Kitabı oku: «A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette», sayfa 18

CHAPTER XLII
"THIS IS YOUR REVENGE – TO HUMILIATE ME."

"I am bound to believe you," he said, "although my faith in you has been terribly shaken. I ask you because I heard that you passed here as a married lady. Is that true?"

A keen observer might have noticed that her face grew pale – that she trembled and seemed for one moment uncertain.

"Is it true?" repeated Earle.

In the eyes raised to his face there was such blank innocence of expression that, in spite of his doubts, he felt ashamed of himself and his words.

"You heard such a thing of me!" she said. "Why, who could have told you?"

"That matters little; I heard it. Is it true?"

"You puzzle me," she said, with the same startled expression. "Why should I do such a thing – why pass myself off as married? I do not understand – you puzzle me, Earle."

"Is it true, or not?" he repeated.

"No," she replied.

"You swear that, likewise, before Heaven?"

"Certainly," she said, promptly. "I do not understand."

Then he blamed himself for being hard upon her.

"We will not discuss it any more," he said, "I have other things to say to you."

She looked slightly embarrassed, the fact being that she had quite lost her fear of him, and was only pondering now upon what she should do to get him away. It would never do for Lord Vivianne to return and find him there; there would be a quarrel, to say the least of it. Besides, Lord Charles was not the most patient of men. What would he do if he heard this nonsense about Earle claiming her? She had no idea of going back with Earle – sooner or later she would tell him so. It was very awkward for her, and she heartily wished she had never seen him. She had no idea, even ever so faint, of going back to Brackenside. She resolved that while he was talking she would settle her future plan of action. At first she hardly listened to him, then by degrees his words began to have a strong, weird interest for her.

"Doris," he said, "I think I have brought the strangest message that one human being ever brought to another. Give me your full attention."

She turned her beautiful face to his, thinking that he was going to say something about love or marriage. Far different were the next words that fell upon her ear.

"Doris," he said, "you have always believed yourself to be the daughter of Mark and Patty Brace, have you not?"

"Yes," she replied, wonderingly, "what else could I believe? You are the son of Mrs. Moray, of Lindenholm, are you not?"

"Certainly; but that is beside the question. You never, even in your own mind, doubted the truth of what you say?"

She laughed the little, careless, sweet laugh that he remembered so well.

"To tell the plain truth, Earle, I never felt myself quite a Brace – the manners and tastes of those good people were so different to my own."

"Then what I have to say will not shock you. You had no great love for the simple farmer and his kindly wife?"

"If you wish for the truth, again I say no. I had no great love for them. They were good in their way – that way was not mine."

"So it seems," he retorted. "Then you will not suffer any great amount of pain if I tell you that Mark Brace is not your father, nor his kindly wife your mother?"

"Now, Earle, you are inventing a romance to please yourself."

"Does it please you, Doris? I leave inventions to yourself; I tell you the plain, honest truth – you are no relation of theirs."

"Who am I, then? If you take my old identity from me, you must, at least, give me a new one," she said, laughingly.

Her utter want of feeling and absence of all emotions annoyed him greatly.

"I will tell you a story," he said.

And with a grace and pathos all his own, he told the history of that night so long ago, when the little child was found at the door of the farm-house.

She looked incredulous.

"Do you mean to tell me that I was that child? A wretched little foundling! I do not believe one word of it. This is your revenge – to humiliate me."

"You will know better soon," he replied, quietly. "Yes, you were that little child. Patty Brace took you to her arms, and honest Mark Brace treated you like his own."

Her face flushed crimson, her lips curled with scorn, her eyes flashed light.

"I look very much like a foundling, do I not? Earle Moray, take your absurd stories elsewhere." She held up one white hand. "That looks like the hand of a foundling, does it not? Shame on you for trying to humiliate me! It is a pure invention. I do not believe one word of it, and I never shall."

"You have only heard the commencement," he replied, coolly. "Remember, I never used the word 'foundling' to you – you used it to yourself. It is not probable that I should do so when I know whose daughter you are."

"Ah! Do you know? May I ask what honorable parentage you have assigned to me? This grows amusing. Remember, before you say another word, that I distinctly refuse to believe you."

"You will change your mind," he said, quietly. "I have not the least doubt that I am here to tell you the simple truth, and to take you back to your father."

The impulse was strong upon her to say that she could not go, but she refrained, thinking it quite as wise and politic to hear first to what she was to return.

"You must not ask me how I know your history," said Earle, "but it suffices that I know it. Let me tell you also, it did not surprise me so very much. I always thought, myself, that you were, as you say, 'of a different kind.'"

