THE FLIGHT AT MIDNIGHT.
"It will be a fine moonlight night," said honest Mark Brace. "If this
weather lasts, Patty, we shall have a good balance in the bank by the
end of the year."
"Thank Heaven!" said his wife, "a little money is a comfortable thing,
Mark; there is always a blessing on honest industry."
It was nearly nine o'clock; a late hour for Mark and his simple
industrious habits; but after supper he had taken his pipe and found the
conversation of his wife and daughter very delightful. Doris was not
with them; she had letters to write to an old schoolfellow; she said she
wanted to attend to them that very evening.
Insensibly, the absence of Doris was something of a relief to the
honest farmer and his wife. When Doris was present, she kept them in a
continual turmoil. They honestly believed themselves bound to correct
her, to admonish her, to check her wild flow of words, the careless and
often irreligious speech, and she never brooked the correction; so that
most evenings in the old homestead were of a stormy nature. It was
something of a relief, therefore, to have his homely wife on one side,
and his daughter on the other. Honest Mark could indulge in that which
his soul loved best; a few homely jests and solemn assurances of his own
prosperity, while the bright, beautiful girl who puzzled him, was beyond
the reach of his understanding, was busied in her own affairs.
"It is after nine," said Mark, "and I am tired. How was it that Earle
did not return?"
"He knew that he could not see Doris," said Mattie, with a smile that
was half a sigh.
Mark laughed when he was at a safe distance from her. There was nothing
that Mark enjoyed more than what he called Doris' airs and graces.
"She keeps him in order," he said, slyly. "Mattie, if ever you think of
being married, take a lesson from your sister, my dear."
"I hope she will not," said Mrs. Brace. "The true secret of being a good
wife, Mattie, is to love your husband better than yourself; and though
Doris is beautiful as a day-star, she will never do that."
Then Mark looked out into the quiet, white moonlight, and said:
"I shall begin to work in the Thorpe Meadows to-morrow, I hope the birds
will wake me when the sun rises." And as he passed Doris' room he saw
the light underneath the door. "Good-night," he said; "do not sit up
late, writing, or you will spoil your eyes, and then Earle will grumble
at me."
"I shall not be late," said Doris.
And Mark Brace, without a thought of the tragedy looming, went on.
Mrs. Brace saw the light, but she had not yet forgotten the cruel
reception of her advice about the gray calico.
"Good-night, Doris," she said, without entering.
But Mattie went into the room. The excuse had been a perfectly true one.
Doris sat writing still, with a tired look on her face, her round, white
arms on the table, and two letters by her side.
"I have finished," she said, looking at Mattie.
"What can I do for you, Doris--shall I stay and talk to you?"
"No," she interrupted; "I am tired, and I would rather be alone."
"Good-night," said Mattie, not particularly liking the rebuff.
Then Doris went to her, and clasped her arms round her sister's neck.
"Good-night, little Mattie--good, simple Mattie. Kiss me."
The brown eyes were raised slowly to her face.
"You have never asked me to kiss you before, Doris."
"Have I not? Perhaps I never may ask you again. Perhaps if I asked you
for a kiss this time next year, you would refuse to give it to me."
"No, I should never do that, Doris."
And the two faces--one so brilliantly beautiful, the other so good in
its intelligent kindness--touched each other.
Long afterward Mattie remembered that the warm arms had seemed to
tighten their clasp round her neck; then Doris drew away, with a little
mocking laugh.
"What a sentimental scene!" she said; "the world must be coming to an
end."
Mattie wondered a little at her sister's manner, then remembered that
she never ought to be surprised, let Doris do what she might.
"Good-night," she repeated as she quitted the room, so little dreaming
of all that would pass before she saw that face again.
Then Doris re-read her letters.
"Kindness in this case would only be cruelty," she said to herself.
"Better for Earle to know at once. I should prefer sudden death to
lingering torture." The beautiful lips curved in a smile that had in it
much of pity. "Poor Earle!" she murmured, as she placed the letter
written to him on the table. It ran as follows:
"DEAR EARLE,--I have thought it all over--my promise to marry
you, and your great wish that I should become your wife. I
have thought it all over, and feel convinced that it will not
do--we should not be happy. What I want, in order to be
happy, you cannot give me. You will have to work hard for
money, then you will have but little of it. We are better
apart. I love you, and it will be a sorrow to leave you; but
it is all for the best. I have gone away where it will be
useless to follow me. I am going abroad as governess to some
little children, and that will give me a chance to see the
world I am longing to behold.
