earle told me that you and he had arranged our wedding-day for the tenth of August," she continued. "Dear papa, dear Lady Linleigh, I want you to promise that it shall be kept a profound secret from the whole world."
"My dear Doris!" cried the countess.
"It is quite impossible," said the earl. "Besides, I see no reason for such a thing. Why should you want it so?"
"It is possible," she said. "I have been with you long enough to know that with you everything is possible. Why I wish it done, is my whim, my folly—my secret, if you will."
"I really do not see——" began the earl; but she laid one soft, white hand on his lips.
"Let me show you, papa. Let me hear your objections, and vanquish them one by one."
"To begin with—your train of bridesmaids, they must be invited."
"Papa," she interrupted, "I want none, I will have none, only Mattie, my foster-sister—let her come, no one else."
"Then the marriage settlements?" said the perplexed earl.
"They can be arranged with all possible secrecy, if you only say one word to your lawyers."
"But the bishop, and the marriage. My dear Doris, it is impossible, impracticable, ridiculous!"
"I am sure that you will be sorry, papa, if you refuse me."
And something in her voice struck the earl with keen anxiety.
"Have you any secret, sensible reason for what you ask, Doris?" he said, gravely, the old suspicion that there had been something strange in his daughter's life coming back to him with double force.
"I have my own fancy, papa; do not thwart it, do not oppose me now that I am so soon to leave you. You will always be pleased to think how much of my own way you have given me in this instance."
"Let her do as she will, Ulric," said Lady Linleigh; "it would be cruel to refuse her."
"Listen to my idea first, papa. This is the sort of wedding I should like—you, of course, can please yourself whether you let me have it or not. I should like no one except Mattie to know anything about it in advance of the day. I should like my wedding trousseau to be as magnificent and grand as you please, all ordered, arranged, and prepared, to be kept in London ready for me, so that I may select what I want to take abroad with me, then I should like Earle to come on the eighth, as though he were coming for an ordinary visit; on the ninth, I should be quite willing for you to tell the servants in the house, so that wedding favors, flowers, and a wedding breakfast can be prepared; then, early on the morning of the tenth, I should like to drive over to the old church at Anderley with Earle, Mattie, and you—Lady Linleigh, if she will come—no one else; then to be married in that pretty church, where the morning sun always shines so brightly, and then go away with Earle. No pealing of bells, no jewels, no showers of wedding presents, no pomp, no bishop, with assistant ministers, no ceremony, no grandeur. That is just what I should like, papa."
"I never heard such an extraordinary idea in all my life," said the earl. "I do not know what to answer. I should like you to have your own way; but such a wedding for an earl's daughter is unheard of."
"Yes; it is different to Hanover Square, miles of white satin and lace, bishops, bells, jewels, carriages, friends, and all that kind of thing. I know it is quite different; but let me have my own way, papa, please. Pray intercede for me, Lady Linleigh."
The countess turned to her husband.
"Let it be so, Ulric," she said.
He was silent. He would have refused altogether, but for the uncomfortable suspicion haunting him that she had some painful though hidden motive, and that it was connected with that past life of hers, of which he knew so little; but for that, he would have laughed the whole idea to scorn.
"My dear Doris, I cannot understand. Most ladies look upon their wedding as the crowning ceremony of their lives, the grandest event that can possibly happen to them—the very opportunity for a display of splendor and magnificence."
"I know they do," she replied, gently. Then, as her hands clasped his, he felt her shudder, as though cold. She raised her face, and kissed him; she clasped her white arms round his neck. "Papa," she cried, "although I am your own child, I have never been much to you; the best part of my life has been spent away from you; I have never seen my mother's face; she is not here to plead to you for me. I shall have gone away from you, and altogether, you will have known but little of me. I hope Heaven will send you other children to love and bless you; but, papa, do not refuse my prayer. In the after years, when I am far away, and perhaps a fair-haired son stands pleading where I stand pleading now, you will like to remember that you yielded to my prayer—that you granted me the greatest favor it was in your power to grant."
The earl looked down. Lady Linleigh was weeping bitterly.
"You hear, Ulric!" she said, in a low, passionate voice; "you hear! She says she has no mother to plead for her! Let me plead in the mother's place! Do what she asks!"
