THE FALSE LIPS OF WOMAN.
Earle was not the only one who found Doris changed. She had hastened
home from that interview almost wild with excitement. Could it be that
the wildest dream of her life was realized at last; that this handsome
lord had offered her every luxury in the world; it seemed too bright a
vision to be real; she was obliged to look again at the diamond on her
finger to convince herself of its truth.
Mark Brace and his wife, as well as Mattie, wondered when Doris reached
home, where her animation and high spirits had gone. Mattie spoke, and
she seemed hardly to hear her; her mother asked her some trifling
question and she made no answer. She was like one in a dream. As a rule
she was the delight and torment of Mark's life. As they sat together in
the evening, she would puzzle him with questions--she would tease,
irritate, charm, and annoy him. But on this night Doris said no word,
and Mark fancied it was because Earle was away. He sat looking at her
with great solemn eyes, wondering who could fathom the mysteries of a
woman's heart. He had never thought Doris fond of Earle, yet there she
was, wretched, miserable, and lonely, because he was away.
How little he guessed that in her mind Earle was already of the past.
She had loved him as well as it was in her power to love any one, but
that was not much; and now that the grand temptation of her life was
before her all regard for Earle sank into insignificance. She was faint
with wonder, and amazed that she, Doris Brace should have made such a
conquest; her heart beat with delight, then sank with fear. Was he only
trifling with her, this handsome lord? Her face flushed proudly.
"If I thought he was only trifling with me," she said to herself, "I
should know how to treat him."
Then one look at the jewel on her finger reassured her.
"Gentlemen do not give jewels that cost hundreds of pounds unless they
really love and intend marriage."
There was some assurance of success in the gleam of the diamond. She had
been obliged to remove the ring lest her mother and Mattie might see it.
On the morning following Earle hastened to Brackenside. He was longing
to see his lady-love again; she was so kind to him when they parted--she
had been so unusually gentle that he had longed for more kindness. He
was at Brackenside before the breakfast was finished. One look at the
beautiful face of his love sufficed; she was dreamy, abstracted; she
seemed hardly to notice his entrance. No light came in her eyes as she
spoke to him; she did not make room for him by her side. When he went up
to her and tried to kiss the face he loved so well, she drew back, not
angrily, but carelessly.
"I never said you might kiss me every day, Earle," she said.
"I know, my darling, but I cannot help it. It has grown into a custom
now."
"When anything becomes a custom it ceases to be a charm," she said, with
unconscious philosophy.
Earle looked down sadly at her.
"Doris," he said, "you are so sadly changed to me, I cannot understand
it, dear. You say that I have not displeased you?"
"No," she said, carelessly, "I am not in the least displeased."
"Then, what have I done, my darling? I love you too madly to suffer
anything to come between us. If I could win your love by dying for it, I
would cheerfully die. Tell me what I can do to make you as you were once
to me?"
She raised her head impatiently.
"You are always talking nonsense, Earle. I cannot regulate my words and
thoughts as I would regulate a clock. I cannot undertake to be always
the same."
"You are charming, but your variety used to be one of your greatest
charms. I do not complain of that--the summer sky changes; it goes from
crimson to blue, and then white--you changed from grave to gay, and in
each mood you seemed to me most charming. It is not that now."
"What is it, then?" she asked.
He looked so wistfully at her that, if she had had any heart, it must
have been touched.
"I can hardly tell--I dare not even to myself say what your manner seems
to me. Doris, you cannot surely repent of having promised to marry
me--it cannot be that?"
His honest eyes grew so dim with pain--his face grew so white--she would
sooner, heartless coquette as she was, have stabbed him to the heart
than have answered "Yes." She turned away from him.
"I suppose you cannot help talking nonsense, Earle? I am not sentimental
myself, and so much of it wearies me. When you can talk about anything
else I shall be glad."
As soon as she could she quitted the room, and Earle was at a loss to
know what to do or say. He tried to comfort himself.
"She is so beautiful, my darling," he said, tenderly, "and beauty is
always capricious; it is but the caprice of a young girl. I must be
patient." He tried to school himself to patience, but he felt
unutterably sad. There was something in her manner he could not
understand. "I know what lovers' quarrels are," he thought to
himself--"they are the renewal of love; but I cannot understand this
dark, cold shadow which comes between us, and seems to hide from me the
beauty and light of her face."
He went out and tried to interest himself in his work, thinking to
himself that her mood would soon change, and then the sun would shine
for him again. But he found work impossible; he could think of nothing
else but the loved one's face with the shadow on it.
He went through the meadows, and stood leaning over the gate. When
Mattie saw him she watched him for some minutes in silence, her sweet,
homely face full of wistful anxiety, her eyes full of tenderest love. To
her simple mind he was as far above her as the angels were; but she
loved him as she never loved any one else. She had feared greatly for
him, and it had been some relief to her to find that Doris had really
promised to marry him and intended to keep her word. It was the first
time since she had heard the news of the engagement that she had seen
that look of doubt, almost despair, on his face, and it troubled her
greatly.
"What can have happened?" she said to herself; then, with a sudden sense
of foreboding, it seemed to her what she had always dreaded had come at
last.
