CHAPTER XXIX.

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.