"I never did anything so unwillingly in all my life," said the earl; "it is unheard of, inconsistent, ridiculous in the highest degree; but I cannot refuse the prayer of my wife and child; it must be as you wish."
He saw, even in the starlight, the expression of relief that came over the beautiful, restless face.
"You promise, then," said Doris, "and you too, Lady Linleigh, that you will not tell to any creature living, except Mattie Brace, when I am to marry, whom I am to marry, or anything about it?"
"I promise," said Lady Estelle.
"And I too," repeated the earl, "although it is sorely against my better judgment, my will, my common sense, and everything else."
"Never mind, papa," said Lady Doris, "you have made me happy."
But even then, as she spoke, the tragedy was looming darkly over her.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
THE COUNTESS BECOMES CURIOUS.
"We ought to be very much flattered," said Lord Linleigh, with a smile, as he laid an open letter before his wife. "When did we leave London?—in June. It is only the middle of July, yet some of our friends are growing weary for us."
It was such a July morning as makes the dwellers in cities ill with envy—when the earth hangs like a huge, shining jewel in the firmament of heaven—a morning when life seems the greatest luxury, when to breathe and to live is a blessing without alloy. The sky was dark blue, without even one little white cloud to obscure it; it looked so far off, so much further than when low-lying clouds touch the earth. The sun was golden bright, warm without intense heat; and the air—ah! well, it would require a poet to tell how balmy and soft it was—how it came over the meadows laden with the breath of sweet clover—how it came from the woods with the odor of wild hyacinths—how it came from the gardens with the fragrance of rose and of lily, with the fragrance of every flower that blows. Then it was filled with soft, delicious thrills—with the cooing of the ring-doves, and the song of the lark. Nature was in her happiest mood.
The earl and countess had come down early to breakfast—the long windows were open—the perfumed air came in. They smiled, as among the letters they saw one from Earle to Doris.
"He writes every day," said Lord Linleigh.
"Quite right," said Lady Estelle. "I like to see lovers deeply in love."
They smiled again, when, fresh and fair as the morning itself, Doris came down. Her face flushed when she saw the letter; a sweet, dewy brightness came into her eyes; she laid it aside as though waiting for time.
"Read your letter, Doris," said Lady Linleigh, and the girl opened it.
Ah! well, perhaps life does not hold a greater pleasure than reading a passionate love-letter on a bright summer morning. Her dainty color deepened as she read; the light grew brighter in her eyes.
"My love!" thought the girl; "how he loves me."
And with the fragrant breath of the summer morning, with the light of the blue skies, with the song of the birds, there came to her a pang of regret that she was so utterly unworthy of this great pure love, that her soul was so terribly stained by crime. Then, she said to herself that she would atone for it, that she would to the very best of her power make up for it; that she would be so loving, so tender, so true, he should never have cause to regret it. For it was such a love-letter as would have touched any girl's heart; written with the fire of a poet and of a lover. She lost herself in a day-dream, in a golden trance of happiness: it was coming so near, this wedding-day which was to bind her to Earle forever, and free her from all care.
It was Lady Linleigh's voice that roused her, and she was asking:
"What friend is coming—who is coming, Ulric?"
"Lord Vivianne—he does not say how long he intends remaining. There is the letter; read it."
But the countess was preparing a cup of fragrant tea after the fashion she liked best, and Lord Linleigh, seeing that, said:
"I will tell you about it, Estelle. Lord Vivianne says he shall be passing through Anderley on his way to Leeson, and he should very much like to spend a few days with us. I can but answer in the affirmative, I suppose."
"Certainly; it will be a change for you; you have been very quiet lately; we can have a picnic and a dinner-party while he is here."
Lord Linleigh glanced with a shrewd smile at his daughter. It did not seem to him wonderful that his lordship should be passing through Anderley; the only pity was, that it was all in vain. But he did not see his daughter's face, it was turned from him.
The love-letter had fallen from her hands, the golden light had faded from the skies, the beauty of the morning had vanished; her face grew pale, her eyes darkened.
Why was he coming? Whatever might be the reason, it meant mischief to her, she was sure of it. He had promised not to come near her until the end of August, then he was to come for her answer. What was bringing him now?
"I must bear it, I have to live it through," she said to herself, "no matter what it may be."
In a dumb passion of despair, she heard Lady Linleigh ask when he was coming.
