CHAPTER XXXIV.

"AFTER SO MANY YEARS OF DREAD HAS IT COME AT LAST?"

There was no part of the day that the Duke of Downsbury enjoyed so much as the breakfast hour, when his beautiful daughter and his aristocratic wife amused themselves by the discussion of letters and papers that had come by post; then Lady Estelle seemed more lively, and the very sunshine of the duke's life was the happiness of his only child. As the day passed on she grew more listless, and the expression of _ennui_ on her face grew deeper, but with the morning light she had something of the brightness that had distinguished her as a girl.

On this morning the sun shone so fairly, the roses were blooming, the birds were singing, the whole world was bright and gay. The breakfast-room was, in itself, the very picture of comfort and luxury; the sunbeams sparkled on the costly silver, the flowers filled the air with fragrance. The duke, a fine, handsome man, the very type of an English nobleman, sat with a most contented smile on his face. The cup of tea by his plate was odorous as a bouquet of flowers. The duchess, proud and stately, was deeply engaged in the perusal of a closely-written letter. Lady Estelle, looking more beautiful than ever in the morning light, was busily engaged in doing nothing; neither book nor paper interested her; but to one who knew that fair face well, there was a cloud upon it, an expression of unusual languor and thought.

Suddenly the duke addressed his wife:

"Did I tell you, my dear, that I met my model farmer yesterday, the honest man who amused you so much by his uncertainty over his hands and feet?"

"I remember Mark Brace," said the duchess; "how could I ever forget him? He seemed to me the most honest and sensible man I ever met."

"You remember, perhaps, the pretty child, and the romantic story?"

"Yes; and I never prophesied good for that child," rejoined the duchess.

Lady Estelle raised her fair, proud face.

"Do not say that, mamma; it seems so hard upon the child."

"It will be true, my dear," said her grace, calmly. "What has become of her, I wonder? I have not heard anything of her lately."

The duke smiled.

"One part of your prophecy has come true; she was tired of Brackenside, and has gone abroad."

"Gone abroad?" repeated her grace.

It was the calm, sweet voice of Lady Estelle that replied:

"She has gone as governess to some little children, mamma; surely that was a sensible thing to do."

The duchess looked up in surprise at the unwonted interest in Lady Estelle's voice.

"It is so sensible, Estelle, that I am disposed to alter my opinion of her; she has more sense and less vanity than I gave her credit for. I am much pleased to hear it. But surely you or some one else told me she was going to be married."

"She told me so herself," replied Lady Estelle, "on the day she came here; she was going to marry a gentleman and a poet."

"Very improbable," said her grace; "gentlemen do not marry beneath them, as a rule."

She did not see the quick, hot flush that for one moment burned her daughter's face.

Then Lady Estelle leaned back in her chair, as though the subject had no further interest for her.

Suddenly the duke looked up from his paper.

"Of all the strange pieces of news I have ever read, this is the strangest," he said.

Both ladies glanced at him; the flush dying from the face of Lady Estelle left it unusually pale.

"You remember Ulric Studleigh," continued his grace, "that handsome 'ne'er-do-well?'"

This question produced a singular result. The duchess looked quickly at her daughter, then dropped her eyes. Lady Estelle started as though she had been touched to the heart by some keen, sharp sword.

"What of Ulric Studleigh?" asked her grace, in a curt voice.

"You will never believe it, my dear; he is the last man in the world to whom such luck seemed likely to fall. When he was in London, at the time we knew him so well, there were seven lives between himself and the earldom of Linleigh. By a strange chapter of accidents they are all gone. The young Earl of Linleigh died only last week, and now Ulric Studleigh has succeeded; he is Earl of Linleigh, and is expected in England next week. Only think what a change for him!"

Lady Estelle had left her seat; she stood against the window, and the face that looked through the glass was so white and wild no one could have recognized it.

"It is a great change," said the duchess; "but unless he himself has changed, fortune will not benefit him much."

"The greatest fault in him was his poverty," said the duke. "I must confess I knew little else."

The proud face of the duchess lighted with scorn.

