THE COQUETTE AND THE MAN OF THE WORLD.
Earle wondered much what had happened to change his lady-love so
completely. Looking back, he found that she had never been quite the
same since the day she went to the Castle. At first he thought it merely
a girlish feeling of discontent; that it would pass away in time as the
remembrance of all the luxury and splendor she had seen faded from her.
Every morning when he arose he thought, "It will come all right to-day;
she will put her sweet arms around my neck, and bend her beautiful face
to mine, and tell me she is sorry--oh! so sorry, that she has been cold
to me."
But the days passed on, and that golden dream was never verified; the
coldness seemed to grow greater, and the shadow deeper.
Once, when she was walking out with Earle, she saw Lord Vivianne. He was
walking down the high-road, and she knew well that he had been at the
farm to look for her. Her heart beat when she saw him as it had never
done for the man she had promised to marry. Earle was an ordinary man;
this was a lord, and he had been purposely to look for her. He looked so
handsome, so distinguished; she turned almost involuntarily from him to
Earle, and the contrast was not in the poet's favor. Lord Vivianne was
beautifully dressed in the most faultless and exquisite taste. Earle had
not the advantage of a London tailor.
As they drew nearer, Earle, quite unconscious that Doris had ever seen
the stranger before, made some remark about him.
"He has a handsome face," said Earle, "but it is not a face I like; it
is not good."
"Good!" repeated Doris; "that is like you and Mattie. Earle, you think
every one must be good."
"So they must," replied Earle.
Then they were both silent, for the stranger was just passing by. He
looked at Doris, but he did not bow or speak to her; only from his eyes
to hers there passed a strange gleam of intelligence. He did not think
it wise to make any sign of recognition before the young escort who
looked at him with such keen, questioning eyes.
"He would only begin to ask half a hundred questions about me, which she
would find it difficult to answer," he thought; so he passed on in
silence, and for a few minutes Doris was beside herself with vexation.
"It is all because this tiresome Earle is with me," she thought. "If I
had been alone he would have stopped and have talked to me. How can I
tell what he would have said? Perhaps he would have asked me to marry
him--perhaps he is going away, and he wanted to bid me good-bye. Oh, if
I could but see him alone!"
She looked again at Earle, and it seemed to her that in comparison with
this other young man he was so inferior, she felt a sudden sense of
impatience that made her unjust to him.
Earle thought no more of the stranger who had passed them on the
high-road--it was nothing very unusual--strangers passed them
continually. But Doris thought of nothing else. She had begun the walk
in the best of spirits, but now she hardly spoke. Earle could not
imagine what change had passed over the summer sky of his love. She was
impatient, complained of being tired, turned to go home.
He was growing accustomed to her caprices now; and though they pained
him, as the unkindness of those we love is certain to pain us, still he
bore it patiently; he used to think that as she was young the quiet home
life tired her. It would be all right when he could take her away, where
she would be happy and bright; still the pain was very keen, so keen
that it blanched his face, and made his lips tremble. If she could make
him so happy, why could he not suffice for her?
Doris wanted to be alone and to think over what had happened. Lord
Vivianne had been there in the hope of seeing her, that was certain. If
he had been once, it was just possible that he might come again. She
resolved on the morrow to be out alone, no matter what Earle said.
Chance favored her. Earle came over quite early, and remained but a
short time. His mother wished him to go over to Quainton, and he would
not return till evening. "So that I shall not see much of you, my
beautiful Doris," he said.
She was so relieved to hear it that it made her more than usually kind
to him. She looked up to him with a sunny smile; she held her bright
face for him to kiss; she was so kind to him that all his fears died
away, and he rejoiced in the sunshine of his perfect love.
She was kind to him, gentle, caressing, loving, because she was going to
deceive him. Women are so constituted, they can veil the greatest
cruelty with a pretense of the greatest affection.
There was no fear in the heart of her young lover, while she knew that,
if the opportunity were given to her, she would assuredly perjure
herself.
Earle went away completely happy, and when he was gone Doris breathed
freely. She went to the dairy where her mother and sister were busy at
work. She looked for a minute with great contempt on the cans of rich
milk and cream. Mattie was deeply engaged in the mysteries of curds and
whey.
"Mother," said Doris, "you do not want me?"
"Well, for the matter of that, it is not much use wanting you, my dear;
you do not like work."
"Indeed I do not. It is such a pleasant morning, I thought of going
through Thorpe Woods."
"Very well. Though mind, Doris, it is not quite right for you to go out
amusing yourself while Mattie works so hard."
"But if I stay at home I shall not work, so I am better out of the way."
Mrs. Brace knew it was false reasoning; but what was the use of saying
so; she had long since ceased arguing with Doris.
"Do not expect me back very early. I may go on to see Lottie Granger,"
said Doris.
