THE LAST HAPPY DAY OF HIS LIFE.
"Earle," said Doris, suddenly, "I hope you will keep your promise, and
not mention to any person a word about this ring."
"I have never broken my word in my life," said Earle, proudly.
"Because, when Lady Estelle gave it to me, she wished me not to mention
it; they would be so jealous at home. Mattie would want one like it."
Earle was indignant at this insinuation.
"You do not understand Mattie if you think that," he said. "She would be
pleased in your pleasure, not envious." Doris laughed.
"You think all women are angels, Earle. I hope you may never find out
your mistake."
"I hope not," he said. "Of course I will respect your wishes, and keep
the most perfect silence. At the same time, I think you are rather
imprudent; and any one, seeing such a valuable ring in your possession,
would naturally wonder how you came by it."
"They may wonder," she said indifferently. "_I_ know, and that is quite
sufficient. Is it really valuable, Earle? What do you think it is
worth?"
"I am no judge of such things," he said. "It is a large stone, full of
fire, and without a flaw. I should imagine it to be worth two or three
hundred pounds; it may be worth more, certainly not less."
Three hundred pounds. Why, the bare idea of it was fabulous--to have a
lover who could give you such jewels; it was like a fairy tale, and he
would hang chains of such round her neck and arms.
Earle wondered why she so suddenly grew abstracted and quiet--it was so
unlike Doris, this dreamy repose. It had wanted but little to cause her
to make up her mind as to her decision--such wealth as that was not to
be despised. Earle suddenly grew quite insignificant in her eyes. When
would he be able to give her a diamond worth three hundred pounds?
Still, she would not let him even guess what were her thoughts;
to-morrow she had to see her young lord lover--she would keep good
friends with Earle till then; so she threw aside the many thoughts and
ideas which haunted her, and turning to him, was once more her own
charming self.
Earle was enchanted; she had but to smile at him, to give him a look of
kindness, to evince the least sign of affection for him, and all was
well; she was so completely mistress of his heart, soul, and mind, that
she could do with him just as she would. He surrendered himself to the
charm--he was more happy than words can tell; he said to himself that he
had been mistaken, there was no coldness in her manner, no change; it
had, after all, only been some little shadow of girlish reserve, some
little variation of spirit; she was his own love--beautiful, tender, and
true.
Seated by her, in the fair June sunshine, he told her all his hopes and
his fears; he told her how he had fancied that her love was leaving him,
that she was changing to him, that she had been caring less for him. Now
he was delighted to find that she was all that was most kind, most
amiable, and winning.
None, looking at the bright, happy face, could have guessed what was
hidden underneath it--Earle least of all. Those eyes were full of heaven
to him; he saw all truth, all honor, all nobility in the matchless
features. Earle believed in her; drinking in the marvelous beauty of her
face, listening to the sweet voice, he would have gone to death for her;
it never entered his mind to doubt her.
So the summer hours passed, and Earle, completely happy, completely
reassured, was in the seventh heaven of delight. They went home
together. For long afterward did he dwell on the memory of that day, the
last happy one of his life!
He remained at the farm until evening; he seemed unable to tear himself
away. The moon was shining, and the stars were gleaming in the sky when
he went. He asked Doris if she would walk with him just as far as the
garden gate. She did not seem willing, but Mark Brace, who had noticed
the wistful expression of the young lover's eyes, said:
"Go, Doris; the night is fine; going as far as the gate will not hurt
you."
Unwillingly she rose to go. Another time she would have rebelled, but
now the consciousness of the treachery she was meditating forbade that;
she would do as they liked for the present.
Mattie held out her hand to Earle, with a grave, anxious look. If she
could have saved him; if she could have done anything to help him! She
seemed to have a foreboding that all was not well, that Doris was
deceiving them.
"Good-night, Mattie," said Earle, in a low voice; "you see the sun is
shining for me again."
"Heaven grant that it may always so shine!" said sincere Mattie.
Then she turned away from him abruptly. There were times when she could
not bear those outward evidences of his love. She said to herself that
Doris was quite unworthy of him--quite unworthy; but that if he had only
cared for her, she would have made his life so bright for him.
Then the lovers went out together. Mattie, looking after them with a
sigh, Mark Brace with a smile. Earle wishing that each moment of the
starlight night could be lengthened into years, Doris silently wishing
that there was no love in the world--nothing but diamonds.
Doris walked in silence to the garden gate. The picture was a beautiful
one. The picturesque old farm-house lying in the soft moonlight, the
moonbeams falling full and bright on the flowers, the fields, and the
trees. The laburnums shining yellow and pale; the lilacs filling the air
with sweet perfume; the starlight touching the golden head and face of
the young girl until she looked beautiful and ethereal as an
angel--lighting up the spiritual face of the young lover. Doris leaned
against the gate, and directly over her head hung the flowers of the
syringa tree. There was a deep, dreamy silence over the whole earth, as
though the rest of heaven were lying over it. Earle was the first to
speak.