"Did you not? I never liked the Studleigh race myself; 'faithless and debonair'--every one of them, men and women, too, 'faithless and debonair'--fair of face, light of heart, light of word, light of truth. When was a Studleigh either true to a friend or loyal to a love?"

Still no word from the silent figure at the window.

"I wonder," continued the duke, "if he is married yet?"

"It is hardly probable; the Studleighs are proud enough. He would not meet in Indian society any one whom he would care to marry."

Then the duke looked thoughtfully at his daughter. Not one line of her white face could be seen.

"He will succeed to an enormous fortune," he continued. "I should say the earldom of Linleigh is one of the richest in England. He will be a great match for one of our fair friends."

The duchess relaxed some little of her severity.

"He was certainly a very handsome man," she said; "he always made me think of one line in the quaint, old song of 'Allan Water:'

"'And a winning tongue had he.'

"It was impossible to resist him when with him, his daring was so frank, his compliments so graceful and well turned, yet one felt, instinctively, that the truth was not in him. Faithless and debonair. I should not like any one for whom I felt any great esteem to marry Ulric Studleigh, were he thrice an earl."

"Well, I cannot help feeling rather pleased," said the duke. "Perhaps it was a little for his handsome face, but certainly I liked him."

"When is he coming home?" asked the duchess.

"He had sailed for England long before this news could reach him, but it will greet him as soon as he lands. He is expected next week."

There was the sound of the quiet closing of a door. When the duke and duchess looked round Lady Estelle had gone. Then they glanced wistfully at each other.

"She liked him," said the duke.

"I am afraid so," said the duchess. "I half believe that it is for his sake she has remained single. Poor Estelle! Who would have thought it? We shall see how events turn out when he returns to England. They are sure to meet; then we shall see."

While Lady Estelle walked slowly through the hall, she took her garden hat and wrapped a lace shawl round her shoulders. Quietly, with her usual languid, graceful step, she passed out through the hall into the flower-garden beyond. No sound escaped her lips, and her fair, proud face was unruffled; but when she was there quite alone, the self-control and self-restraint fell from her. She raised her face with a despairing cry to the shining heavens.

"Oh, my God!" she moaned; "after so many years of dread--after so many years of unutterable fear and misery--has it come at last!"

Then she, who had never been seen to shed a tear, laid her face on the green grass and wept aloud--wept as only calm, proud people can weep when the depths of the heart are touched. She lay there a long time, while the sun shone on her, then she roused herself. Tears relieved her for the time; but in this sudden and cruel emergency they did her no enduring good.

"What am I to do?" she cried to herself. "How can I best atone for this folly and sin of my youth? What will they say to me? Oh, Heaven! if I could but die!"

So through the summer hours she wept and moaned. What should she do? The future looked dark as the past. For so long she had been putting off this evil day--fighting hard with her conscience and every impulse of honesty and goodness--hoping against hope that the evil day might, perhaps, never come at all. Yet here it was, and she was helpless.

"If she were here," she thought to herself, "it would not be so bad. I cannot see my way out of this labyrinth." And though she spent hour after hour thinking and planning, she could decide upon nothing.

That evening there was a grand dinner party at Downsbury Castle, and the principal guest was a writer from London, whose name was a power in the government. During the course of the long, stately dinner the great writer, turning to the duke, said:

"You have a famous poet in your neighborhood, or rather you have one who in time will be a famous poet."

His grace, who had forgotten what he had heard of the "gentleman and poet," asked eagerly who it was.

"The author of 'English Lyrics,'" replied the writer. "He lives, unless I mistake, at a place called Lindenholm, on your estate. Unless I make the greatest mistake, that young man has a grand career before him. I should like to meet him."

Lady Estelle, pale and stately, listened intently. This was the poet who was to marry Doris. She listened again. They spoke of the poet's sterling worth, his wonderful honesty, his noble character, and there came to her a gleam of hope in her distress.

She would go to him. In all the wide world there was no one to help her but him. She would risk all, and try him. If he proved untrue--if he refused to help her--why, even then, matters could be no worse; whereas, if he did not refuse, and was willing to come to her aid, her troubles would at least be lessened, and she could meet Ulric Studleigh with a calmer face.