"He will be here by the end of the week," said the earl, carelessly; then he laughed a little.
"Why are you laughing?" asked Lady Estelle.
"My dear Estelle, I am just thinking how eagerly you seized upon his coming as an excuse for a little gayety," he replied; "you who assured me so seriously you preferred quiet and solitude."
Lady Estelle blushed.
"I plead guilty, Ulric," she said. "It must be because I am very happy myself that I like to see every one else happy, too."
They both wondered why Lady Doris was so silent.
"It must be from sheer excess of happiness," thought the countess.
Lord Linleigh asked:
"Will you drive with me this morning, Doris, or would you prefer to ride or walk?"
"Will you go with me?" asked Lady Estelle. "I am going to Streathaw."
"No, thank you, papa. Thank you, Lady Linleigh. I am going to spend the morning in the gardens."
"That means writing a long letter to Earle," said Lord Linleigh, with a smile.
She did not contradict him; and Lady Estelle, when she kissed her and bade her good-morning, thought how beautiful it was to be young, happy, and in love.
Doris went out. There was the shade of fragrant trees, the brilliant colors of a thousand flowers; and Doris saw and heard nothing—she was full of despair.
"Why is he coming," she cried, passionately, "just as I was growing so happy, learning to forgot him and his terrible threats—why is he coming? It is like the serpent stealing into paradise. Ah, Heaven! if I could but undo that unhappy past."
Standing there in the sunshine, with every blessing from heaven lavished upon her—more, according to outward appearances, to be envied than any girl in England—she saw the great canker-worm of her life in its true colors. Sin had spoiled all for her.
Sin! Why, she could remember when, in the innocence of her youth and beauty, she had laughed at the word sin—she had scoffed at it. "What did sin matter?" she had said, to herself; "the only thing was to make the very best of life, to enjoy it with all her power, to grasp its pleasures before they had time to fade." Sin! why it was all sheer nonsense.
Now, when sin had found her out, when its black trail had entered her life and poisoned it—when its consequences, pursuing her, were leading her to shame and disgrace, she began to recognize it for what it was. She said to herself that if she could begin life over again she would be quite different; she would try to be good, like Mattie; she would think less of her own beauty; and if the same temptation came to her again, which had been so artfully offered her once, she would refuse it. She wished with all her heart that she had turned a deaf ear to Lord Vivianne's entreaties. "I did know it was wrong," she said to herself, with unusual candor; "I had enough of what was good in me to know that, and I am sorry, really sorry that I did it."
Who knows how much repentance the Father above requires from a soul? Who shall measure His mercy? The terrible tragedy was drawing nearer; and it might be that the sorrow which rose from the poor, weak, vain soul that morning was sufficient to save it.
So she lived the time through until Lord Vivianne came. She was glad that Lady Linleigh had arranged for a little gayety; meeting him alone would have been simply unendurable. As it was, she met him in a drawing-room half-crowded with guests. He found time and opportunity for saying a few words to her:
"How beautiful you look, Dora! I have never seen you looking so well!"
"I should be flattered at pleasing such fastidious taste as yours," she replied.
"Yes, you do look most lovely; those waves of green and white, and the water-lilies in your hair—you look like Undine!"
"Before or after she had found her soul?" she asked, with a mocking smile.
He laughed that low, light laugh for which she hated him.
"I have never quite made up my mind as to whether women have souls or not," he said. "I am inclined to think not; if they have, they certainly make queer use of them."
"Lady Linleigh!" cried the girl, to the countess, who was just passing by, "what do you imagine Lord Vivianne says?"
"I cannot imagine," replied the countess, with a smile.
"He says he is inclined to believe women have no souls; or, if they have, they make queer use of them."
The countess looked slightly shocked.
Lord Vivianne gave one angry look at the spoiled beauty.
"That is a very dreadful opinion to hold, my lord," said Lady Estelle.
"Lady Studleigh is hardly just to me," he replied. "She tells you what I say, but she does not tell you, although she knows, what led me to form that opinion."
The countess looked quickly from one to the other with a grave intentness that did not escape either. There was something more than mere badinage in this—something which she did not at all understand. Then Lady Doris saw that she had made a mistake in trying to expose him—she must not play with edged tools.
