A LAST VAIN APPEAL.
"The night is so fine," said the earl, "you young people would enjoy a
short time on the lawn. Look at those lilies asleep in the moonlight--go
and wake them. Then we will have the card-tables. That is as it should
be--cards for the old, moonlight for the young."
That was the very chance Lord Vivianne had been longing for; he did not
think he could bear suspense much longer. Now he was sure of a
_tete-a-tete_. Here, in these rooms, half-filled with people, it had
been an easy matter to avoid him, or to make others join in the
conversation; it would not be as easy out there in the moonlight.
Lady Linleigh, who had never for one moment relaxed her keen, untiring
watch, saw him go up to Lady Doris, and speak a few words to her in a
low voice. At first the beautiful face flushed hotly, and the bright
eyes seemed to flash out a proud defiance. Then there was an expression
of half-startled fear, followed by one of submission most unusual in
her.
"There is a mystery," she said to herself; "there is something between
him and my darling!"
The mother's first impulse was to screen her, to help her. Lady Linleigh
crossed the room and went to her.
"Doris," she said, in a clear distinct voice, that all might hear,
"Doris, do not go if you prefer remaining here."
The girl raised her eyes to the calm gentle face, and Lady Linleigh was
shocked to see tears in them.
"Thank you," she said, calmly; "I shall enjoy going out. Who could
resist the moon and the flowers?"
"Then do not remain long. You look tired, and we must remember you are
not strong."
Lord Vivianne joined them.
"Lady Studleigh has graciously promised to show me the fountains by
moonlight. I will watch her faithfully, and at the first symptom of
fatigue I promise you she shall return."
Then the countess could say no more. She saw Lord Vivianne carefully
draw the black lace shawl over the white neck and arms.
"Not that you can be cold," he said, in reply to some objection, "but,
as Lady Linleigh says, we must be careful of you."
And he smiled down on her with an air of protection and of
appropriation, for which she in her rage could have struck him dead, and
which made Lady Linleigh wonder exceedingly.
"It is ten thousand pities," she thought, "that he does not know she is
engaged to Earle."
Then a new suspicion came to her, which made her even more
uncomfortable. Was it possible that her daughter's passionate desire for
secrecy had anything to do with Lord Vivianne? Was her daughter _afraid_
of letting him know that she was going to be married? The very torment
of the suspicion, faint as it was, filled her with dread. Then she saw
the happy little group of guests on the lawn, she caught one glimpse of
the white water-lilies and green dress as Lady Studleigh disappeared
with her cavalier.
"What has come over me?" said the countess. "I have a presentiment,
heavy as death! What can be wrong? I shall begin to think I am growing
old and fanciful. What danger can be near my darling?"
She set herself resolutely to play at whist, but every now and then her
partner saw her turn pale and shudder, as though she were cold.
Doris and Lord Vivianne were out in the moonlight together, and alone at
last. At first they maintained complete and perfect silence. Lord
Vivianne placed the white jeweled hand on his arm. She did not make the
least objection; it was all useless, she was in his power, and she knew
it; she would not even ask the question that trembled on her lips, and
filled her with despairing wonder--what had brought him there? She
walked by his side, silent, proud, and uncomplaining.
"My darling," he said, at last, "does not this evening remind you of
Florence, and the moonlight on the river?"
"If I am to talk to you, Lord Vivianne, and it seems I am compelled to
do so, I must ask you to refrain from using such expressions as
'darling.' I will not answer you if you do: they are utterly hateful to
me."
"Yet I remember the time when they pleased you passing well. Do you
remember, Dora, when I gave you a diamond ring? You have diamonds now on
your neck and arms, in your ears, and your hair. They shine like
fire-rivers over your beautiful figure; you are so accustomed to them
that they have ceased to have any particular value for you. But do you
remember your delight in the first?"
"Women remember their first diamonds, as they do their first long dress
or their first lover," she replied.
"I suppose so. Oh, Dora, be a little kind to me! We are here in this
sweet moonlight together, yet you do not give me one word, one smile.
You were not always so hard or so cruel. In Florence, you used to walk
with both these beautiful white hands clasped over my arm. Do you
remember it?"
Then she raised to his a face that, in its pride and anger, he never
forgot.
"I will not permit you to mention those days to me," she cried. "They
are hateful; the very memory of them brands me as with a red-hot iron. I
will not bear it. I would sooner--listen to me--I know the words are
unwomanly--I would sooner pass through the infernal fires than go to
Florence with you again."
He laughed.
"I like to see you in a passion, Dora; it suits you; you would have made
a grand tragedy queen. I do not wish to vex you or to tease you,
because, as you know, I wish to make you my wife. Do you know, can you
guess, what has brought me here?"
"No. You have broken our compact in coming, I know that!"
Still it was the question over which she had pondered, by day and by
night, ever since she had heard he was coming. It made her heart beat
fast, but she would not give way; there was not the least sign of
emotion.
"Do you not wonder what has brought me here, Dora?" he repeated.
"I am very indifferent," she said; "no one could be more so."