He saw the color creep slowly over her face and a new light dawn in her eyes.

"You will, henceforward, occupy a very different position, Doris," he said, gravely; "your place will be henceforth among the nobility."

"Ah! that's better," she said in a low voice.

But he could see that she trembled with impatience. She had clasped her hands so tightly that the rings she wore made great dents in the tender flesh; still she would not betray her impatience.

"Your father is a nobleman, a wealthy British peer – Earl Linleigh – and you are his only child."

She grew white, even to the lips, and her breath came in quick gasps.

"Earl of Linleigh?" she repeated. "Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, Earle?"

"There is no mistake, Doris; your name and title is now Lady Doris Studleigh. Do you like it? Does it sound well?"

She drew her breath with a deep, heavy sigh.

"I cannot believe it, Earle," she said, "it seems quite impossible that it should be true. It is what I used to dream when a child, but I never thought the dream would be realized. I cannot believe it, Earle."

It was significant enough that she refused to believe him when she fancied that he wished to lower her in the social scale; but she never expressed the slightest doubt of his truth now, nor did even the faintest doubt occur to her. After the first emotion of surprise had passed, she looked at him again.

"My mother?" she said – "you have told me nothing about her. Who is she?"

"I have nothing to tell," he said; "I have nothing to say about her. I was commissioned simply to tell you this. I may add that your father's marriage was a private one, that he was for many years in India, and is now returning home to take possession of his estates."

"A private marriage!" she said, slowly. "I hope he has not married beneath him."

"There is no doubt but that the whole story of his marriage will be told to you," said Earle. "And now, Doris, listen to me – you must return with me; I cannot go without you. I promised that you should go back with me, and it is imperative. The marriage will not be declared until you reach home."

"It is so sudden," she said.

"Yes, but you surely cannot hesitate, Doris. Remember not only what awaits you – your golden future – but remember, also, it is your own parents who summon you."

"You do not quite understand, Earle. I have no hesitation in going. Of course I shall go, but I want time to think."

"If you fear the people you are staying with will not be willing for you to go, it is a great mistake; they could not possibly make any objection. I will see them for you, if you like."

She raised her head in quick alarm.

"No, I would rather not, it is not needful. Give me just ten minutes to decide. You are just; give me ten minutes in silence to think."

He remained mute and motionless by her side.

The Arno rippled musically at her feet; birds sang above her head.

"Tell me again;" she said, "what will my rank and title be?"

"You will be the Lady Doris Studleigh, only daughter of the Earl of Linleigh – "

"And my fortune?" she interrupted.

"Of that I know nothing; but I should say it must be large. You will probably be a wealthy heiress."

"And there is a place waiting for me in the grand world?"

"Most certainly," he replied.

"Now, then, let me think, Earle; I am all bewilderment and confusion. Let me arrange my ideas, then I will explain them to you."

He did not know why she sat so silent, while quiver after quiver of pain passed over her face – why her hands were so tightly clasped; but she in that hour was reaping the reward of her folly.

What had she done? Had she, by her wicked sin, by her intense self-love, her eagerness for pleasure and luxury, her little esteem for virtue, her frivolous views of vice – had she by all these forfeited that glorious birth-right which was hers? Had she lost all chance of this grand position which would fill the greatest desire of her heart? It was this most terrible fear that blanched her face and made her hands tremble, that caused her to sit like one over whom a terrible blight had fallen. In her passionate desire for change and luxury, for pleasure and gayety, she had never even thought of her own degradation; it was a view of the subject that she had not yet taken; she had only thought of the lighter side. Now it seemed to look her in the face with all its natural deformity. She shrunk abashed and frightened – horror-stricken – now that she saw her enormity in its full colors.

Still, it was not the sin that distressed her; that was nothing to her. It was the idea that through it she might lose the glorious future awaiting her; if this had not happened, she would never have regretted her fault. If it were known – if this proud nobleman knew that she had passed as the wife of a man to whom she was not married, would he ever receive her as his daughter? No; she knew enough of the world to be quite sure of that. Even Mark Brace would not do it. If he had the faintest possible idea of what her life had been since they parted, would he receive her, and think her a suitable companion for Mattie? No; she knew that he would not; he would have forgiven any sin save that. A disgraceful sin like hers he considered beyond pardon.

If Mark Brace, with his kindly, simple heart, could not pardon her, was it probable that Earl Linleigh would? No! The only hope that remained to her was to keep her past life, with its terrible blunder, a dead secret – there was no other resource. Could she do that? It was just possible.