"You look so beautiful, my darling," he said. "How am I to tear myself
away?"
"Do not look at me," she replied, "then you will go easily enough."
"Do you want me to go?" he asked, bending a spray of syringa until it
rested on her head. "Do you want me to go?"
No need to pain him yet. No need to wound with the point of a pin when
she was preparing a sharp sword to stab him to the heart.
"Why should I want you to go?" Doris asked, with one of those sweet,
subtle smiles which fire the hearts of men.
"I am so happy," he said, after a time, "here with you in the moonlight,
my darling; it seems to me that earth and heaven have no higher bliss to
give me. I wish you could see yourself, Doris. The moonlight just
touches your hair, and makes it something like an aureole of glory round
your head; it touches your face, and makes it like a lily leaf; it
shines in your eyes, and they are brighter than the stars. Oh, my
darling, all the words in the world could not tell how lovely you are!"
"There is something in having a poet for a lover after all," thought
Doris.
"How am I to leave you? When I go away my heart clings to you; it is as
though I were drawn by cords that I could not loosen; my eyes will not
gaze in any other direction. Oh, Doris, if I could tell you how I love
you, if but for once I could measure the height and depth of my own wild
worship, if but for once I could tell you how dearly I love you, you
would be compelled, in sheerest pity, to love me in return."
"Have I not said I love you Earle?" and her voice was sweet as the
cooing ring-dove. "Whatever happens to either of us, be quite sure of
one thing--whatever love I have to give is given to you."
He bent down and kissed her sweet, false lips, such unutterable
happiness shining in his eyes that the great pity was he did not die
there and then.
She lifted her face to his.
"It is not in me," she said, "to love as some people do; but, let what
may happen, I do love you, and you have all my love."
He drew the lovely face to his own.
"I should like to take you in my arms and run away with you," he said;
"to take you to some lonely island or solitary desert, where no one
could ever try to take you from me."
She knew perfectly well that on the morrow she had to meet her lordly
lover, yet, when Earle clasped her in his arms, and drew her head on his
breast, she mutely accepted his caresses.
What she said was true--she might do what she would, she might love the
prestige of Lord Vivianne's rank, she might love his wealth, and what it
could bring her, but the whole affection of her heart--poor, mean, and
false as it was--had been given to Earle.
As she listened to his low-whispered words, she thought to herself that
it was most likely for the last time. The story of woman's falseness is
never pleasant to write. When Earle thought that he had detained her as
long as Mark Brace would wish her to be out, he said:
"I must go, Doris; it would be just as difficult to leave you in an
hour's time as now. Good-bye, my love, good-bye."
Then she raised her golden head and fair, flower-like face. She clasped
her soft, white arms around his neck, and said:
"Good-bye, Earle."
It was the first voluntary caress that she had ever offered him, and his
heart beat with a perfect rapture of happiness.
She turned away; false, fickle, coquette as she was, the sight of his
face touched her with no ordinary pain. How he trusted, how he loved
her! Heaven help him! how his whole heart, soul, and life seemed wrapped
up in her.
Doris went back into the sitting-room, where honest Mark Brace sat
waiting for her, and Earle walked home. He hardly knew how he reached
there, the glamour of his love was strong upon him, the moonlight was so
fair, the whole earth so fragrant and so beautiful; he crushed the sweet
blossoms under his feet as he walked along; he had gathered the spray of
syringa, and he held it to his lips; shining among the stars he saw the
fair face of his love, he heard her voice in the sweet whisper of the
wind; he stood bare-headed under the night sky, while he said to
himself, "Heaven bless her!" And when he entered his mother's house, the
look of rest on his face, the light in his eyes struck her so, that she
said:
"You look very well to-night, my son. Is it poetry or love?"
He laughed gayly.
"As though you could separate the two, mother. My love is all poetry, my
poetry all love."
She laid her hand on the fair clustering brow.
"I am afraid that your love is your religion, too," she said.
"I am so happy, mother! What have I done that I should win the love of
that pure, young heart? Do not say that I have no religion. I feel that
I could kneel all night and thank Heaven for the treasure it has sent
me. I shall be a thousand times better man for my love."
But Mrs. Moray was not to be convinced. She did not see Doris with the
eyes of her son; she saw the girl's faults more plainly than her
virtues--her coquetry, her vanity, her pride; whereas Earle saw only
that she was exceedingly beautiful, and that he loved her better than he
loved his life.
"It is a terrible thing," said Mrs. Moray, slowly, "for a man to give
his whole heart into the hands of a creature as you have done, Earle.
Why, what would become of you if you were to lose Doris, or anything
happen to interfere with your love to separate you?"
She was startled at the expression of his face; he turned to her
quickly.
"Do not say anything of that kind to me, mother; the bare idea of it
drives me mad! What would the reality do?"
"It is not right, Earle, to love any one after such a fashion."
"But I cannot help it, mother," he replied, with a smile, "and that is
where the whole of my excuse lies."