Lady Linleigh left them, not feeling quite satisfied. Why should he speak in that contemptuous manner of women, to a woman who was so young, so beautiful? It was not chivalrous—it was not even gentlemanly. And Lady Doris' manner puzzled her too; it was as though she wished to expose Lord Vivianne, to make others think evil of him. She could not forget the little circumstance.
"Yet it must be a fancy of mine," she thought. "They have so seldom met, they know so little of each other, there can be nothing but the most commonplace acquaintance between them."
Still it made her curious, and she purposely selected Lord Vivianne to take her down to dinner, in order that she might, after a little diplomatic fashion of her own, question him.
"How do you think Lady Studleigh is looking?" she asked him, when they had a chance for a few quiet words. "She was not well at all when we left London."
"I think her looking as beautiful as it is possible for any one to look," he replied, "and as well."
"I am glad you think so. It must have been a great privation for her to leave London in the very midst of the season, or, I should say, in the midst of a brilliant finale."
"Yes; I do not remember, of late years, any one who created such a furor as Lady Studleigh," was his reply.
"You met her often during the season?"
"Yes, I met her very frequently; it was impossible to go much into society without doing so—she was an unusual favorite."
The countess saw plainly that if he admired her he was not going to say so; she would not be able to get at his real opinion. Yet the very caution of his words and manner, the restraint in his speech, the guarded expression of his face, all told her that she was right in her half-formed fancy. There was something unusual—either on his part or hers—which she could not make out. She would not devote more time to him that evening; the guests were numerous, and must be entertained.
The gentlemen did not remain long in the dining-room, and the drawing-room presented a beautiful picture; the lamps were all lighted and shone like huge pearls among the countless flowers; the gay dresses and shining jewels of the ladies seemed to shine with unwonted luster. The sweet summer evening was so warm and so fragrant, the rich silken hangings were drawn, and the long windows were open, and from them the countess saw a fairyland of moonlight and flowers.
"I wish we had some music," said the earl; "it only wants that to complete the enchantment. Doris, will you sing?"
She went to the piano, and the rich voice floated through the room. Many who saw her then never forgot her; the green and white dress floating round her, the water-lilies in her golden hair, a flush on the beautiful face, while the rich voice poured out such a strain of melody as few had ever heard equaled.
They who saw her then, and knew what followed, did not forget the picture.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
A LAST VAIN APPEAL.
"The night is so fine," said the earl, "you young people would enjoy a short time on the lawn. Look at those lilies asleep in the moonlight—go and wake them. Then we will have the card-tables. That is as it should be—cards for the old, moonlight for the young."
That was the very chance Lord Vivianne had been longing for; he did not think he could bear suspense much longer. Now he was sure of a tete-a-tete. Here, in these rooms, half-filled with people, it had been an easy matter to avoid him, or to make others join in the conversation; it would not be as easy out there in the moonlight.
Lady Linleigh, who had never for one moment relaxed her keen, untiring watch, saw him go up to Lady Doris, and speak a few words to her in a low voice. At first the beautiful face flushed hotly, and the bright eyes seemed to flash out a proud defiance. Then there was an expression of half-startled fear, followed by one of submission most unusual in her.
"There is a mystery," she said to herself; "there is something between him and my darling!"
The mother's first impulse was to screen her, to help her. Lady Linleigh crossed the room and went to her.
"Doris," she said, in a clear distinct voice, that all might hear, "Doris, do not go if you prefer remaining here."
The girl raised her eyes to the calm gentle face, and Lady Linleigh was shocked to see tears in them.
"Thank you," she said, calmly; "I shall enjoy going out. Who could resist the moon and the flowers?"
"Then do not remain long. You look tired, and we must remember you are not strong."
Lord Vivianne joined them.
"Lady Studleigh has graciously promised to show me the fountains by moonlight. I will watch her faithfully, and at the first symptom of fatigue I promise you she shall return."
Then the countess could say no more. She saw Lord Vivianne carefully draw the black lace shawl over the white neck and arms.
"Not that you can be cold," he said, in reply to some objection, "but, as Lady Linleigh says, we must be careful of you."
And he smiled down on her with an air of protection and of appropriation, for which she in her rage could have struck him dead, and which made Lady Linleigh wonder exceedingly.
"It is ten thousand pities," she thought, "that he does not know she is engaged to Earle."