Thinking it wise that no hour should be set for her return, she intended
to cross the high-road and linger in the hope of seeing him. There was
no fear of discovery. Her mother and Mattie were settled for the day,
Earle had gone to Quainton, her father was away in some distant
meadow-land. She hoped that she could see her lord, for no time could be
more favorable for a long conversation. She was singing up stairs in her
own room.
"I must make myself look as nice as I can," she thought.
She inspected her wardrobe; there was really nothing in it worth
wearing. She gave an impatient sigh.
There was a plain white hat, trimmed with blue ribbon; there was a black
lace shawl and a white muslin dress. She hastened down into the garden
and gathered a beautiful rose; she fastened it into her hat, and it was
instantly transformed into the most becoming head-gear. The black lace
shawl, by a few touches of the skillful fingers, became a Spanish
mantilla, and hung in graceful folds over the pretty muslin.
Her toilet was a complete success; she had that marvelous gift of
transforming everything she touched. At school she had been the envy of
her companions; she had a taste that was at once artistic and
picturesque, and it was nowhere displayed to greater advantage than in
her own dress.
When she looked in the little glass all doubts as to the success of her
appearance faded at once. There was a dainty flush on her lovely face,
the beautiful eyes were bright as stars. What matter the fashion of the
hat that covered that luxuriant hair? She smiled at herself.
"There is not much fear, my dear," she mused, "that you will fail in
anything you undertake."
Then, in the fair June morning, she went out to meet her doom.
She had not gone many steps on the high-road when she saw Lord Vivianne
coming. Like a true coquette she feigned unconsciousness, and pretended
to gather the woodbines from the hedges.
He smiled at the transparent artifice. She did not know how well he had
studied the nature of woman, how perfectly he was acquainted with every
little art.
She muttered a most musical exclamation of surprise. When she turned
suddenly round and saw him, she made what she considered a grand effect
by suddenly dropping all her wild flowers, as though the surprise had
overcome her.
"Let them be," he said; "happy roses do die by so fair a hand. I am so
pleased to see you, Miss Brace. What happy fortune sent me on this
road?"
She did not play off the same pretty airs on him that had so completely
captivated poor Earle; she did not ask him to call her Doris, and say
how she detested the name "Brace." Peers and poets require different
treatment.
"My poor roses," she said; "I had been so happy in gathering them."
"Never mind the roses," said Lord Vivianne; "there are hundreds more. I
want to talk to you. Are you going for a walk? May I go with you?"
"I am going to Thorpe Woods," she replied, "and if you wish to go with
me I am willing."
She spoke with the proud grace of a young princess. For the moment he
actually forgot she was but the daughter of a tiller of the soil.
"I thank you," he said, gravely; and they turned aside from the
high-road to the fields that led to Thorpe Woods.
The day was so lovely that it might have reminded him that life had
brighter aims than the wrecking of a woman's soul and the winning of a
woman's love; but it did not. The birds sang in the trees, the fair sun
shone, the hawthorn covered the hedges, the woodbine scented the air,
and they walked on, never even hearing the myriad voices that called
them to look from earth to heaven.
"I was so anxious to see you again," said Lord Vivianne. "I tried to
forget you, but I could not."
"Why should you wish to forget me?" Doris asked, coquettishly.
"Some men would flatter you," he replied, "and tell you that you are so
fair they dreaded to remember you. I tell you the honest truth. I heard
something which made me wish that I had never seen you, or that, having
seen you, I might forget you."
"What did you hear?" she asked.
"You can guess. I heard that--young, lovely as you are--some one has
been wise enough and quick enough to win you."
She smiled a slow, cruel, peculiar smile, and when Lord Vivianne saw
that expression on her face, he felt that his victory was won.
"They tell me," he continued, "that this fair beauty, which ought to
have the world to do it homage, is to be shut up in the obscurity of a
country home; that the fair girl, who might win the hearts of all men,
has promised herself to a farmer. Is it true?"
Her eyes were raised to his, and in them there was a cold glitter, as of
steel.
"Supposing that it is true, what then?" she asked.
"Then I regret, with my whole heart, having seen you, for I have met you
too late."
And after that they walked in silence for some minutes. He gave the
words full time to do their work; he saw that they were full of meaning
to her, for her face flushed, and her eyes drooped. He continued in a
lighter tone:
"Pray do not think me very impertinent if I inquire whether that was
your shepherd lover with whom I saw you yesterday?"
She raised her beautiful head proudly. Because he was her lover, no one
should ridicule Earle. She might desert him, betray him, break his
heart, but no one should utter one word against him--not one.
"That was my lover with whom you saw me," she said, in a cold, clear
voice. "You have spoken of him as a farmer, he is not that. I should not
have fallen in love with a farmer. He is a poet and a gentleman."
"He looks like it," said my lord, seeing that he was altogether on the
wrong track, "therefore I say how deeply I regret that I have met you
too late. You cannot surely, Miss Brace, be angry with me for saying
that?"
"I am not angry at all," said Doris, and the beautiful eyes were raised
frankly to his. "How can I be angry," she continued, "when you pay me
the greatest compliments in your power."