"I will tell you. I came to see if you were keeping faith with me, if
there was any rumor of a lover, any rumor of an engagement. I came
purposely for that."
"And if there had been?" she said.
"If there had been, why, you see, Dora, matters would have turned out
very awkwardly for both of us."
"You are satisfied that there is not?"
"Yes, tolerably so. There is no lover here; I hear of none in the
neighborhood. And you are not engaged to be married--that I do know!"
"How do you know?"
"Because I have made inquiries in the proper direction. I am, I may say,
quite satisfied."
He could not tell the sensation of intense relief that came over
her--the wild throbbing of her heart. She was safe then, so far, and
could marry Earle. Half of the dread and fear she had felt faded away
from her.
"I own," continued Lord Vivianne, "that I have suspected you unjustly.
You deceived me once, and I fancied that you intended to deceive me
again; you eluded me once, you will not elude me again?"
"You thought I was going to do so?"
"I thought your manner strange, your leaving London in the height of
your triumph strange, your coming to this quiet, though beautiful
country home strange."
"I told you that I wanted time for reflection," she said.
"Yes: and even that, when I came to think of it, was strange. Of course
I shall keep my word now that I have given it. But why should you, how
can you, need time for reflection? The idea is utterly absurd. You
cannot for a moment hesitate between my threat and my offer."
"But I do hesitate," she said, "incredible as it may seem to you."
He looked in her face, so fair and calm in the moonlight, and so proud.
"I wish you would tell me why you hesitate?" he said.
"I will. I dislike you so much. The idea of having to spend my life with
you is so utterly abhorrent to me, that I hesitate between that and the
total ruin that would follow my refusal."
"You must indeed dislike me," he said, "if you prefer ruin, shame and
disgrace to me."
"I do."
"Will you tell me why?" he asked.
"I should have thought both answer and question useless. Why, to begin
with, you tempted me to sin and shame, by flattering my vanity and my
pride----"
"You did not really require much temptation, Lady Studleigh."
"Thank you--you are as generous as you are gentlemanly. Granted that I
did not require much temptation, you placed what little I did want
before me. Do you not see," she cried, with sudden passion, "that you
have spoiled my life? It would be bright, hopeful, full of charm, but
for _you_--you have marred and blighted it. I do not like you--I never
did. The very way in which you won me was hateful to me; your love was
all self. I never liked you. And now, when I could be happy--ah, Heaven,
so unutterably happy--you come like a black shadow and rob my life of
every bit of happiness that it contains. No wonder that I loathe you!"
"No," he said, gently, "it is not."
"Then why do you not be kind to me, and let me be quite free?" she
asked, emboldened by the softening of his voice.
"You have guessed the reason," he replied. "You have said--it is because
I am selfish to my heart's core. I sacrificed you once to my selfish
love; is it likely that I should hesitate a second time?"
"You might well hesitate, because I suffered so keenly over the first."
The red flush deepened on his face, a strange light came into his eyes.
"I will not let you go free, neither will I cease from my endeavors to
make you my wife; and the reason is because I love you. Oh, proud, fair,
lovely woman! I love you with the very madness of love, with a
desperation of the fiercest passion with a love that is my doom and
yours. You have heard of men made desperate through love: look at me,
you will see it. I will kill you if you attempt to leave me--if you
attempt to give the love that ought to be mine to another man!"
"Thank you for the threat," she said.
"You drive me to threats, you give me no other recourse. I would fain be
all that is kind and good to you; I would worship you; I would lay all
that I have at your feet, only begging of you to take it. What would I
not do to prove how dearly I love you."
"It is all self. We will have the plainest possible understanding. If
there be any manhood in you, it shall be shamed. You shall have it in
plain words. You quite understand that if ever I should marry you, it
would be because by threats you had compelled me to do so; that I should
hate and detest you if I became your wife even more than I hate and
detest you now. As the days passed on, my loathing would become greater,
so that no friendly word would ever pass between us, and I should
consider you simply as a tyrant who bound me in chains. You understand
all this?"
"I will risk it," he replied. "I should not despair of regaining your
love in time."
The face she turned to him was pallid in its despair.
"You never would regain it," she said, calmly. "Yet there is one way in
which even now you might gain my liking, my esteem, my sincere
friendship."
His face kindled at the words.
"How, Dora? Tell me how!" he cried, eagerly.
"By saying to me: 'You are free. I took advantage of your youth and
innocence; I am sorry for it. You are free! Forgive me the wrong that
has been done, and let us friends.' If you would do that, Lord Vivianne,
even now I should like you with a warm, true liking."
He was silent for a few minutes; her appeal had touched him greatly.
Looking at him, she saw that his face had softened. Impulsively she laid
a warm, soft hand on his.
"I never thought to use words of persuasion to you," she said. "I never
thought to plead or to pray to you, but I do so now: be kind to me, and
let me go free."
He was tempted for one minute; but that warm, soft hand crept like fire
through his veins, his pulses thrilled, his heart beat.
Give her up!--this fair woman whose beauty maddened him! No! never,
never--come what might!
"I would not release you, Dora. I would not give you up, if every angel,
and every fiend combined, tried to take you from me!"