Kitabı oku: «A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XXVI
THE LAST HAPPY DAY OF HIS LIFE

"Earle," said Doris, suddenly, "I hope you will keep your promise, and not mention to any person a word about this ring."

"I have never broken my word in my life," said Earle, proudly.

"Because, when Lady Estelle gave it to me, she wished me not to mention it; they would be so jealous at home. Mattie would want one like it."

Earle was indignant at this insinuation.

"You do not understand Mattie if you think that," he said. "She would be pleased in your pleasure, not envious." Doris laughed.

"You think all women are angels, Earle. I hope you may never find out your mistake."

"I hope not," he said. "Of course I will respect your wishes, and keep the most perfect silence. At the same time, I think you are rather imprudent; and any one, seeing such a valuable ring in your possession, would naturally wonder how you came by it."

"They may wonder," she said indifferently. "I know, and that is quite sufficient. Is it really valuable, Earle? What do you think it is worth?"

"I am no judge of such things," he said. "It is a large stone, full of fire, and without a flaw. I should imagine it to be worth two or three hundred pounds; it may be worth more, certainly not less."

Three hundred pounds. Why, the bare idea of it was fabulous – to have a lover who could give you such jewels; it was like a fairy tale, and he would hang chains of such round her neck and arms.

Earle wondered why she so suddenly grew abstracted and quiet – it was so unlike Doris, this dreamy repose. It had wanted but little to cause her to make up her mind as to her decision – such wealth as that was not to be despised. Earle suddenly grew quite insignificant in her eyes. When would he be able to give her a diamond worth three hundred pounds? Still, she would not let him even guess what were her thoughts; to-morrow she had to see her young lord lover – she would keep good friends with Earle till then; so she threw aside the many thoughts and ideas which haunted her, and turning to him, was once more her own charming self.

Earle was enchanted; she had but to smile at him, to give him a look of kindness, to evince the least sign of affection for him, and all was well; she was so completely mistress of his heart, soul, and mind, that she could do with him just as she would. He surrendered himself to the charm – he was more happy than words can tell; he said to himself that he had been mistaken, there was no coldness in her manner, no change; it had, after all, only been some little shadow of girlish reserve, some little variation of spirit; she was his own love – beautiful, tender, and true.

Seated by her, in the fair June sunshine, he told her all his hopes and his fears; he told her how he had fancied that her love was leaving him, that she was changing to him, that she had been caring less for him. Now he was delighted to find that she was all that was most kind, most amiable, and winning.

None, looking at the bright, happy face, could have guessed what was hidden underneath it – Earle least of all. Those eyes were full of heaven to him; he saw all truth, all honor, all nobility in the matchless features. Earle believed in her; drinking in the marvelous beauty of her face, listening to the sweet voice, he would have gone to death for her; it never entered his mind to doubt her.

So the summer hours passed, and Earle, completely happy, completely reassured, was in the seventh heaven of delight. They went home together. For long afterward did he dwell on the memory of that day, the last happy one of his life!

He remained at the farm until evening; he seemed unable to tear himself away. The moon was shining, and the stars were gleaming in the sky when he went. He asked Doris if she would walk with him just as far as the garden gate. She did not seem willing, but Mark Brace, who had noticed the wistful expression of the young lover's eyes, said:

"Go, Doris; the night is fine; going as far as the gate will not hurt you."

Unwillingly she rose to go. Another time she would have rebelled, but now the consciousness of the treachery she was meditating forbade that; she would do as they liked for the present.

Mattie held out her hand to Earle, with a grave, anxious look. If she could have saved him; if she could have done anything to help him! She seemed to have a foreboding that all was not well, that Doris was deceiving them.

"Good-night, Mattie," said Earle, in a low voice; "you see the sun is shining for me again."

"Heaven grant that it may always so shine!" said sincere Mattie.

Then she turned away from him abruptly. There were times when she could not bear those outward evidences of his love. She said to herself that Doris was quite unworthy of him – quite unworthy; but that if he had only cared for her, she would have made his life so bright for him.

Then the lovers went out together. Mattie, looking after them with a sigh, Mark Brace with a smile. Earle wishing that each moment of the starlight night could be lengthened into years, Doris silently wishing that there was no love in the world – nothing but diamonds.

