CHAPTER XLII.

"THIS IS YOUR REVENGE--TO HUMILIATE ME."

"I am bound to believe you," he said, "although my faith in you has been terribly shaken. I ask you because I heard that you passed here as a married lady. Is that true?"

A keen observer might have noticed that her face grew pale--that she trembled and seemed for one moment uncertain.

"Is it true?" repeated Earle.

In the eyes raised to his face there was such blank innocence of expression that, in spite of his doubts, he felt ashamed of himself and his words.

"You heard such a thing of me!" she said. "Why, who could have told you?"

"That matters little; I heard it. Is it true?"

"You puzzle me," she said, with the same startled expression. "Why should I do such a thing--why pass myself off as married? I do not understand--you puzzle me, Earle."

"Is it true, or not?" he repeated.

"No," she replied.

"You swear that, likewise, before Heaven?"

"Certainly," she said, promptly. "I do not understand."

Then he blamed himself for being hard upon her.

"We will not discuss it any more," he said, "I have other things to say to you."

She looked slightly embarrassed, the fact being that she had quite lost her fear of him, and was only pondering now upon what she should do to get him away. It would never do for Lord Vivianne to return and find him there; there would be a quarrel, to say the least of it. Besides, Lord Charles was not the most patient of men. What would he do if he heard this nonsense about Earle claiming her? She had no idea of going back with Earle--sooner or later she would tell him so. It was very awkward for her, and she heartily wished she had never seen him. She had no idea, even ever so faint, of going back to Brackenside. She resolved that while he was talking she would settle her future plan of action. At first she hardly listened to him, then by degrees his words began to have a strong, weird interest for her.

"Doris," he said, "I think I have brought the strangest message that one human being ever brought to another. Give me your full attention."

She turned her beautiful face to his, thinking that he was going to say something about love or marriage. Far different were the next words that fell upon her ear.

"Doris," he said, "you have always believed yourself to be the daughter of Mark and Patty Brace, have you not?"

"Yes," she replied, wonderingly, "what else could I believe? You are the son of Mrs. Moray, of Lindenholm, are you not?"

"Certainly; but that is beside the question. You never, even in your own mind, doubted the truth of what you say?"

She laughed the little, careless, sweet laugh that he remembered so well.

"To tell the plain truth, Earle, I never felt myself quite a Brace--the manners and tastes of those good people were so different to my own."

"Then what I have to say will not shock you. You had no great love for the simple farmer and his kindly wife?"

"If you wish for the truth, again I say no. I had no great love for them. They were good in their way--that way was not mine."

"So it seems," he retorted. "Then you will not suffer any great amount of pain if I tell you that Mark Brace is not your father, nor his kindly wife your mother?"

"Now, Earle, you are inventing a romance to please yourself."

"Does it please you, Doris? I leave inventions to yourself; I tell you the plain, honest truth--you are no relation of theirs."

"Who am I, then? If you take my old identity from me, you must, at least, give me a new one," she said, laughingly.

Her utter want of feeling and absence of all emotions annoyed him greatly.

"I will tell you a story," he said.

And with a grace and pathos all his own, he told the history of that night so long ago, when the little child was found at the door of the farm-house.

She looked incredulous.

"Do you mean to tell me that I was that child? A wretched little foundling! I do not believe one word of it. This is your revenge--to humiliate me."

"You will know better soon," he replied, quietly. "Yes, you were that little child. Patty Brace took you to her arms, and honest Mark Brace treated you like his own."

Her face flushed crimson, her lips curled with scorn, her eyes flashed light.

"I look very much like a foundling, do I not? Earle Moray, take your absurd stories elsewhere." She held up one white hand. "That looks like the hand of a foundling, does it not? Shame on you for trying to humiliate me! It is a pure invention. I do not believe one word of it, and I never shall."

"You have only heard the commencement," he replied, coolly. "Remember, I never used the word 'foundling' to you--you used it to yourself. It is not probable that I should do so _when I know whose daughter you are_."

"Ah! Do you know? May I ask what honorable parentage you have assigned to me? This grows amusing. Remember, before you say another word, that I distinctly refuse to believe you."

"You will change your mind," he said, quietly. "I have not the least doubt that I am here to tell you the simple truth, and to take you back to your father."

The impulse was strong upon her to say that she could not go, but she refrained, thinking it quite as wise and politic to hear first to what she was to return.

