THERE IS NO TRUE LOVE EXCEPT THE LOVE OF A MOTHER.
Out once more under the pale light of the stars, repassing the same road
that he had trodden a few hours since, so full of hope and love.
Earle walked like one dizzy from a great blow; the silent, pitiful
stars, with their great golden eyes, shone down from the depths of the
blue sky; the night wind seemed to hush, the birds were silent, the
birds were asleep.
"Doris!" he cried, in a loud, passionate voice, "have you really gone
from me, Doris?"
It seemed to him that the force of his love, the might of his affection,
must call her back--she could not resist him. Surely the most pitiful
cry that rose to the clear heavens that night was the cry of this broken
heart.
"Doris!" sounded so distinctly that it startled the birds from their
sleep; but no answer came to his call.
How he reached home he never knew. The stars were shining when he left
Brackenside--they were shining when he reached Lindenholm; but he never
knew how long he had been coming.
His mother, looking pale and tired, was waiting for him. She had felt
impatient with him before, thinking that as he saw Doris every day, it
was surely not needful to prolong his wooing until late at night,
knowing that she must sit up for him; but one look at his face took away
all thought of self. Wonder and alarm shone in her eyes as she gazed at
his drawn, haggard features.
Then, as he had often done when he was a boy, he knelt at her feet and
laid his head on her knee.
"Doris has gone away, mother," he said.
When she heard that she knew all. They sat talking, mother and son, far
into the night; and then Mrs. Moray learned something of the passionate
love of her son for the girl who had promised to be his wife. In that
hour his whole heart was opened to her, and she listened in wondering
fear. To love anything created, any human being after this wild fashion,
seemed to her most wonderful and most sinful. It was a volcano, this
poet's love. She laid her hand on the fair, bowed head of her son.
"It is the old story, Earle," she said, "of worshiping an idol, then
finding it clay. You think your pain intolerable, impossible to bear;
yet it is but the same as every man, and woman, too, who sets his or her
heart upon a creature has to endure. There is no true love in this
world, Earle--none," she continued, with passionate bitterness, "except
the love of a mother for her child."
"I cannot believe it, mother. You loved my father, did you not--and he
loved you?"
"Yes," she replied, "we had a deep, true, loyal affection for each
other, but, Earle, listen, my son. My first love was a young soldier,
who died in India; and before he knew me, your father had been deceived
just as you have been. Oh! believe me, turn where you will, on which
side you may, there is no reliance to be placed on human love."
He bent his head with a moan that went to his mother's heart.
"Then why," he said, "have I youth, and strength, and life, if I may not
have love? I cannot believe it, mother, I love my love, and I will have
her--I will search this wide world over, but I will find her. She is
mine--my promised wife; her hands have been in mine, I have kissed her
lips, and I would rather kill her and slay myself than that any one else
should take her from me."
And his mother, with all her severity, knew that it was useless to argue
with him then, nor did there come to her for long an opportunity for
saying any more. That night she knelt by her son's bedside, as she had
done many hundreds of times when he was a child; she bathed his hot
brow, she made him repeat, after her, the simple prayers he had said as
a child; and when, at last, the deep yet troubled sleep fell over him,
she prayed as Mattie did--"God save my Earle."
Hard, bitter thoughts arose in her mind against the vain girl whose
falsity had destroyed him; but the hardest thought, the darkest
imagination she had of her, did not equal the reality, which--Heaven be
thanked!--she never lived to see.
On the next day, Earle was so ill that she would not allow him to get
up. Whenever she went near him he was muttering to himself about Doris;
and when he spoke aloud, it was always on one subject--going in search
of her. It did not surprise Mrs. Moray, on the third day of his illness,
to find him in a high fever, and to hear the doctor say, when he was
sent for, that he had but little hope of his life. They, for the time,
almost forgot Doris in their fear for Earle. As the long days and longer
nights passed on, and the danger increased, Mrs. Moray aged
terribly--the upright figure grew bent and stooping; the gray hair
turned white; deep furrows came in the pale forehead--her whole, sole
prayer was for the life of her son.
By her father's desire, Mattie went to Lindenholm, and remained there,
so as to be a comfort to the widow. Mattie never forgot those days, the
breathless suspense, the fear, the earnestness with which the unhappy
mother would follow her about from room to room, saying always the same
thing:
"Never mind talking to me, Mattie; pray for my son."
There came a day when the doctor said he feared no human means could
save him--when the white-haired mother flung herself on her knees,
crying loudly to Heaven to spare her son. She had preached, in her
stern, cold way of resignation, to others, but in this, the hour of her
terrible trial, she forgot all; she besieged Heaven, as it were, for her
son. Even Mattie shrank from those wild words.