Doris walked in silence to the garden gate. The picture was a beautiful one. The picturesque old farm-house lying in the soft moonlight, the moonbeams falling full and bright on the flowers, the fields, and the trees. The laburnums shining yellow and pale; the lilacs filling the air with sweet perfume; the starlight touching the golden head and face of the young girl until she looked beautiful and ethereal as an angel – lighting up the spiritual face of the young lover. Doris leaned against the gate, and directly over her head hung the flowers of the syringa tree. There was a deep, dreamy silence over the whole earth, as though the rest of heaven were lying over it. Earle was the first to speak.

"You look so beautiful, my darling," he said. "How am I to tear myself away?"

"Do not look at me," she replied, "then you will go easily enough."

"Do you want me to go?" he asked, bending a spray of syringa until it rested on her head. "Do you want me to go?"

No need to pain him yet. No need to wound with the point of a pin when she was preparing a sharp sword to stab him to the heart.

"Why should I want you to go?" Doris asked, with one of those sweet, subtle smiles which fire the hearts of men.

"I am so happy," he said, after a time, "here with you in the moonlight, my darling; it seems to me that earth and heaven have no higher bliss to give me. I wish you could see yourself, Doris. The moonlight just touches your hair, and makes it something like an aureole of glory round your head; it touches your face, and makes it like a lily leaf; it shines in your eyes, and they are brighter than the stars. Oh, my darling, all the words in the world could not tell how lovely you are!"

"There is something in having a poet for a lover after all," thought Doris.

"How am I to leave you? When I go away my heart clings to you; it is as though I were drawn by cords that I could not loosen; my eyes will not gaze in any other direction. Oh, Doris, if I could tell you how I love you, if but for once I could measure the height and depth of my own wild worship, if but for once I could tell you how dearly I love you, you would be compelled, in sheerest pity, to love me in return."

"Have I not said I love you Earle?" and her voice was sweet as the cooing ring-dove. "Whatever happens to either of us, be quite sure of one thing – whatever love I have to give is given to you."

He bent down and kissed her sweet, false lips, such unutterable happiness shining in his eyes that the great pity was he did not die there and then.

She lifted her face to his.

"It is not in me," she said, "to love as some people do; but, let what may happen, I do love you, and you have all my love."

He drew the lovely face to his own.

"I should like to take you in my arms and run away with you," he said; "to take you to some lonely island or solitary desert, where no one could ever try to take you from me."

She knew perfectly well that on the morrow she had to meet her lordly lover, yet, when Earle clasped her in his arms, and drew her head on his breast, she mutely accepted his caresses.

What she said was true – she might do what she would, she might love the prestige of Lord Vivianne's rank, she might love his wealth, and what it could bring her, but the whole affection of her heart – poor, mean, and false as it was – had been given to Earle.

As she listened to his low-whispered words, she thought to herself that it was most likely for the last time. The story of woman's falseness is never pleasant to write. When Earle thought that he had detained her as long as Mark Brace would wish her to be out, he said:

"I must go, Doris; it would be just as difficult to leave you in an hour's time as now. Good-bye, my love, good-bye."

Then she raised her golden head and fair, flower-like face. She clasped her soft, white arms around his neck, and said:

"Good-bye, Earle."

It was the first voluntary caress that she had ever offered him, and his heart beat with a perfect rapture of happiness.

She turned away; false, fickle, coquette as she was, the sight of his face touched her with no ordinary pain. How he trusted, how he loved her! Heaven help him! how his whole heart, soul, and life seemed wrapped up in her.

Doris went back into the sitting-room, where honest Mark Brace sat waiting for her, and Earle walked home. He hardly knew how he reached there, the glamour of his love was strong upon him, the moonlight was so fair, the whole earth so fragrant and so beautiful; he crushed the sweet blossoms under his feet as he walked along; he had gathered the spray of syringa, and he held it to his lips; shining among the stars he saw the fair face of his love, he heard her voice in the sweet whisper of the wind; he stood bare-headed under the night sky, while he said to himself, "Heaven bless her!" And when he entered his mother's house, the look of rest on his face, the light in his eyes struck her so, that she said:

"You look very well to-night, my son. Is it poetry or love?"

He laughed gayly.

"As though you could separate the two, mother. My love is all poetry, my poetry all love."

She laid her hand on the fair clustering brow.