Then a new suspicion came to her, which made her even more uncomfortable. Was it possible that her daughter's passionate desire for secrecy had anything to do with Lord Vivianne? Was her daughter afraid of letting him know that she was going to be married? The very torment of the suspicion, faint as it was, filled her with dread. Then she saw the happy little group of guests on the lawn, she caught one glimpse of the white water-lilies and green dress as Lady Studleigh disappeared with her cavalier.
"What has come over me?" said the countess. "I have a presentiment, heavy as death! What can be wrong? I shall begin to think I am growing old and fanciful. What danger can be near my darling?"
She set herself resolutely to play at whist, but every now and then her partner saw her turn pale and shudder, as though she were cold.
Doris and Lord Vivianne were out in the moonlight together, and alone at last. At first they maintained complete and perfect silence. Lord Vivianne placed the white jeweled hand on his arm. She did not make the least objection; it was all useless, she was in his power, and she knew it; she would not even ask the question that trembled on her lips, and filled her with despairing wonder—what had brought him there? She walked by his side, silent, proud, and uncomplaining.
"My darling," he said, at last, "does not this evening remind you of Florence, and the moonlight on the river?"
"If I am to talk to you, Lord Vivianne, and it seems I am compelled to do so, I must ask you to refrain from using such expressions as 'darling.' I will not answer you if you do: they are utterly hateful to me."
"Yet I remember the time when they pleased you passing well. Do you remember, Dora, when I gave you a diamond ring? You have diamonds now on your neck and arms, in your ears, and your hair. They shine like fire-rivers over your beautiful figure; you are so accustomed to them that they have ceased to have any particular value for you. But do you remember your delight in the first?"
"Women remember their first diamonds, as they do their first long dress or their first lover," she replied.
"I suppose so. Oh, Dora, be a little kind to me! We are here in this sweet moonlight together, yet you do not give me one word, one smile. You were not always so hard or so cruel. In Florence, you used to walk with both these beautiful white hands clasped over my arm. Do you remember it?"
Then she raised to his a face that, in its pride and anger, he never forgot.
"I will not permit you to mention those days to me," she cried. "They are hateful; the very memory of them brands me as with a red-hot iron. I will not bear it. I would sooner—listen to me—I know the words are unwomanly—I would sooner pass through the infernal fires than go to Florence with you again."
He laughed.
"I like to see you in a passion, Dora; it suits you; you would have made a grand tragedy queen. I do not wish to vex you or to tease you, because, as you know, I wish to make you my wife. Do you know, can you guess, what has brought me here?"
"No. You have broken our compact in coming, I know that!"
Still it was the question over which she had pondered, by day and by night, ever since she had heard he was coming. It made her heart beat fast, but she would not give way; there was not the least sign of emotion.
"Do you not wonder what has brought me here, Dora?" he repeated.
"I am very indifferent," she said; "no one could be more so."
"I will tell you. I came to see if you were keeping faith with me, if there was any rumor of a lover, any rumor of an engagement. I came purposely for that."
"And if there had been?" she said.
"If there had been, why, you see, Dora, matters would have turned out very awkwardly for both of us."
"You are satisfied that there is not?"
"Yes, tolerably so. There is no lover here; I hear of none in the neighborhood. And you are not engaged to be married—that I do know!"
"How do you know?"
"Because I have made inquiries in the proper direction. I am, I may say, quite satisfied."
He could not tell the sensation of intense relief that came over her—the wild throbbing of her heart. She was safe then, so far, and could marry Earle. Half of the dread and fear she had felt faded away from her.
"I own," continued Lord Vivianne, "that I have suspected you unjustly. You deceived me once, and I fancied that you intended to deceive me again; you eluded me once, you will not elude me again?"
"You thought I was going to do so?"
"I thought your manner strange, your leaving London in the height of your triumph strange, your coming to this quiet, though beautiful country home strange."
"I told you that I wanted time for reflection," she said.
"Yes: and even that, when I came to think of it, was strange. Of course I shall keep my word now that I have given it. But why should you, how can you, need time for reflection? The idea is utterly absurd. You cannot for a moment hesitate between my threat and my offer."
"But I do hesitate," she said, "incredible as it may seem to you."
He looked in her face, so fair and calm in the moonlight, and so proud.
"I wish you would tell me why you hesitate?" he said.
