"I MUST TELL YOU MY SECRET."
Earle Moray was dreadfully puzzled. Into the threads of his life a
mighty, passionate, wonderful love had been woven, but there had been
nothing of mystery. It had been a beautiful life, full of love, and
dreams, and poetry, but it had all been open to the eye and pleasant to
read.
He held something in his hands now that puzzled him--a letter written on
thick satin wove paper--a letter asking him if he would be at the gate
leading to Quainton woods at noon to-morrow, there to meet some one who
wanted his aid.
It was a strange request. If any one wanted his aid, why did the person
not seek him in his own home? Why desire to meet him in Quainton woods?
Then, what could he do to help any one? Of what avail was he? He was not
wise enough to give advice. If money were needed, he would do his best,
certainly, but he could do little.
Then another thing puzzled him. The letter was evidently written by a
lady. Certainly, the hand was disguised, but it was clear and elegant.
What lady could wish to see him? Not Mattie for he had spent the whole
of yesterday at the farm; he knew no one else, save Doris. His face grew
hot, then cold, as he thought of her. Could it concern Doris in any
way, this strange letter? Had she grown weary of being without him? Had
she sent him a letter or token? Did she wish to see him? He tormented
himself with doubts, hopes, and fears, but resolved to go. He was
getting quite strong now; he was able to travel; he had taken care of
himself; and those who did not know his motive wondered that he
recovered so quickly. He had never swerved from his resolution to go in
search of his lost love. Perhaps the saddest sight of all to him was the
quantity of manuscript lying unfinished in his room--copies of the poems
he had been engaged upon when his life was so suddenly taken from
him--the great work that was to have secured for him immortality. He
sighed when he looked at it, but he had never once attempted to continue
it. If in the time to come he found Doris, and won her for his own
again, then the golden dreams of fame and immortality would return to
him; until then they were like his hopes--dead!
He had to control his impatience as best he could until noon of the day
following; then he went quickly to the appointed place. An idea occurred
to him that the letter might be a hoax, although on looking round on his
circle of friends, he knew no one who would be likely to play any jest
with him.
As he drew near the gate that led to Quainton woods, he saw that it was
no jest, for walking down the woodland glade, pausing occasionally to
look from right to left, was the figure of a tall, stately lady, whose
face was closely veiled.
His heart beat so quickly he could hardly endure the rapid pulsation;
but it was not Doris. This lady was taller, of a more stately presence
than his golden-haired love; still, it might be some one whom she had
sent to him.
He raised his hat and walked bare-headed to where the lady stood. The
wind lifted the fair hair from his noble brow, and freshened the
spiritual handsome face. As he bent before her, the lady stood quite
still and looked at him long.
"You are Earle Moray, gentleman and poet," she said, in a voice of
marvelous sweetness. "I recognize you from a description I once heard
given of you."
"I am Earle Moray," he said; and still the lady looked as though she
would fain read every thought; then, with a deep sigh, she held out her
hand to him.
"I can trust you," she said. "I have but little skill, perhaps, in
reading faces. I made a great mistake once when I tried, yet I can read
yours. Truth, honor, loyalty, are all there. Nature never yet wrote
falsely on such a face as yours. I will trust you with that which is
dearer to me than my life."
Then they walked side by side in silence, until they reached a broad,
shady walk which was darkened by the large, spreading boughs of the
trees, Earle wondering who she was--marveling at the rich silk and
velvet she wore, at the dainty grace of the gloved hand, at the proud,
yet graceful beauty, at the sweet voice. Who was she? Some one who
trusted him, and who should find that he was to be trusted even to the
very depths.
Then the lady turned to him.
"I know it is an idle question," she paid, "but I ask it for form's
sake. Will you keep true and sacred the trust I am going to place in
you?"
"Until death!" he replied. "I promise it."
"Now tell me," she said--"I have a right to ask the question, as you
will learn--you were betrothed to Doris, who was known as Doris Brace."
"Yes," he replied in a low voice, "I was."
"Would you mind telling me whether that engagement still exists?"
His face quivered with pain as he turned it to her.
"I cannot answer you," he said; "I do not know. To me it exists solemnly
and sacredly. I do not know what Doris thinks."
Her voice was wonderfully soft and gentle as she continued:
"I know that I am paining you; I am sorry for it. Was there any quarrel
between you when you parted?"
"No," he replied, "there was no quarrel."
"How was it?" she asked, gently. "Do not fear to tell me."
"I do not know; I was not good enough for her, perhaps--not bright and
eloquent enough. Perhaps I loved her too dearly. She was the life of my
life. She may have got tired of my mad, passionate love--only God knows.
She left me."
"How did she leave you?" persisted the sweet, pitiless voice.
"I left her one day, believing she loved me, that in a very short time
she would be my wife. I returned the next, and she had gone away,
leaving a letter for me."
"What did that letter say?"