Only yesterday she had been railing against her life, declaring that it was all a disappointment, that she saw no one, and was getting tired of it; now she felt thankful that it was so, that she had seen but few strange faces, and most of these had been Italian ones. So that if she could keep her secret, she trusted no one would recognize in Lady Doris Studleigh the person who had been known as Mrs. Conyers.

CHAPTER XLIII
THE COQUETTE'S BLANDISHMENTS

"Have you finished thinking yet, Doris?" asked Earle, gently.

"No," she replied. "I am getting a little clearer in my ideas, but I have by no means finished yet."

She had two plans before her. One was to wait for Lord Charles and tell him all – to trust to his generosity to keep their secret. Then she laughed bitterly as she repeated the word "generosity" – he had none. He was reckless, extravagant over money, but as for generosity, honor, or principle, she knew he had none. In trusting to that she would indeed trust to a broken reed.

Besides, if she were once established in this new sphere of life, it would be highly disagreeable and offensive to have any one near her who knew of this episode. If Lord Vivianne know, he would always have her in his power; he would hold the secret like a drawn sword over her head. No; better for her own safety to steal away from him without saying one word. Even if, in the after years, they should meet again, it was hardly possible that he would recognize her, surrounded by all the luxuries of her position, the honored daughter of noble parents. It was not likely that he would recognize in her the girl who had left Brackenside for his sake. As for leaving him – far from feeling the least regret, far from seeing that she was treating him dishonorably, she smiled to herself at his consternation when he should return to the river-side and not find her.

"He will think that I have run away with some one else," she thought; and the idea amused her so intensely that she laughed aloud.

"You are well content," said Earle, bitterly.

"Why should not I be? You have brought me wealth and fortune, title and honor – all that my soul loves best. Why should I not be content?"

She had finished her musing now, and it had brought her to two conclusions: she must leave Lord Vivianne at once, and in silence, while she must at the same time, at any price, keep her secret from Earle.

Another and very probable idea occurred to her. It was this: by Earle being sent to fetch her, it was very evident that her parents approved of him, and that she would have to marry him. Looking at him, she thought it was not such a bad alternative, after all. He was handsomer, younger, stronger than Lord Vivianne; besides, what little affection she had had to give had always been his. Then she arose from her seat with a smile.

"I have finished thinking, Earle. To make matters square, I promise myself that I will not think again for ever so many months."

"What is the result of your deliberation?" he said.

"I wish you would be a little kinder to me, Earle. You speak so gravely, you look so coldly, that you make me quite unhappy."

His face flushed slightly and his lips trembled.

"I do not wish to seem unkind, Doris, but let me ask you – what else besides coldness and gravity can you expect from me?"

"You know I always liked you, Earle."

"I know you betrayed and deceived me about as basely as it is possible to deceive any one. But we need not discuss that now."

She looked at him with a smile few men could resist, and held out her hands.

"Be friends, Earle; I like you too well, after all, to travel with you while you look so cold and stern. Give me one smile – only one – then I shall feel more at my ease."

"I do not think my smiles cheer, or the loss of them depresses you. Neither can I smile to order; still you need have no fear of traveling with me."

It was in her nature to respect him more, the more difficult he seemed to please.

"I shall manage him in time," she thought.

"I shall return with you, Earle," she said. "I have been thinking it all over, and I will go at once. I will not wait to say good-bye to the people here."

"But that seems strange – not quite right. Why not go and bid them farewell? Tell them the good fortune that has happened to you."

"No; they are very fond of me – the children especially. You do not know; they would not let me come away."

"But it does not seem right," persisted Earle.

"It is right enough; if I go back to them I shall not go with you. I can write to them as soon as I reach England, and tell them all about it."

"I know you will have your own way, Doris. It is useless for me to interfere; do as you please."

"That is like my old lover, Earle; now I begin to feel at home with you. I did use you very wickedly, but all the time I liked you."

"I know exactly the value of your liking," said Earle, who had determined to be cool and guarded.

She talked to him in the old sweet tones; she gave him the sweetest glances from her lovely eyes; she remembered all the pretty arts and graces which had attracted him most; and Earle, despite his caution, despite his resolve, knew that his heart was on fire again with the glamour and magic of her beauty; knew that every pulse was throbbing with passion; and she knew, as well as though he had put it into words, that the old charm was returning, only a thousand times stronger.

She laid her white hand on his arm, and he shrank shuddering from the touch. She only smiled – her time would come.

"I shall not return to the house where I have been living. The reason is that I wish them to forget me. I shall not like, when I am Lady Doris Studleigh, to be recognized by them."

That pride was so exactly like her, he understood it well.

"You can return to Florence, if you like," she continued, with the air of a queen; "but if you wish to please me, you will walk on with me to the nearest railway station, and let us go at once to Genoa. We can travel from Genoa to London."