"You will try to forget me, will you not, Earle? Is it any
use suggesting to you that Mattie would be a far more
sensible wife for you than I could ever make? Do not try to
find me; I am going abroad under another name, and it would
not please me to see you. I say good-bye to you with sorrow.
As far as I can love any one, I love you. _Doris._"
It was a cold, heartless, decided letter; but it was twenty times
better, she thought, in its decisive cruelty, than if she had lingered
over soft farewell phrases. There was a second letter, even more cruel
and more curt. It was addressed "To Father, Mother, and Mattie," and ran
thus:
"I write to you all together as I have not time for three
separate letters. You will be surprised in the morning not to
see me. I have borne this kind of life as long as it was
possible for me to do so, and now I am going away. I hope you
will not make any effort to find me; I do not want to return
to Brackenside--I do not want to marry Earle. I am going to
teach some little children; and though it may not be quite
the life I should like, it will be better than this."
It was not a kind letter. She placed them both together and pinned them
to the cushion of the toilet-table.
"Mattie will see them the first thing in the morning," she said, "and
ah, me, what a sensation they will make!"
Then she looked at her little watch; it was but just ten; she had to go
to the railway station at Quainton, and catch the mail train for
Liverpool--it would pass there at midnight. She had to walk some
distance through the fields and on the high-road.
"I am sorry the moon shines so clearly, it will be light as day."
The moon had looked down on many cruel deeds, perhaps on none more cruel
than the flight of this young girl from the roof that had so long
sheltered her, the home that had been hers. Her path lay over a broken
heart, and as she set her fair feet on it no remorse or regret came to
her as the crimson life-blood flowed.
When she had crossed the meadows that led from the farm, she stood still
and looked back at the pretty homestead; the moonbeams glistened in the
windows, the great roses looked silvery, the ivy and jasmine clung to
the walls, the flowers lay sleeping in the moonlight; there was the
garden where she had spent the long, sunny days with Earle, there was
the path which lead to the woods, the spreading tree underneath whose
shades Earle had told of his great love. She looked at it all with a
smile on her lips; no thought of regret in her heart.
"It is a dull, dreary place," she said to herself; "I never wish to see
it again." Then she added: "I have killed Earle."
Good-bye, sweet, soft moonlight; good-bye, white-robed purity, girlish
innocence--all left behind with the sleeping roses and the silent trees!
She turned away impatiently: perhaps the moonbeams had, after all, a
language of their own that stirred some unknown depths in the vain,
foolish heart.
Then she hastened down the high-road, thinking how fortunate it was that
the country side was so deserted. The town of Quainton rose before her,
the church, the market hall, and last of all the railway station. It
wanted a quarter of an hour yet to midnight, and she remembered her
lover's injunction that her face was not to be seen. She was careful
enough never to raise the veil.
"I wonder," she thought to herself, "why he disliked the idea of my
being seen?"
Then she laughed a little mocking laugh.
"It would be inconsistent," she said, "for the model of 'innocence' to
be seen at a railway station at midnight."
There were few passengers for the mail train; she managed to get her
ticket first-class for Liverpool without attracting much attention, or
exciting any comment or surprise. During the few moments she stood
there, she told the porter that she was going to meet her husband, whose
ship had just reached the shore. Her face had flushed as she took out
Lord Vivianne's purse and Lord Vivianne's money to pay for her ticket;
then the mail train came thundering into the station: there was a minute
or two of great confusion. She took her seat in a first-class carriage,
then left Earle and Brackenside far behind.
"That is all done with," said Doris. "Those quiet pastoral days are
ended, thank Heaven!"
No warning came to her of how she should return to the home she was in
such haste to quit.
The journey was a long one. A flush of dawn reddened the sky, and the
dew was shining, the birds beginning to sing, as she reached the great
bustling city of Liverpool. She was half bewildered by the noise and
confusion. A porter found a cab for her, and she gave the address of the
hotel Lord Vivianne had given her. There was a long drive through the
wilderness of streets, then she reached the hotel.
She felt, in spite of all her courage, some little timidity, when she
found herself in those rooms alone. Her thoughts turned involuntarily to
Earle--Earle, always tender and true, considerate of her comfort. What
if this new lover, this rich young lord, should fail her, after all?
She looked in a large mirror. Ah, no! he would not fail her; though she
had been traveling all night, the dainty coloring of her exquisite face
was unfaded. The light flashed in her eyes, in her golden hair; the
smooth satin skin was fair as ever. There was not the faintest trace of
fatigue on that radiant beauty, and then she started from her reverie.
One of the servants brought her a card, she read on it the name of "Mr.
Conyers," and she knew that Lord Vivianne was there.