"I will. I dislike you so much. The idea of having to spend my life with you is so utterly abhorrent to me, that I hesitate between that and the total ruin that would follow my refusal."
"You must indeed dislike me," he said, "if you prefer ruin, shame and disgrace to me."
"I do."
"Will you tell me why?" he asked.
"I should have thought both answer and question useless. Why, to begin with, you tempted me to sin and shame, by flattering my vanity and my pride——"
"You did not really require much temptation, Lady Studleigh."
"Thank you—you are as generous as you are gentlemanly. Granted that I did not require much temptation, you placed what little I did want before me. Do you not see," she cried, with sudden passion, "that you have spoiled my life? It would be bright, hopeful, full of charm, but for you—you have marred and blighted it. I do not like you—I never did. The very way in which you won me was hateful to me; your love was all self. I never liked you. And now, when I could be happy—ah, Heaven, so unutterably happy—you come like a black shadow and rob my life of every bit of happiness that it contains. No wonder that I loathe you!"
"No," he said, gently, "it is not."
"Then why do you not be kind to me, and let me be quite free?" she asked, emboldened by the softening of his voice.
"You have guessed the reason," he replied. "You have said—it is because I am selfish to my heart's core. I sacrificed you once to my selfish love; is it likely that I should hesitate a second time?"
"You might well hesitate, because I suffered so keenly over the first."
The red flush deepened on his face, a strange light came into his eyes.
"I will not let you go free, neither will I cease from my endeavors to make you my wife; and the reason is because I love you. Oh, proud, fair, lovely woman! I love you with the very madness of love, with a desperation of the fiercest passion with a love that is my doom and yours. You have heard of men made desperate through love: look at me, you will see it. I will kill you if you attempt to leave me—if you attempt to give the love that ought to be mine to another man!"
"Thank you for the threat," she said.
"You drive me to threats, you give me no other recourse. I would fain be all that is kind and good to you; I would worship you; I would lay all that I have at your feet, only begging of you to take it. What would I not do to prove how dearly I love you."
"It is all self. We will have the plainest possible understanding. If there be any manhood in you, it shall be shamed. You shall have it in plain words. You quite understand that if ever I should marry you, it would be because by threats you had compelled me to do so; that I should hate and detest you if I became your wife even more than I hate and detest you now. As the days passed on, my loathing would become greater, so that no friendly word would ever pass between us, and I should consider you simply as a tyrant who bound me in chains. You understand all this?"
"I will risk it," he replied. "I should not despair of regaining your love in time."
The face she turned to him was pallid in its despair.
"You never would regain it," she said, calmly. "Yet there is one way in which even now you might gain my liking, my esteem, my sincere friendship."
His face kindled at the words.
"How, Dora? Tell me how!" he cried, eagerly.
"By saying to me: 'You are free. I took advantage of your youth and innocence; I am sorry for it. You are free! Forgive me the wrong that has been done, and let us friends.' If you would do that, Lord Vivianne, even now I should like you with a warm, true liking."
He was silent for a few minutes; her appeal had touched him greatly. Looking at him, she saw that his face had softened. Impulsively she laid a warm, soft hand on his.
"I never thought to use words of persuasion to you," she said. "I never thought to plead or to pray to you, but I do so now: be kind to me, and let me go free."
He was tempted for one minute; but that warm, soft hand crept like fire through his veins, his pulses thrilled, his heart beat.
Give her up!—this fair woman whose beauty maddened him! No! never, never—come what might!
"I would not release you, Dora. I would not give you up, if every angel, and every fiend combined, tried to take you from me!"
CHAPTER LXXV.
"HEAVEN SAVE EARLE!"
"August at last," said Lady Linleigh; "it is the first to-day. Not long now, Doris, until the tenth."
"No; not long," was the reply.
"Everything is ready and waiting at Hyde House," continued the countess; "the whole of your trousseau is ready, and a more magnificent one was never designed."
"I am more than satisfied with it," said the young beauty, "What time will Mattie Brace be here, Lady Linleigh?"
"About noon. I shall send the carriage to the station."
"I will drive my pretty ponies," said Doris, eagerly. "I have only used them once since papa gave them to me. She will be so pleased if I meet her."
"It is well thought of, my dear," said Lady Estelle. "Doris, do you know what I have done?"