"I am afraid that your love is your religion, too," she said.

"I am so happy, mother! What have I done that I should win the love of that pure, young heart? Do not say that I have no religion. I feel that I could kneel all night and thank Heaven for the treasure it has sent me. I shall be a thousand times better man for my love."

But Mrs. Moray was not to be convinced. She did not see Doris with the eyes of her son; she saw the girl's faults more plainly than her virtues – her coquetry, her vanity, her pride; whereas Earle saw only that she was exceedingly beautiful, and that he loved her better than he loved his life.

"It is a terrible thing," said Mrs. Moray, slowly, "for a man to give his whole heart into the hands of a creature as you have done, Earle. Why, what would become of you if you were to lose Doris, or anything happen to interfere with your love to separate you?"

She was startled at the expression of his face; he turned to her quickly.

"Do not say anything of that kind to me, mother; the bare idea of it drives me mad! What would the reality do?"

"It is not right, Earle, to love any one after such a fashion."

"But I cannot help it, mother," he replied, with a smile, "and that is where the whole of my excuse lies."

CHAPTER XXVII
HOW SHE WAS TEMPTED

The morrow came, but there was no hesitation on the part of Doris. Perhaps Lord Vivianne could not have done a better thing for himself than giving her that diamond ring; the light of it dazzled her; it reminded her, perpetually, of what might be hers; she might have felt some little remorse or sorrow but for that; when she looked at it she forgot everything except that she could have just as many as she liked of them.

It was in the morning when she went out to meet him; she had, adroitly, sent Earle to Quainton, under the pretext that she wanted some silk and wool; no one else would interfere with her. Mrs. Brace never attempted the least interference in her actions, so that she was perfectly safe. The loveliness of her face was not dimmed by one trace of sorrow or regret, yet she had quite decided upon betraying Earle, and leaving him to break his heart, or anything else that despair might urge him to do.

To have seen her walking through the sunlit fields and lanes, no one would have thought that she calmly and coolly contemplated the most cruel treachery of which woman could be guilty.

Across the long green grass fell the shadow of her lordly lover. He was standing by the stile, and on one side lay the dark woods, on the other rose the spire of the old church at Quainton. The whole scene was so fair and tranquil, it seemed almost wonderful that treachery and sin should exist. Doris trembled when Lord Vivianne came hastily to meet her.

"I began to think you would disappoint me," he said; "every minute that I have waited has seemed like an hour to me. What should I have done if you had not come?"

He took her hand as though it belonged to him.

"Shall we go to that shady spot in the woods?" he asked; "I can talk to you more easily there."

They walked on together, she listening to his honeyed compliments, his whispered words, hardly able to decide in her own mind, which was the braver wooer, the poet or the lord. Then they reached the pretty bank where the wild thyme grew. Lord Vivianne seated himself by her side in silence, then, after a few minutes, he said:

"I have so much to say to you I hardly know where to begin. I am not quite sure of my ground with you yet; I may offend you so seriously that you will, perhaps, order me from your presence, and never speak to me again."

She thought of the diamond ring.

"It is not very probable," she said.

"I am what is called a man of the world," continued Lord Vivianne. "I make no great pretensions to principle, but I can honestly say I have never deceived any one. I always start with a clear and straightforward understanding."

"I think it is the best, decidedly," she said. Then he took her hands in his, and with his eyes fixed on her face, he continued:

"I love you; I think you are the fairest and most lovely girl I have ever seen. I think also that, with your keen capacity for enjoyment, it is a sad thing that your life should be wasted here; I think that your beauty and your grace should make you one of the queens of the world – you ought indeed to be out in the world – it is cruel to keep you here, as it would be to bury a brilliant gem in a dark well." Then he paused, studying intently the expression on the downcast face. "I love you," he said. "I should like to be the one to show you the bright, brilliant world. If you honor me with your love, I can give you wealth in abundance, magnificence, such as would gladden the heart of a queen. I will make you the envy of every woman who sees you; you shall hang jewels at each ear that are worth a king's ransom; you shall have servants to wait upon you; you shall have carriages, horses, anything that your heart can desire. You shall not be able to form one wish which shall not be gratified. Doris – dear Doris – can you trust me? Will you go with me – will you be mine?"

