"I COULD SOONER PLUNGE A DAGGER IN HIS HEART."
Such a beautiful morning! The golden sunbeams falling like blessings on
the earth; the birds singing in a delirium of happiness. The sweet, warm
air brooding over the fragrant flowers; all nature seemed awake, happy
and smiling; the sky gave its fairest colors; earth yielded its richest
fragrance.
Earle woke with the earliest singing of the birds. He smiled at his own
impatience. He had not seen Doris since yesterday morning, and it seemed
to him a whole week. She had asked him to go to Quainton under the
pretext of fulfilling some little commission, and he had not caught one
glimpse of her afterward. He was impatient to behold her. The glory of
the morning sun, the rapturous music of the birds, was nothing to him,
who longed for one look at her face--for one sound of her voice.
It was so early, he hardly dared venture on going to Brackenside, yet he
could not rest away. He walked across the fields, little dreaming whose
light footsteps had passed over there last. He lingered by the stiles
and in the lanes until it struck eight, then he felt sure that Doris
would be down-stairs.
At the farm all was activity; the men were at work; the rosy-faced
dairy-maid was tripping along with her well-filled cans. He saw Mark
Brace in the distance, deeply intent on driving a very comfortable pig
where it sternly refused to go. The air was filled with pleasant
sounds--the busy hum of work, the song of birds, the ripple of the
stream, the murmur of the wind. Earle, the poet, heard it all. He
laughed aloud when he saw Mark wiping his brow, and nodding at him as
though he would fain say that all conversation would be useless until
the struggle was ended. Comedy and tragedy always go hand in hand.
Earle's hearty, genial laugh rang out clear on the morning air, and
while he lived he never so laughed again.
"Thank Heaven!" he said to himself, "that I am not to be a farmer."
Then when he came through the garden, one of the prettiest scenes in the
world met his eye.
There was a large porch before the house, cool, roomy, and shady,
overhung with jasmine and roses. The morning was very warm, and the day
gave promise of being intensely hot. A white table had been placed in
the porch, and on it stood a quantity of ripe, delicious fruit. Mrs.
Brace and Mattie were busily engaged in preparing it for preserving;
their fingers were stained crimson with the juice. Both faces looked up
as Earle entered, and smiled, while Earle thought he had never seen a
prettier picture than the sunlit garden with its gay flowers. The shady
porch, the luxurious fruit, the kindly faces, yet he looked anxiously
around. Without Doris it was like the world without the sun. The bright,
beautiful face was sure to be smiling at him from the flower-wreathed
windows, or from beneath the trees.
"You are looking for your love, Earle," said Mrs. Brace, in her kindly
way. "She is a lazy love this morning. She is not down yet."
"I am glad she is resting," said Earle, too loyal to allow even the
faintest suspicion of idleness.
Mrs. Brace laughed.
"Doris leads a life very much like the lilies in the field," she said.
"She neither toils nor spins. Mattie shall call her if you like."
"No," said Earle. "I will wait until she comes."
Then Mattie joined in the conversation.
"Doris is tired this morning, Earle," she said, quietly. "She sat up
quite late last night writing letters."
"Letters!" repeated Earle, with a touch of pardonable jealousy. "To whom
was she writing, Mattie?"
And the girl who loved him so deeply and so silently detected the pain
in his voice. She looked up at him with a smile.
"To some schoolmates. She liked some of the girls very much."
Then Earle was quite at ease. He sat for some time watching the sunlit
scene, and the busy fingers among the scarlet fruit. At last, while the
bees hummed drowsily, they heard the clock strike nine; and the sound
seemed to die away over the flowers.
"Nine," said Mrs. Brace, laughingly. "Mattie, you may be sure that Doris
does not want to stain her fingers with the fruit. Go and tell her she
need not touch it."
Earle felt deeply grateful toward the woman. It was all very well, but
even he did not like the idea of those sweet white hands all crimsoned
with ripe fruit.
"Tell her from me, Mattie," he added, "that the whole world will be dark
and cold until I see her."
Mattie hastened away with a low laugh on her lips at the extravagant
words. She was absent some little time, and kindly Mrs. Brace, seeing
that Earle looked anxious, entertained him in her simple fashion with
many little anecdotes about Doris, her beauty and wit as a child, her
pretty, imperious fashion of managing Mark.
When Mattie returned she did not look anxious but surprised.
"See how we have all misjudged Doris," she said; "she must have been up
and out for some time."
"Out!" repeated Earle.
"Yes; she is not in her room, nor in the house. The morning is so fine,
and so sweet, it has very probably tempted her."
"But where can she have gone?" asked Earle. "I did not see her."
"No; you came from Lindenholm, while she is most probably gone to post
the letters she wrote last night; gone to Quainton."
"Then I will go and meet her," said Earle. "But what a strange idea of
her to go to Quainton alone. Why did she not wait for me?" He looked at
Mattie as he spoke.
She answered him with a smile.
"When I can tell you what the birds are singing about," she said, "I
shall be able to explain the caprices of Doris. Go and meet her; then
you will understand."
Once more Earle hurried off in the sunshine, leaving mother and daughter
busy with the fruit.
Mrs. Brace looked after him with a sigh.
