AN IMPASSIONED WOOING.
"This is the very place for lovers," said Lord Vivianne.
They had reached an open piece of moorland, where the shadows of the
tall trees danced on the grass, and great sheets of bluebells contrasted
with starry primroses. There was a bank where the wild thyme grew,
sheltered by a tall linden-tree. The birds seemed to have made their
home there, for the summer air resounded with sweet song.
Lord Vivianne drew aside the fallen branch of a slender willow, that she
might find room to sit down.
"The very place for lovers," he repeated.
She looked at him with a smile:
"But we are not lovers," she said; "therefore it is not the place for
us."
"False logic! fairest of ladies!" he replied; "there is no knowing how
soon we may become lovers, though. I feel sure we did not meet for
nothing."
"Can a girl have two lovers?" she asked, looking up at him with the
frank eyes of an innocent child.
He laughed.
"That quite depends on the state of one's conscience," he replied, "and
the elasticity of one's spirits. If two lovers are objectionable, the
proper thing is to send one away."
"Which should be sent away?" she asked.
"I should say the one that is loved the least. Tell me, now, do you
really love this country admirer of yours very much?"
"I do not understand why you ask me."
"Do you not? I will tell you. Because everything that interests you
interests me; your pains and pleasures would soon be mine."
"I have no pains," she said, thoughtfully, "and no pleasures."
"Then yours must be a most dull and monotonous life. How can you, with
so keen a capacity for enjoyment--how can you bear it?"
"I do not bear it very well," she replied; "I am always more or less
bad-tempered."
He laughed again.
"You improve upon acquaintance, Miss Brace. You are the first lady whom
I have heard plead guilty to bad temper. As a rule, women prefer making
themselves out to be angelic."
"I am very far from that," said Doris, frankly; "nor am I naturally
bad-tempered. It is because nothing in my life pleases or interests me."
"Not even your lover?" he said, bending over her and whispering the
words.
She blushed under his keen gaze. Her words had betrayed more than she
meant to betray.
Then he added:
"Would you like it changed--this dull life of yours--into one of fairy
brightness?"
"I should; but it will not be possible. My fate in the future is
fixed--nothing can alter it."
"Yes," he said, gently, "there is one thing that can alter it, and only
one--your will and mine."
Then he seemed to think that for a time he had said enough. He looked
over the trees, and began to talk to her about the flowers. Doris did
not much care about that--she had not come out to listen to the praises
of flowers; she would rather ten thousand times over that her lordly
lover had praised herself.
While he was talking, she was thinking of many things. Was it a dream,
or a reality, that she, Doris Brace, daughter of Mark and Patty Brace,
was really talking to a lord, listening to his compliments, that he
admired her quite as much as Earle did? It was more like a dream than a
reality. He, who had been half over the world, who belonged to the
highest society, who had seen and known the most beautiful women in
England, to be talking to her so easily, so kindly.
"I must be beautiful," thought the girl, in her heart, "or he would
never have noticed me."
Then she recalled her wandering thoughts. The sun was shining full upon
them, and all its light seemed to be concentrated in a superb diamond
that he wore on his left hand. No matter where she looked, her eyes
seemed to be drawn to that stone; the fire of it was dazzling. Then her
eyes wandered over the well-knit figure. What a difference dress made.
Earle, in such garments as these, would look like a nobleman. Her
attention was suddenly attracted.
"You do not answer me," he was saying.
She looked up at him.
"I beg your pardon," she said; "I was not really listening to you."
"I was telling you that I ought to have left the Castle three days ago,
but I was determined that I would not leave until I had seen you. I do
not know how I can tear myself away."
Again she blushed crimson. Could it be possible that he had stayed
purposely to see her?
"I should rather think that you stayed to enjoy a little more of Lady
Estelle's society," she said.
"Lady Estelle," he repeated. "You do not suppose that any one could find
any pleasure in that perfect icicle."
"Icicle! I should never give her that name. She seemed to me, on the
contrary, almost sentimental."
"My dear Miss Brace," he said, "it is simply impossible that we can be
speaking of the same lady. I assure you that Lady Estelle Hereford is
known everywhere as the coldest and proudest of women. She has had many
admirers, but I do not think she ever loved any one."
The girl's eyes were now fixed on him in perplexity and wonder.
"Never in love!" she repeated. "Why, she gave me a long lecture about
love, and advised me never to marry without it. When she spoke of it her
face quite changed, her eyes lost their indolent expression and filled
with light. I thought she was the most romantic and sentimental lady I
had ever met."
"I can only say that I believe it to be the first romantic idea of her
life. She is cold, reserved, high-bred, and graceful, I admit; but as
for sentiment, she has none of it."
"We have evidently seen her from different points of view," said Doris.
"I wonder which is the correct one."
"I dislike contradicting a lady, but must state that I am likely to know
her better than you. I have known her many years, and you have only met
her once."
"Still we differ considerably," said Doris.
"And you think it possible that I should remain for her sake? Of all the
people in the world she interests me the least."
"She interests me most deeply. I thought of fire and ice, sun and snow,
and all kinds of strange contradictions while I talked to her."
