"I WILL BE TRUE--FOREVER."
Despite all the love eagerly made by Earle, and readily accepted by
Doris, there was no formal engagement. A hundred times the decisive
words trembled on the lips of the poet-lover, and he chided himself that
they were not uttered. But then, if she said "no," what lot would be
his? As for Doris not being prepared to say "yes," she deferred
decision, and checked Earle on the verge of a finality, for she was not
ready to dismiss her suitor. If he fled from Brackenside, what pleasure
would be left in life?
She had soon ceased her efforts to flirt with Gregory Leslie; he
regarded her with the eye of an artist--what of his feeling that was not
artistic, was paternal.
At first, she had hoped that an opening might be made for her to city
life. She had wild dreams that he could get an engagement for her as an
actress or concert-singer, where wonderful beauty would make up for lack
of training; she built wild castles in the air, about titled ladies who
would take her for an adopted daughter, or as a companion. But Gregory
Leslie was the last man to tempt a lovely, heedless young girl to the
vortex of city life.
She told him one day of some of her longings and distastes. She hated
the farm, the country. She wanted the glory of the city--dress,
theaters, operas, promenades.
"Can't you tell me how to get what I want?"
"Child," said Gregory, "you would weary of it, and long for peace. You
have a devoted young lover, who offers you a comfortable home at
Lindenholm."
"To live with my mother-in-law!" sneered Doris.
"An admirable woman. I have met her."
"It would be just this dullness repeated all my life," said Doris,
tearful and pouting.
"It would be love, comfort, safety, goodness. Besides, this young Moray
is one of our coming men. He has native power. I am much mistaken if he
does not make a name, fame, place, fortune."
"Do you suppose he will one day go to London and be great?"
"Yes, I do."
"I would like that. A poet's lovely home, where learned people, and
musical wonders, and famous actors, and artists _like you_, Mr. Leslie,
come; and we had flowers, and pictures, and song, and gayety."
"It is pleasant, well come by. You might have it all, as Mr. Moray's
wife, if at first you waited patiently."
Earle took new value in this ambitious girl's eyes.
Meanwhile, warned by the experience with Leslie, which might have turned
out so differently, had Leslie played lover, and offered London-life to
Doris, Earle resolved to press his suit, and urge early marriage. He
must have some way of holding fast the fair coquette. To him the
marriage tie was invulnerable. Once his wife, he fancied she would be
ever true. Yes, once betrothed, he believed that she would be true as
steel. So one fine September morning, when Leslie's picture was nearly
finished, Earle came up to the farm, resolved to be silent no longer. He
met Mattie first. He took her hand.
"Mattie, dear sister-friend, to-day I mean to ask Doris to be my wife.
Wish me success."
Mattie's heart died within her, but the true eyes did not quail, as she
said:
"I hope she will consent, for I know you love her. Heaven send you all
good gifts."
"If she does not take me, my life will be spoiled!" cried Earle,
passionately.
"Hush," said Mattie. "No man has a right to say such a word. No one
should ever throw away all good that Heaven has given him, because of
one good withheld."
"Does she love me? Tell me!"
"I do not know. There is no way but to ask her."
They heard a gay voice singing through the garden. In came Doris, her
arms laden with lavender flowers cut for drying. She came, and filled
the room with light.
"You here, Earle!" cried Doris. "Come up to the coppice nutting with me;
the hazel bushes are full."
She held out her hand, frank and natural as a child, and away they went
together.
Doris was fantastic as a butterfly that day. She danced on before Earle.
She lingered till he overtook her, and before he could say two words,
was off again. Then she sang gay snatches of song. She noted his
anxious, grave face, and setting her saucy little head on one side,
trilled forth:
"Prithee, why so pale, fond lover,
Prithee, why so pale?
For if looking well won't move her,
Looking ill must fail."
Finally, at a mossy seat under an oak tree, he made a dash, caught her,
drew her to his side, and cried:
"Doris, be quiet and hear me; you _shall_ hear me; I have something to
tell you--something important."
"Bless us!" cried Doris, in pretended terror. "Is it going to rain? Are
you going to tell me something dreadful about the weather, and I have a
set of new ribbons on!"
"Dear Doris, it is not about the weather; it is an old, old story."
"Don't tell it, by any means. I hate old things."
"But this is very beautiful to me--so beautiful I must tell it."
"If you are so distracted about it, after the fashion of the Ancient
Mariner and his tale, I know you have told it to at least half a dozen
other girls."
"Never!" cried Earle; "never once! It is the story of my love, and I
never loved any one but you."
"You have the advantage of me," said Doris, with a charming air. "It
seems you have loved once; I never loved."
"Doris! Doris! Don't say that!" cried Earle, in agony.
"Not? Why, how many experiences should I have had at my age?" demanded
Doris, with infantine archness.
"Yes, you are a child--a sweet, innocent child. But love me, Doris. Love
me and be my wife. You know I adore you. Do not drive me to despair. I
cannot live without you! Will you be my wife?"
Doris looked thoughtfully at Earle. From her eyes, her face, one would
have said that she was realizing for the first time the great problem of
love; that love was dawning in her young soul as she listened to Earle's
pleading.
But in her heart she was telling herself that this play of love would
give a new zest to her life at the farm, would add a little excitement
to daily dullness; that, even if she promised, she need not be bound if
anything better came in her way. Earle Moray might be the best husband
she could find. What was it Mr. Leslie had said about him?
Earle, unconscious of this dark abyss in his idol's soul, sat watching
the wide, violet eyes, the gently parted lips, the pink flush growing
like the morning on her rounded cheek.
He put his arm gently about her.
"Doris, answer me."
"Can't I wait--an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year?"
"No!--a thousand times no! Suspense would kill me!"
"Why, I wouldn't die so easy as that."
"Doris, answer me. Say yes."
"Yes," said Doris, placidly.
Earl caught her in his arms, and kissed her fervently.
"Is that the way you mean to act?" laughed Doris, sweet and low. "Why
did you tell me to say 'yes,' and get my hair rumpled, and my dress all
crushed up that way?"
"You are mine, my own Doris! Tell me, no one else shall ever make love
to you, or kiss you--you will never be another's?"
"Of course not," said Doris, with delicious assurance.
"You will be true to me forever."
"Yes; I will be true forever," said Doris.
If she played at love-making, she would play her part perfectly, let
come what would afterward.
"And you will marry me? When will you marry me?" urged this impetuous
young lover.
"How can I tell? This is all very pleasant, being lovers; and then you
must ask--the people at the farm." She spoke with reluctance. It always
irritated her to call the honest Brace family "parents, sister." "I
can't be married till they say so. And--there's your mother."
"They will all agree to what will make us happy."
"And will you agree to what will make me happy?"
"Yes, my darling, with all my heart and soul!"
"Then you must build up fame, and get money, and go to London to live,
for I do not love this country life. Only think, to live in London among
the _literati_ and the noted people! We will surely do that Earle?"