"Poor Earle," she said. "Doris might be a little more civil to him.
Although they are going to be married, Mattie, I do not think she cares
for him a bit."
Mattie made no answer. She had long since arrived at the same
conclusion. Whatever Doris might be going to marry Earle for, it
certainly was not for love.
An hour passed. The sunshine grew warmer, the bees hummed, the
butterflies with bright wings hovered round the roses; but neither Earle
nor Doris returned.
Earle hurried on the road to Quainton. As he crossed the high-road he
saw a man breaking stones. He went up to him and asked him if he had
seen a young lady pass by.
"No; he had been to work there since five in the morning, but no one had
passed by."
"Strange," thought Earle; "but he is old and half blind--most probably
he did not see her; yet, with her bright, lovely face, and hair like
threads of gold, how could he miss her?"
He walked on until he came to the toll-bar. Outside the pretty,
white-gabled cottage a woman sat knitting in the sunshine. To her Earle
went, with the same question--"Had she seen a young lady pass by?"
"No." She had been there since seven, knitting and keeping the gate.
There had been gentlemen on horseback, farmers' wagons, but no young
lady had passed by that gate since seven.
He did not understand it, and a vague uneasiness came over him. Still he
walked on to Quainton. The post-office was in the principal street, and
if she were there at all, he should be sure to see her. But at the
post-office he found men busily repairing the outer wall--they had been
at work some hours. From them he asked the same question--"Had they seen
a young lady who had come to post letters?"
"No." They had been to work since six, but they had not seen any young
lady.
"Then Mattie must have been mistaken," thought Earle; "my darling has
not been near Quainton at all; perhaps she is waiting for me now at
home."
He returned by the woods, and when he came to any favorite nook of hers,
he stopped and cried aloud: "Doris."
The only answer that came to him was the rustling of the sweet western
wind in the leaves, and the song of the birds.
The church clock struck eleven as he came in sight of Brackenside. He
raised his eager eyes--Heaven help him!--expecting to see Doris in the
garden or in the porch; but she was not there.
The sun was slanting over the flowers, the busy murmur of the farm grew
louder. Mattie and Mrs. Brace still sat at their work, but of Doris
there was no sign.
"My darling!" he said to himself, "where is she?"
"You have not met her, Earle?" said the loud, cheery voice of Mark
Brace.
"No, she has not been to Quainton," he replied, "and I do not know where
to look for her."
"Do not look anywhere," said Mark; "the longer you look for her the less
likely you are to find her. Girls are so uncertain in their ways. Sit
down and drink a glass of cider, she will come soon enough then. It
seems to me," continued the honest farmer, "that she is having a game of
hide-and-seek with you."
Earle thought that very probable. He drank the foaming cider, but he
would not sit down.
"I must find her," he said. "If it be her sweet will and pleasure that I
should look for her, I will do so."
The farmer laughed, Mrs. Brace felt sorry for him, Mattie was indignant,
and Earle went through the pretty garden and all the little nooks she
loved best.
He never glanced under the shade of a spreading tree, or turned aside
the dense green foliage, without expecting that the bright face would
turn to him with a smile; he never looked where the ferns grew most
thickly, and the tall grass waved in the wind, without expecting the
laughing eyes to meet him, and the gay, clear voice to ring out in
sunshiny laughter. No fear, no doubt, no suspicion came to him. It was a
bright morning, fair and sweet enough in itself to inspire any desire of
frolic, and she liked to tease him. She had hidden away--hidden among
the flowers; but he would find her, and when he did find her, he would
imprison the sweet, white hands in his--he would kiss the laughing lips
and beautiful face--he would take a lover's revenge for the jest she had
played him.
He looked until he was tired; he called aloud, over and over again,
"Doris!" until it seemed to him that the birds took up the refrain and
chanted "Doris!"
He gave it up; he could not find her; he must own himself conquered;
and, tired with the sultry heat and his hard morning's work, he walked
back to the farm.
It seemed to him, as he drew near, that there was a strange stillness
over the place. He looked in vain for Mark's honest face. The porch,
too, was empty, although the fruit still stood upon the table.
"Where are they all?" thought Earle. "What a strange morning this has
been!"
He looked through the rose-wreathed window of the little sitting-room,
and there he saw a group that filled his very heart with dismay. Mark,
Mrs. Brace, and Mattie, all standing close together, and bending over an
open letter.
He watched them in silence, fighting, with a terrible courage, with this
first foreboding--a chill, stern presentiment of coming evil that, man
as he was, robbed him of his strength and clutched at his heart with an
iron hand.
Then he heard a sob from Mrs. Brace. He saw the farmer clinch his strong
hand, while he cried out:
"In Heaven's name, who is to tell Earle? I cannot."
"You must!" said Mrs. Brace.
But Mark drew back pale and trembling.
"I tell you, wife," he said, "I love the boy so well that I could sooner
take him out in the sunshine and plunge a dagger in his heart than tell
him this."
A great calm seemed to come over Earle as he heard.
"My darling is dead," he said to himself, "she is dead, and they are
afraid to tell me. I can die too!" and opening the door he went in.
At the sight of him Mark turned away, but Mattie went up to him with
outstretched hands.