A SHINING MEMORY.
Yes, Mark, in plain phrases, had told his story. Mrs. Moray had opened
the way, saying, frankly:
"Have you anything to tell us?"
"Yes. Doris is not my daughter. She was left, being two months old or
thereabouts, on my door-step, with a letter and a hundred pounds. Here
is the letter for you to read. I have done my best for the girl, and I
love her. I have tried to meet the wishes of her unknown mother. And of
that mother and her history I know no more than you. If this makes a
difference, now is the time to speak."
"It makes no difference," cried Earle; "only, if possible, I shall love
her more than ever, she having no kith or kin."
"I saw she did not look in the least like any of you," said Mrs. Moray,
thoughtfully.
Mark smiled.
"Yes, she is fine china, we are delf. I have never hinted this thing to
Doris, and whatever you decide, I wish the secret rigidly kept, as I
have kept it."
"What is there to decide!" cried Earle. "We are betrothed."
"Your mother may think differently," said Mark.
"Of course I am very sorry that the girl has no name or position," said
Mrs. Moray.
Earle flushed.
"Her name will be our name, and her position I will make for her; and it
will be honorable, I promise you."
"You are a stanch fellow," said Mark. "But I pledge you to keep this
secret always. The idea of being a foundling might make Doris miserable,
drive her half wild. Or it might set her up to some queer caper. She has
a fine spirit of her own."
"Is she hard to manage?" asked Mrs. Moray, anxiously.
"I never found her hard to manage," said Earle, the dauntless.
"I hope you'll tell the same tale twenty years from now," said Mark,
with a laugh.
He felt glad this matter was settled.
"We shall never mention it," said Mrs. Moray, yielding to the
inevitable.
"And on the wedding-day I'll give her a hundred pounds, and she shall
have a hundred pounds in her outfit."
"You are very generous, Mr. Brace," said Mrs. Moray.
"Doris is quick and keen. She'll ask you, Earle, what we were saying out
here. You may mention the hundred pounds."
Just as he had foreseen, Doris questioned Earle, and he told her of the
promised outfit and the wedding gift.
All this reconciled her more to the idea of marrying.
"My mother sha'n't interfere with what I get for my outfit," said she to
herself. "I'll dress like a lady for once. One hundred pounds in clothes
will make a very fair show."
Alas, Patty, in her thrifty mind, had already destined part of this
hundred pounds to sheeting and table-clothes, blankets and pillow-cases!
A hundred pounds for clothes! Fie on the extravagance! A white mull for
the wedding gown, a black silk, a cashmere. This was Patty's notion of a
suitable bridal _trousseau_!
"A hundred pounds on my wedding-day to use as I like."
"You may be sure I sha'n't touch it," laughed Earle.
"A hundred pounds! That is kind of him; but it is not much. I could
spend it in one hour in London."
"Spend it in an hour. I'm glad you are not fond of money."
"I _am_ fond of it. Money is the salt and essence of life."
"And you marry a man who has almost none?"
"But a man who can, who must, make a great deal."
"Suppose I should not?"
She looked at him in alarm.
"Suppose you should not? I tell you I would rather die than be mean, and
plain, and poor, all my life."
"Dear child, you do not understand. You have exaggerated ideas. You
shall never be left to suffer. Cheer up. I will make money, and you, my
little idol, shall spend it!"
"That is fair," cried Doris, joyously. "I'll buy no end of things."
Gregory Leslie finished his picture of "Innocence," and took it away,
knowing it should grace the walls of the Academy the next May. At
Brackenside he had found an artistic ideal, and reached the acme of his
art life. Doris wondered a little, the while she had inspired the
artist, she had not conquered the man. Earle and Gregory made a compact
of friendship and parted--to meet in pain.
Earle entered into a very happy winter. As Doris had inspired the artist
so she inspired the poet; and Earle sang as he had never sung before. A
little volume of his verses found a publisher, and public approval, and
though the recompense did not at all meet the idea of Doris, yet she
told herself that fame led the way to fortune.
Indulged by Mark and Patty, and waited on by Mattie, while Earle was in
daily raptures over her charms, as bride-elect Doris managed to pass the
winter at the farm with some content. Mark had hired for her a good
piano, she had a store of French novels, and she sedulously refused to
have any steps taken in the matter of wedding paraphernalia.
And yet, as the weeks crept by, Doris began to be weary of lover and
friends and country home, and her longing for the gay world and all its
glories filled her fantastic heart.
"Oh, why does not some lord with a coach and six come along and carry me
off and marry me?" she cried one day as she sat in the window, lazily
watching the falling snow.
"Surely you would not give up Earle for any lord!" cried Mattie.
"Wouldn't I! I only hope for his sake I'd not be tempted. If the lord
had money enough, and jewels enough, and memorial castles enough I'm
afraid, Mattie, you'd be left to console Earle."
"Child, don't talk in that reckless way," said Mrs. Brace.
"I'm only telling the truth. I find in myself a natural affinity for
lords," said Doris, and Mrs. Brace sighed and flushed.
Well, the winter passed, and the love-making of Earle was becoming an
old story, and farm life a weariness to the flesh, but still Doris hid
her vexations and unrest in her heart. The hawthorn bloomed, when Mark
came in one day, crying cheerily:
"Here's something like old days. The duke is coming home for good, and
Lady Estelle is finally quite well and strong, but unmarried
still--more's the pity."
"They've been away long," said Patty, uneasily.
"Ay. How long is it since I've seen his grace? Not since they all came
here."
Patty looked warningly at him.
He stooped to tie his shoe.
"The duke been here!" said Doris. "The duke and his family to a common
farm-house!"
"A farm-house is not so poor a place, missey," said Mark.
Doris sprung up.
"I remember--now I remember! I've had gleams of it, and wondered what I
was trying to think of. They came in a gorgeous coach, with men in
livery that I thought quite splendid; the duke, a tall, grand man, and
with him two ladies?"
"Yes," said Patty, shortly.
"I can see my memories best in the dark," said Doris, shutting her
lovely blue eyes. "It is a vague dream of a fair, proud face, a shining,
lovely lady all in lace, and silk, and jewels!"
"That was Lady Estelle Hereford," said Mark, carried away.
"Lady Estelle Hereford! There's a name worth wearing! Why did not I have
such a name--not that hateful Doris Brace!"
"Your name is good enough," said Mark, tartly.
"Why did they come?" demanded Doris.
These people were not good at fine evasions, but Mark made shift to
answer:
"The duke is my landlord; it is only proper for him to see his best farm
now and then."
"Did they see me?" urged Doris.
"Listen to Vanity! As if she was the show of the house!" said Mark.
"So I am. What here is worth seeing in comparison?"
"If that doesn't beat all!" said the scandalized Patty.
"Yes, he saw you," said Mark; "and now your next question will be, 'Did
he admire me?' I won't answer you."
"There's no need; it goes without saying. Of course he admired me if he
had eyes. I must have been lovely. Why did you not have my picture
taken? I must have looked just like one of Correggio's little angels."
"Whose?" asked Mark.
"You didn't act much like an angel, if I remember right," said Mattie,
quietly.
"Who cares for the _acting_, so long as one has the looks?" inquired
Doris, with simplicity. "Share and share alike between sisters, you
know, Mattie. I'll _look_ like an angel, and you'll _act_ like one!"