"It said that she could never marry me; that the quiet life and quiet
ways would not suit her; that she had resolved to leave them. She was
going abroad to teach some little children, and she prayed me never to
find her, for she would never return."
He drew his breath with a hard, painful gasp as he finished the words.
"I shall find her," he added, with quiet force. "She promised to be my
wife, and in the sight of the just God she is mine. I will never rest
until I have found her, life of my life, the very heart of me. She shall
not escape me."
"Then she left you and broke her promise without any sensible reason
whatever?"
"If you will have the truth," he replied, "yes, she did so."
"Faithless and debonair," murmured the lady, "like all of her race."
"She is young," said Earle, in quick excuse, "and very beautiful.
Perhaps in the years to come she may have more sense, and will be sorry
for what she has done."
"All the sorrow in the world could not undo the wrong she has done you,"
said the lady.
"I would forgive her," said Earle. "She could do no wrong so great but
that I could pardon her."
"You are true and noble; you are of the kind whom women torture and
kill. Tell me, have you no idea where she is?"
"I have not the faintest," he replied, "I cannot tell even in what
quarter of the world she is; but I have confidence in my own will--I
shall find her."
"Suppose," said the lady, "that you succeed, that you find her, and that
she is unwilling to marry you--what shall you do then?"
His face darkened--a new expression such as she had never seen came over
it.
"That is between Heaven and myself," he replied. "Until I am tried and
tempted I cannot tell you what I should do."
"You would not harm her!" she cried, laying her hand on his arm.
"Harm her! hurt Doris! Oh, no! how could I harm her? She is life of my
life, heart of my heart! How could I harm her?"
"That is well. I am weak and easily frightened; I have lived for nearly
twenty years in one long dream of terror. I was a girl of eighteen when
my fear began--I am a woman of thirty-eight now, and I have never known
one moment's cessation of fear. Do you pity me?"
"With all my heart," said Earle.
"After twenty years," she continued, "I stand face to face with the
realization of my fear; the dream that has haunted me has come true; the
sword has fallen; I have to answer for my girlish folly and sin--a
thousand times greater than Doris'!"
Then between them for some minutes there fell perfect, unbroken silence.
Again the lady broke it.
"I am in sore need," she said, "and I want a friend. I have sought you
because you love Doris."
Wondering more and more, he answered that he would do anything on earth
to help her.
"I feel sure you would," she said; then throwing back her veil, she
asked: "Do you know me?"
He looked at her. No, he did not know her. He thought to himself that he
could never have forgotten such a face if he had seen it before.
"I am Lady Estelle Hereford," she continued, "the only daughter of the
Duke of Downsbury."
He was not surprised; he would not have felt surprised if she had told
him she was Queen of England.
"Lady Estelle Hereford," he murmured; "but what is it possible that I
can do to help you?"
"You wonder that I, the daughter of a mighty duke, should be driven to
seek aid," she said. "Oh! believe me, there is no one in all England who
needs it more than I do. Tell me, Earle Moray--'gentleman and poet'--I
like the title--tell me, have you ever heard me discussed--spoken of?"
"Yes," he replied, frankly, "many times."
"Tell me how people speak of me!" she asked. "I know what your answer
will be. It will not pain me."
"I have always heard your beauty praised," said Earle, honestly--"that
you were accomplished and beautiful, but that you were one of the
proudest ladies in the land."
"It is true," she said; "the time was when no girl in England was
prouder than I."
He looked at the pale, high-bred face.
"It was natural," he said, simply; "you had everything to make you so."
"And now," she continued, "the proudest woman in England, Lady Estelle
Hereford, is here by stealth, asking that aid from a stranger which no
one else can give to her."
"Life is full of strange phases," said Earle. "But, Lady Hereford, what
is it that you think I can do for you?"
"I must tell you my secret first," she said, "before you can
understand----"
"Nay," he interrupted, generously, "I need not understand. If there is
anything in the world that I can do for you, you have but to command me.
I will be blind, deaf, mute, in your service. There is no need for me to
understand."
"You are very good--I feel your delicacy," she said. "You are loyal and
noble; but I must tell you my secret, and my story is not a short one. I
am tired; can I rest while I tell it to you?"
In less time than it took her to ask the question, he had cleared away
the creeping moss and trailing leaves from the fallen trunk of a tree.
"It is a rude resting-place," he said.
But Lady Estelle seemed grateful enough for it. She drew aside the rich
silk and velvet.
"Sit down by my side," she said, gently.
He would have remained at a distance; but, with a little, graceful
gesture, as of one used to command, she called him to her.
"Sit down here," she said, and he had no resource but to obey her.
Then again she was silent for some minutes; her face wore a dreamy,
musing expression.
"What a strange fate!" she said. "After keeping my secret for all these
years--after guarding it jealously as my life--after sacrificing only
Heaven knows what to it--I tell it to you, to you, young, loyal,
true-hearted--you who love Doris! There is a terrible irony, after all,
in fate!"