"No, something kind and nice, like yourself; I know by the sound of your voice."
"I have ordered a very nice little trousseau for Mattie—dresses that will not be unsuited to her at home, yet will do for her to wear here. I shall be so lonely when you are gone that I thought of asking her to remain here. I shall miss you so much, Doris."
"And I shall miss you, dear Lady Linleigh. I never thought when you came home to my father's house, that I should learn to love you so dearly."
Lady Linleigh clasped her arms round the girl's neck.
"Tell me one thing," she said, caressingly; "do you think I have been as kind to you as your own mother would have been?"
"I do not think, dear Lady Linleigh; I am quite sure," she replied.
"It is an odd fancy of mine," said the countess, with a wistful smile, "but I have always been so fond of children. I have such a longing to hear a child call me mother. Doris—you will have left me in ten days. Will you kiss me, and say, 'Heaven bless you, my own mother?'"
"Of course I will. Heaven bless you, my own dear mother; you have been one to me. You have helped me in every little trouble and perplexity; you have been kind to me, without ceasing. Why, Lady Linleigh, your face is wet with tears!"
"Is it, darling? I feel your going away so much. But we must not remain talking here. If you wish to drive to the station, it is high time the ponies were brought round, and I myself wish to see that everything is as she will like it in Mattie's room."
The warmer days of the golden summer had passed away rapidly; it was the first of August, and the marriage was to be on the tenth. So great and entire had been the secrecy preserved, that no creature in that vast establishment knew anything at all about it, the servants and every one else thought that Mattie was simply coming for her yearly visit; but that the wedding of their young lady was on the tapis, no one for a moment suspected.
Lord Vivianne had not made a very long stay at Linleigh Court; matters were not very pleasant for him there. Lady Linleigh seemed suddenly to have grown very observant, and he found but few opportunities of speaking to Doris. After his impassioned, violent words on that evening, she had made no answer; the rapture and tenderness had all died from her face—a hard, fixed look came in her eyes.
"Let the worst come now," she said; "it will serve him right."
She pleaded and prayed no more; and it was well for him that he could not read the thoughts that were in her mind. He poured out such a torrent of passionate words she heard none of them. After a time she said:
"I think we have been out quite long enough, Lord Vivianne: we will return, if you please."
When they reached the lawn again, where the ladies, with their attendant cavaliers, were enjoying the fair, sweet night, he suddenly took her right hand, and kissed it.
"I shall hope to make this mine, one day," he said.
She snatched it from him with sudden violence, and it struck the trunk of a tree with such terrible force that he thought she had broken it.
"I will cut my hand off," she said, "if you touch it again."
He was startled by her vehemence.
"You do indeed hate me, Dora," he said, sadly.
"I do, indeed," was the reply.
And then they saw Lady Linleigh walking across the lawn to them.
"My dear Doris," her ladyship cried, "what is the matter, darling? See! you have a great stain of blood on your dress—and your hand! What has happened?"
She took the white hand, with its purple, bleeding bruise, into her own.
"What is the matter, Doris? Lord Vivianne, what is the matter?"
She saw that he looked dreadfully distressed.
"Dear Lady Linleigh, it is nothing," said Lady Doris, quickly, fearing that he would speak. "I was resting against the gate there, and I thought something was on my hand, a snake crawled over it—a horrible, slimy snake—and in my hurry, I bruised it against the gate—that is all."
"But," said the countess, perplexedly, "Lord Vivianne was with you."
"Oh, yes, he was there!"
"I was there, Lady Linleigh, and I am terribly distressed over the accident, but Lady Studleigh was too quick for me, before I could assure her that there was nothing the matter, she had flung her hand so violently that I thought she had broken it. There was no snake."
"There could not be," said the countess. "I have never heard of any snakes at Linleigh. Give me your hand, child. What a terrible bruise!"
The countess took her injured hand and gently bound it, little dreaming how it had been hurt.
After that Lord Vivianne had been very much subdued. Such an excess of hatred startled him; he could not realize it, he was half alarmed at the violence of the passion he had evoked; still no idea of yielding came to him. As he watched her, day after day, her beauty, her grace, grew more and more enchanting to him. It was not so much love as madness that possessed him; lie would not have relinquished his hold or have given her up to have saved his life.