The life he had pictured to her was exactly that for which she longed, and the words of her lover delighted her. Yet, as she reflected, there shone from out the glorious vista of the future the face of trusting Earle – the man she was about to betray.

"It will break Earle's heart," she said, slowly.

Lord Vivianne laughed aloud.

"Not at all," he said. "These country lovers do not die of broken hearts; he may feel very angry at first, but he will forget you in a few weeks, and fall in love, all over again, with some rosy-faced milkmaid."

"He will never forget me," said Doris; "and his despair will be terrible."

She shuddered a little as though some bleak, cold wind were blowing over her, then she said:

"If he knew I had betrayed him, and he found me, he would kill me."

Again Lord Vivianne laughed.

"Lovers do not kill their faithless loves in these prosaic days. An action of breach of promise, a good round sum by way of compensation, and all is over."

"You do not know Earle," she said, quietly. "I should be afraid of him if I deceived him."

"Never mind Earle!" said Lord Vivianne, impatiently; "I should say that it was a great impertinence of any one like Earle to think of winning such a beautiful prize as you. What has he to offer you?"

"His name and his fame," she replied, bitterly.

"What is a name? – and all copy-books of the goodly kind will tell you 'Fame is but a breath,'" he replied. "Never mind Earle, rely upon it that I can find some fair house either in sunny France or fair Italy where Earle will never disturb us. If you are really frightened at him, we will have no settled house, but we will roam over every fair land under the sun. Will you go, my darling, and leave this dull place?"

She was quite silent for some minutes. Perhaps the good and bad angels fought then for the weak, tempted soul; perhaps some dim idea of a heaven to be lost or won came to her; perhaps some vague idea of terrible wrong and deadly sin came to her and made her pause.

"Will you go, my darling?" he asked again, in a whisper.

She raised her eyes calmly to his face.

"Yes," she replied, "I will go."

He did not show his triumph in any extraordinary fashion; his dark face for one moment flushed burning red.

"You shall never repent it," he said, "you shall be happier than a queen."

He pressed her close to his breast, and imprinted upon her willing lips the most passionate of kisses.

"Dear Doris," he exclaimed, "you are mine – mine forever!"

For some moments they stood thus, his arm encircling her graceful waist. Then with an anxiety to complete the business in hand, he said:

"I leave the Castle to-morrow – I have already prolonged my visit to the utmost length, and I must go to-morrow. For your sake and mine, it will be better to avoid all scandal, all rumor. When I leave I shall go direct to London. Will you go to-night? Take a ticket for Liverpool, that will throw them all astray. When you reach Liverpool go to this hotel," and he handed her a card, "and I will join you there late to-morrow evening. The instant I reach London, I will take the express for Liverpool. Will you do that?"

"Yes; I do not see why I should not. I am a great hypocrite at times," she said, "and not particularly good; but I declare to you that I could not spend even a day more with Earle, knowing that I was intent upon deceiving him. Yes, I will go to-night."

"Good; that clears all difficulties. Then there is another thing; leave a letter behind you to say that you are tired of the dull life; that you can bear it no longer, and that fearing opposition, you have left home quietly, and have taken a situation as English teacher abroad. No one will suspect the truth of such a letter."

Gentle Mrs. Brace, honest Mark, loving Mattie – something like regret did seize her when she thought how earnestly they would read that letter, and how sincerely they would believe it.

"There is another thing," said this cold-blooded lord; "promise me that you will, at least until I join you, wear a thick veil. You have no idea what a sensation such a face as yours would make; you would easily be traced by it."

She smiled, well pleased with the compliment.

"Once away over the sea," he said, "and my proudest, keenest delight will be to show the whole world the beautiful prize I have won. Mind, the veil must be so thick that not one feature, of the face can be seen through it."

"I will remember," she said, with a smile.

Then he took from his pocket a purse well filled.

"I know you will not be angry," he said. "You cannot ask for money, or people will begin to wonder why you want it. You will take this."

A faint flush rose to her face.

"I must," she replied, "I have none of my own."

Then she rose; it was time to return to the house she was so soon to abandon.

He bent down to kiss her, and drew the beautiful face to his, just as Earle had done.

Thoughts of her treachery again disturbed her, and she shuddered as though with cold.

"You are tired, my darling," he said. "Go home and rest."

They parted under the trees. He went away, and as she walked slowly home, she said to herself:

"I have killed Earle!"