"It is for you I remained--never mind Lady Estelle. We will not waste
the sunny hours of this lovely morning talking about her. You have not
told me yet if you prefer this country admirer of yours to all the
world; if you do, there remains for me nothing except to take up my hat
and go. I know how useless it is even to attempt to win even one corner
of a preoccupied heart."
"Why should you wish to win one corner of mine?" she asked, stealing
from underneath her long lashes one sweet, subtle glance that was like
fire to him.
"Why!" he replied, passionately; "because I long to win your whole heart
and soul; your whole love and affection for myself. I cannot rest; I
know no peace, no repose; I think of nothing but you! Why should I not
win your heart if I can?"
She shrank back, trembling, blushing; the fire and passion of his words
scared her.
"Your face haunts me; I see it wherever I gaze," he continued. "Your
voice haunts me, I hear it in every sound. I would fain win you, if I
can, for my own; but if you tell me that you love this country admirer
of yours--this man to whom a perverse fate has bound you--if you tell
me that, I will go, and I will never tease you again."
Then she knew that she held the balance of her life in her own hands,
and that the whole of her future rested with herself. Should she be true
to Earle, say she loved him, and so lose the chance of winning this love
from a lord, and resign herself to her quiet, dull, monotonous life? or
should she cast him from her and betray him?
"One word--only one word," whispered Lord Vivianne, bending his evil,
handsome face over her.
"You think such a question can be answered in a minute," she said. "It
is impossible. I can only say this, that I liked him better than any one
else one short month ago."
He grasped her hand and held it tightly clasped in his own.
"You say that--you admit that much! Oh, Doris, the rest shall follow. I
will not leave Downsbury until I have won the rest."
Then his eyes fell upon the diamond ring, shining and scintillating in
the sun. A sudden thought struck him: he held her white hand in his own,
and looked at it as he held it up to the light.
"How fine and transparent," he said. "I can see every vein. Such a hand
ought to be covered with jewels."
She was of the same opinion herself. Then he drew off the diamond ring
that shone like flame on his own finger; he looked entreatingly at her.
"I wonder," he said, "if you will be angry? This was my mother's ring,
and I prize it more than I do anything in the wide world. I am afraid.
Promise me you will not be angry."
It was, to say the least of it, a great stretch of imagination. Lord
Charles Vivianne would never have troubled himself to have worn his
mother's ring; but even he, bold and adventurous as he was, thought some
little preamble necessary before he offered her so valuable a gift.
"There is a strange, sad love-story connected with it," he said, "which
I will tell you some day; but it is dear to me, because it was my
mother's ring." Then he drew it from his finger. "I should like to see
how it looks on that pretty white hand of yours," he said, laughingly;
and, as he spoke, he drew the ring on her finger.
It shone and glanced like fire; the sunbeams seemed to concentrate
themselves on it; and, certainly, the beautiful white hand looked the
lovelier for the ring. He looked at it admiringly.
"You were born to wear jewels," he said. "You ought never to be without
them."
She laughed with the faintest tinge of bitterness.
"I do not see from whom I am to get them," she said.
"As my wife you could get them, and everything that your heart could
wish. Think of it, and compare a life of ease and luxury with your dull
existence here. You will let me see you again? I have so much to say to
you."
"Yes," she replied; "I will see you, if I can get away from home."
"You can always do that." Then he held the little hand even more tightly
in his own. "I am half afraid," he said, quietly; "but I wish that you
would allow me to offer you this ring."
She looked at him suddenly, and with a burning flush on her face.
"To me?" she said, hesitatingly.
"Yes, if you will only make me happy by accepting it as a little memento
of the day on which we first met."
"But it is so costly--it is so very valuable."
"If it were not it would not be worth offering to you," he replied. "I
should be so happy if you would wear it--it is the first time a jewel
has given me such pleasure."
"How can I wear such a splendid ring?" she said. "Every one who sees it
will wonder where it came from."
"You will be able to manage that," he replied; "you are so clever. I
cannot doubt your skill. Say you will accept it, Doris?" She was quite
silent for some minutes, then a low voice whispered to her: "I will hang
jewels more costly than this on your beautiful neck, and round your
white arms; you shall be crowned with diamonds, if you will. See how
marvelously fair it makes that sweet hand of yours. Jewels crown a
beautiful woman with a glory nothing else can give. You, above all
others, ought to be so crowned, for there is no other woman so fair."
The flush died from her face. She had not quite made up her mind. There
came before her a vision of her past lover, with his wild worship, his
passionate love; of all the vows and promises she had made to him; of
his trust and faith in her. If she took this lord's ring, and promised
to meet him again, it meant forsaking Earle. Besides, he had spoken of
making her his wife. Was he in earnest?
She rose hurriedly from her seat. He saw that her lips quivered and her
hands trembled; she was agitated and confused.
"Give me time," she said. "You frighten me. I can hardly understand. I
must go now; they will think that I am lost."
He rose with her, and stood by her side.
"You will keep the ring, Doris, for my sake, in memory of the time when
I first saw you?"
"I will keep it," she replied, hastily. "Oh, Lord Vivianne, let me go; I
am frightened--this is so different to being with Earle. Let me go."
"You will meet me again," he urged, "say on Friday--you will not
refuse--at this same time and same place? I will lavish the luxury of
the whole world on you, if you will only care for me."
But now that her ambition was satisfied, was realized, she was
frightened at her own success, and hastened away.