During the remainder of his stay the countess kept keen, unwavering watch over him, but he had learned his lesson after what he had seen. How little she recked of physical pain, how careless she was of herself. He dared not venture to tease her; he felt that she was quite capable of committing murder if he drove her too far; he contented himself by saying to her when he was going:
"It is understood between us, then, Lady Studleigh, that I return on the twentieth of August for your decision."
"It is quite understood," she replied, with calm dignity.
"I hope it will be a favorable one to me, and I hope my reception will be kinder next time than it has been this."
"You will always be welcomed according to your deserts," she replied.
"I hope, above all, the poor, bruised hand will be better when I come again," he said, with a meaning smile, "and that you will not find any more snakes in those beautiful moon-lit grounds."
"It will be as well for the snakes to keep away," she said.
When he went, the little current of gayety that had come with him died away all together. Lady Linleigh was relieved when he had gone; without knowing what to suspect, she suspected something; she felt like some one walking on the brink of a volcano; but when he was gone, and a few days had passed without anything happening, she felt relieved. She had not forgotten the incident of the bruised hand; although everything else might be fancy, that was not. When Lord Vivianne bade the earl good-bye, he said:
"I have enjoyed my visit very much, Lord Linleigh; so much that if I should return by the same route about the end of August, I shall beg permission to repeat it."
The earl most cordially assured him that he would be welcome.
And so the bright summer days had worn away. To Lady Doris each one brought a fresh sensation of relief. The tenth was drawing near. Lord Vivianne was still in utter and profound ignorance of all that was transpiring. She would be married and away when he came back; how she enjoyed the thought of his discomfiture. She laughed aloud as she thought of his impotent anger.
"He may do as he likes then," she said; "I shall be Earle's wife. My fortune will be settled on me, and I shall defy him; if he tells his story then, he will not find many to believe him; Earle will not believe anything against his wife, I am sure. I must bribe some respectable family to say that I lived with them as governess in Florence. I shall conquer the difficulty when I am once married to Earle."
This was her one haven of refuge, her rock, her safe harbor from all storms; the end which she so ardently desired to gain; the one great object in life that she proposed for herself; it seemed to her all must be well then. She had written to Mattie asking her to come to Linleigh on the first of August: but so desirous was she of keeping her own secret, that she had not told her what for, and she did not tell her until they were driving in the pretty pony carriage back to the court; then she was so eager to tell her story, that she did not notice how pale the brown face had grown, or how the dark eyes looked full of unshed tears.
"So you have sent for me, Doris, to be your bridesmaid," said Mattie; "you, who might have some of the noblest and highest ladies in the land?"
"There would be none that I love like you, Mattie. We were sisters for years, you know."
Then Mattie was silent for a little time. She said to herself at first, that if she had known why Doris wanted her, she would not have gone, she would rather have done anything, have suffered anything than seen Earle married. Then she reproached herself for being selfish, and tried to throw all her heart and soul into her sister's plans.
Lady Doris wondered why Mattie suddenly kissed her face, and said:
"Heaven bless you, my darling; I hope you will be very happy. I should think, Doris, that you are the happiest girl in all the world."
"Yes," said Doris, "I think I am;" and she added to herself, bitterly, "Would to Heaven I were!"
The countess was more than kind to Mattie; in her own mind she was always thinking how to pay back to Mark Brace's daughter the kindness they had shown Doris. When the two young girls stood together in Lady Doris' dressing-room, she drew off her driving-gloves and laid them on the table; then for the first time Mattie saw the terrible bruise on the white hand; she bent down to look at it.
"What have you done to your pretty hand, Doris?" she asked. "What a frightful bruise!"
"I knocked it against something," was the vague reply. But Mattie saw the burning flush on her sister's face.
"What a pity. Now you will be married with a black, dreadful looking bruise on your hand. That will not get well in ten days."
"Sometimes I think it will never get well at all, Mattie," said Lady Doris, "it has been done some weeks already; I forget how long."
Mattie kissed the dark skin, and Lady Doris shuddered as she remembered whose lips had rested on that hand before.
"When is Earle coming?" she asked, and Lady Doris answered:
"On the eighth, he cannot leave London before, you have no idea what a famous man he is becoming Mattie."
She was glad to hear it; yet the old familiar prayer rose to her lips. Without knowing why, she said to herself: "Heaven save Earle!"