"But I have left my things at the hotel," he said.

"Is there anything particular among them, Earle?"

"No," he replied.

"Then you can send for them on your arrival. Please yourself. If you do not go on my terms, I shall go alone."

Then he looked at the rippling, golden hair, that fell in such shining profusion over her shoulders, at the dress of rich velvet, silk and delicate lace.

"You are not dressed for traveling. Why be so hasty?" he said.

"I can purchase anything I want at Genoa," she replied.

Then he noticed for the first time what costly jewels she wore, and how her hands were covered with shining gems. For the first time a thrill of uneasiness, of doubt, of fear, shot through him.

"You have some beautiful jewels, Doris," he said, slowly.

Her face flushed, then she laughed carelessly.

"How easy it is to deceive a man," she said; "a lady would have known at one glance that they were not real."

He felt greatly relieved.

"They are pretty, but not very valuable," she continued – "given to me by the children I have been teaching. If you do not like them, Earle, I will throw them into the Arno one by one."

"Why do that, if the little children gave them to you? I am no judge of precious stones, but looking at the light in those, I should have thought them real."

"Do you know that if they were real they would be worth hundreds and hundreds of pounds? You must think an English governess in Italy coins money."

He looked admiringly at her handsome dress, although too inexperienced to know its real value.

"This is my best dress, too," she said. "And do you know, Earle, that as I put it on I said to myself, I do not look amiss in this; I wish Earle could see me."

"Did you really?" he asked, a flush of delight rising to his brow. It is so very easy to deceive a generous and trusting man, that one might almost be ashamed to do it. "Did you, Doris? Then, although you ran away from me so cruelly, you did like me, after all?"

"Oh, Earle, what a question! Like you? Did you not feel sure that when I had seen something of the world – had allayed the fever of excitement – that I should return to you? Did you not feel sure of it?"

No such thought or intention had ever been in her mind, still she wished to make the best of matters. It was no use for her to return to England unless she was the best of friends with him. A few untruths, more or less, did not trouble her in the least, only provided that he believed them.

"I never thought so," was his simply reply. "I believed you had left me forever, Doris."

"You must never judge me by the same rule you would apply to others, Earle. I told you so from the beginning of our acquaintance, I tell you so now."

"I believe it," he replied.

Yet, although he saw that she wished to make friends, and was flattered by the belief, he could not all at once forget the anguish and sorrow she had caused him.

Then she took out a little jeweled watch that she wore. Time was flying. In one short half-hour Lord Charles would be back with her flowers and news of the opera-box.

"How angry he will be," she said to herself, "to think that any one should thwart his sovereign will and pleasure. He will look in every pretty nook by the river-bank, then he will go into the house and ask, 'Have you seen Mrs. Conyers?' And no one will be able to answer him. I should like to be here to see the sensation. Then he will be sulky, and finally come to the conclusion that I have given him up, and have run away from him."

She was so accustomed to think of him as selfish, loving nothing but himself, that she never imagined that he had grown to love her with a madness of passion to which he would have sacrificed everything on earth. She had been so entirely wrapped up in her own pursuits, in the acquisition of numberless dresses and jewels, that she had not observed the signs of his increasing devotion. Blind to his mad passion for her, she decided upon leaving him; and of all the mistakes that she ever made in her life, none was so great as this.

Ten minutes later they were walking rapidly toward the little town of Seipia: there they could go by train to Genoa. As they walked along the high-road Doris laughed and talked gayly, as though nothing had happened since they were first betrothed.

"This reminds me of old times, Earle," she said. "How goes the poetry, dear? I expect to hear that you have performed miracles by this time."

"You destroyed my poetry, Doris, when you marred my genius and blighted my life!"

She laid her hand caressingly on his.

"Did I? Then I must make amends for it now," she said.

And he was almost vexed to find how the words thrilled him with a keen, passionate delight. Suddenly she raised a laughing face to his.

"Was there a very dreadful sensation, Earle, when they found out I was gone?"

The smiling face, the laughing voice, smote him like a sharp sword. He remembered the pain and the anguish, the torture he had suffered, the long hours when he had lain between life and death; he remembered the fame he had lost, the sweet gift of genius, all destroyed; his heart broken, his life rendered stale and profitless, while she could smile and ask with laughing eyes if there had been much sensation.

"I believe," he cried, with a sudden flame of passion, "women are nerved with heartlessness!"

She was scared by his manner. Deep feeling and earnestness were quite out of her line; her bright, shallow nature did not understand it, but she saw that for the future it would be better to say nothing to him about such matters as her running away from home.