Involuntarily the girl clasped her hands: "God save Earle!" she said;
then she went up to him.
She spoke twice to him before he heard her; then she started in alarm as
the white face, with its expression of bitter sorrow, was turned to her.
"Earle, what has happened?"
"Nothing," he replied. Then the sweet, mild, sympathizing face
reproached him with kindness. "Nothing has happened, Mattie," he said,
"but I am not happy; I am afraid that I have grieved Doris."
"What have you done to her?" she asked, briefly.
"That is what I want to find out and cannot," he replied. "Tell me,
Mattie, have you noticed a change in her?"
"Yes," replied the young girl, gravely, "I have, Earle, ever since the
day she went to the Castle. I wish she had never seen it. We were very
happy until then."
"Yes, we were happy," he replied sadly. "What has changed her, Mattie?
Tell me truthfully; never mind about giving me pain."
"I think she saw and envied all the magnificence that was there," said
Mattie; "our simple home and homely ways have been disagreeable to her
ever since."
"Will it pass away?" he asked, anxiously. "We must have patience with
her, Mattie. Who can wonder at it? She is so young and so lovely, it
seems only natural that she should care most for what is bright and
beautiful. Downsbury Castle seemed like fairyland to her. No wonder that
after it we all seem a little tame and dull."
"You can never be tame, Earle," said the girl, indignantly. "How can you
say such a thing? Tame indeed! I should like to say what I think on the
matter."
Her warm sympathy somewhat reassured him.
He looked up at her.
"You do not think, then, that it is anything serious, Mattie? I am so
glad. One so gay and bright as Doris naturally tires of a quiet home."
"I do not think home so very quiet. You are always there, and she ought
to find her happiness in your society."
"I am sure she does," he replied, hastily, unable to cast even the
shadow of blame on her; "but you see, dear, I love her so that a shadow
on her fair face drives me mad."
"You worship her, Earle," said Mattie, gravely; "and in this weary world
man or woman who commits that sin of idolatry is certain to suffer for
it."
"What can I do to win her smiles again?" asked the young lover.
"I do not know, Earle. I wish your happiness did not depend so entirely
on her smiles."
"It is too late to remedy that," replied Earle.
As he spoke he saw in the distance the glimmer of her dress between the
trees.
"There she is!" he cried. "I will go to her."
His face flushed crimson, and Mattie watched him sadly as he hastened
after her sister.
"How he loves her!" she thought. "Poor Earle! he has no life apart from
her; it is almost pitiful to see him."
Doris, believing herself unseen, had gone out hoping to avoid Earle. She
liked him too well to pain him, yet every moment she was drawing nearer
to the precipice.
"Anything," she said to herself, "is better than the sight of that
pained face."
She resolved to go down to the Thorpe Meadow and while away an hour or
two there. Earle would not dream of looking there for her; so she went,
taking with her one of her favorite French novels. She found a seat in a
shady nook. She opened the novel, but she could not read; the romance of
her own life was more exciting to her now than any other--that wild
romance of which the outward symbol was a diamond ring. She took the
ring from her purse and placed it on her finger. How it shone, and
gleamed, and glittered! So may the eye of the serpent have glittered in
the garden of Paradise. She held out her hand the better to admire it.
Her lover's words came back to her: "I will hang jewels on your
beautiful neck and round your white arms."
Her heart beat fast. That would indeed be a triumph. What was anything
else in the wide world compared to this? Besides, the young lord
sincerely loved her. Had he not so declared, with passion and truth
burning in his eyes? What was Earle's love--the love of a poor poet--to
the passionate rapture of a rich young lord, who was willing to marry
her, and could crown her with the rarest gems, give her every luxury in
life?
As the thought crossed her mind Earle drew near, at first unobserved by
her. His eye at once alighted upon the ring.
"That is a beautiful ring, Doris," he said, "and a costly one. Who gave
it to you?" He took her hand and held it tightly in his own, while his
face grew deadly pale. "I know but little of jewels," he continued, "but
I can tell that this is costly and valuable. Who gave it to you?"
Her face flushed deepest crimson, her eyes flashed fire.
"That is no business of yours," she replied.
But, rather to her surprise, Earle showed no fear of her anger, no
irresolution.
"I have a right to ask," he said. "You are my promised wife. Who gave
you the jewel you wear on your hand?"
"I refuse to answer you," she replied.
"Doris," he said, and there was more of contempt than of pain in his
voice. "Doris, has that anything to do with your coldness to me?"
For one moment she looked at him steadily, then she seemed to remember
that defiance and denial would be useless--would only cause inquiries.
Her only way out of the difficulty lay in untruth. She smiled sweetly in
his face.
"My jealous Earle," she said; "who do you think gave me this ring?"
"I cannot tell," he replied, gravely.
"Will you promise, if I tell you, never to mention it?"
"I promise faithfully, Doris."
"Lady Estelle Hereford gave it to me on the day I went to Downsbury
Castle. Are you jealous of her, Earle?"
"No, my darling. I hope the time may come when I shall bring you even
brighter jewels than this," and he kissed the fair, false hand as he
spoke.