"Let me suffer, my God!" she cried; "send me torture and death, but
spare him! let me suffer, let him live! I would give my body to be
burned, my heart to be riven--but spare my only son!"
Faint with the fervor of her own words, she fell on her face, and there
lay till Mattie touched her gently.
"He is asleep," she said; "Earle has fallen into a deep sleep, and the
doctor says he has taken a turn for the better."
She could not thank God, for her rapture of gratitude found no words.
Who is it that says that "a prayer granted is sometimes a curse?"
The time was coming when those who loved him best said it was the
greatest pity that he had not died in this illness; he would then have
died with his mother's hope of heaven infolding him.
* * * * *
Earle grew better so slowly that the improvement could hardly be seen,
and during the whole of his convalescence, his mind was busy upon the
subject. He would go in search of Doris; nothing should keep him from
that; neither remonstrance nor tears. The idea grew with his strength,
until it became part of his life. He had some little money--money that
he had saved for his marriage; he would spend it in searching for her.
One day, when the doctor came, he raised his wistful eyes to the kindly
face.
"How soon shall I be able to travel?" he asked.
"Not for six weeks," was the reply, "and not even then unless you are
careful."
Careful he resolved to be, and his mother wondered at his sudden
submission and attention to the doctor's orders; but much that was
wonderful had to happen before those six weeks were ended.
There had been great anxiety at the farm; one reason of it was, that
very soon after Doris went, the money came as usual, and Mark Brace was
deeply puzzled to know what to do with it. He would have returned it,
but he did not know where to return it to. He took long and wise counsel
with his wife, but Mrs. Brace saw no way out of the difficulty.
"If we could but write to the person who sent it, and tell her what
Doris has done, it would be some comfort," she said; "but we cannot do
that even."
It was settled at last, that the money should be placed in the bank, to
await the return of Doris.
"She will come back," said Mark, "some day, when she has seen enough of
the world she so longed for--to find out how false it is; she will come
back when she wants true friends and true love; though it may be a long
time first."
After long discussions, they agreed it would be better to sanction
Doris' flight than to call public attention to it.
"There was nothing so injurious to a girl as to have it known that she
ran away from home," Mrs. Brace said. "We must shield her all we can. We
must shield her even more than if she were our own."
So, when friends and neighbors asked about her, the farmer and his wife
had but one answer to make, and that was, that she had grown tired of
the quiet of Brackenside, and had gone out as a governess.
Monsieur D'Anvers was the only one who persisted in his inquiries, and
he asked where she had gone. Mark, who loved truth, and hated falsehood,
looked uncomfortable, then replied that she had gone abroad: but for
himself he did not know the names of foreign places; so it passed over.
The few who knew the family told each other, as a piece of news, that
the pretty Miss Brace had gone abroad as a governess. Some said, with
her beautiful face she would be sure to marry well; and then the matter
died away.
One day Mark returned home in a state of great excitement and happiness.
"What do you think has happened," he asked of his wife.
"You have heard from Doris," she replied.
Then for one moment his face darkened.
"No," he replied, "I have not heard from Doris. I wish you did not think
so much of her; it makes you dull. I heard this morning that all the
family were at the Castle again."
Mrs. Brace, seeing that he really wished her to be surprised, was
surprised.
"I am very glad they are back," she said. "A great noble like the duke
should live upon his own land."
"That is not all," said Mark, with irrepressible triumph. "I was walking
through the market-place at Quainton this morning, and I saw the
carriage with out-riders and footmen. Now, what do you think, Patty?
before all the town the duke stopped the carriage and sent for me."
Then indeed Mrs. Brace felt deeply interested. How could she think too
much of a duke who stopped his carriage in a public market-place and
spoke to her husband?
"What did he say, Mark?" she asked.
"He said that he had been away some months, and he hoped we were all
well. That proud, beautiful daughter of his was in the carriage, Lady
Estelle; her voice is like a clear, soft flute. 'How do you do, Mr.
Brace?' she said, and I told her that I enjoyed the best of health,
hoping that she did the same."
"That was rather free spoken, Mark," said his wife, doubtfully.
"Not at all," was the sturdy reply. "She looked pleased enough; then she
said: 'How is the young girl you brought to see the Castle?' I told her
that Doris had gone abroad, to be a governess; she leaned back in her
carriage, and held up her parasol.
"'Was she tired of Brackenside?' she asked, and I said, 'Yes--I thought
she was.'
"'Is she married?' asked my lady. I said, 'No.'
"She looked at me strangely, and then the carriage drove on. It was
strange altogether."
And again Mrs. Brace turned from her husband with a sigh. There was evil
at hand, she was sure.