"You must not ask me how I know your history," said Earle, "but it suffices that I know it. Let me tell you also, it did not surprise me so very much. I always thought, myself, that you were, as you say, 'of a different kind.'"

He saw the color creep slowly over her face and a new light dawn in her eyes.

"You will, henceforward, occupy a very different position, Doris," he said, gravely; "your place will be henceforth among the nobility."

"Ah! that's better," she said in a low voice.

But he could see that she trembled with impatience. She had clasped her hands so tightly that the rings she wore made great dents in the tender flesh; still she would not betray her impatience.

"Your father is a nobleman, a wealthy British peer--Earl Linleigh--and you are his only child."

She grew white, even to the lips, and her breath came in quick gasps.

"Earl of Linleigh?" she repeated. "Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, Earle?"

"There is no mistake, Doris; your name and title is now Lady Doris Studleigh. Do you like it? Does it sound well?"

She drew her breath with a deep, heavy sigh.

"I cannot believe it, Earle," she said, "it seems quite impossible that it should be true. It is what I used to dream when a child, but I never thought the dream would be realized. I cannot believe it, Earle."

It was significant enough that she refused to believe him when she fancied that he wished to lower her in the social scale; but she never expressed the slightest doubt of his truth now, nor did even the faintest doubt occur to her. After the first emotion of surprise had passed, she looked at him again.

"My mother?" she said--"you have told me nothing about her. Who is she?"

"I have nothing to tell," he said; "I have nothing to say about her. I was commissioned simply to tell you this. I may add that your father's marriage was a private one, that he was for many years in India, and is now returning home to take possession of his estates."

"A private marriage!" she said, slowly. "I hope he has not married beneath him."

"There is no doubt but that the whole story of his marriage will be told to you," said Earle. "And now, Doris, listen to me--you must return with me; I cannot go without you. I promised that you should go back with me, and it is imperative. The marriage will not be declared until you reach home."

"It is so sudden," she said.

"Yes, but you surely cannot hesitate, Doris. Remember not only what awaits you--your golden future--but remember, also, it is your own parents who summon you."

"You do not quite understand, Earle. I have no hesitation in going. Of course I shall go, but I want time to think."

"If you fear the people you are staying with will not be willing for you to go, it is a great mistake; they could not possibly make any objection. I will see them for you, if you like."

She raised her head in quick alarm.

"No, I would rather not, it is not needful. Give me just ten minutes to decide. You are just; give me ten minutes in silence to think."

He remained mute and motionless by her side.

The Arno rippled musically at her feet; birds sang above her head.

"Tell me again;" she said, "what will my rank and title be?"

"You will be the Lady Doris Studleigh, only daughter of the Earl of Linleigh----"

"And my fortune?" she interrupted.

"Of that I know nothing; but I should say it must be large. You will probably be a wealthy heiress."

"And there is a place waiting for me in the grand world?"

"Most certainly," he replied.

"Now, then, let me think, Earle; I am all bewilderment and confusion. Let me arrange my ideas, then I will explain them to you."

He did not know why she sat so silent, while quiver after quiver of pain passed over her face--why her hands were so tightly clasped; but she in that hour was reaping the reward of her folly.

What had she done? Had she, by her wicked sin, by her intense self-love, her eagerness for pleasure and luxury, her little esteem for virtue, her frivolous views of vice--had she by all these forfeited that glorious birth-right which was hers? Had she lost all chance of this grand position which would fill the greatest desire of her heart? It was this most terrible fear that blanched her face and made her hands tremble, that caused her to sit like one over whom a terrible blight had fallen. In her passionate desire for change and luxury, for pleasure and gayety, she had never even thought of her own degradation; it was a view of the subject that she had not yet taken; she had only thought of the lighter side. Now it seemed to look her in the face with all its natural deformity. She shrunk abashed and frightened--horror-stricken--now that she saw her enormity in its full colors.

Still, it was not the sin that distressed her; that was nothing to her. It was the idea that through it she might lose the glorious future awaiting her; if this had not happened, she would never have regretted her fault. If it were known--if this proud nobleman knew that she had passed as the wife of a man to whom she was not married, would he ever receive her as his daughter? No; she knew enough of the world to be quite sure of that. Even Mark Brace would not do it. If he had the faintest possible idea of what her life had been since they parted, would he receive her, and think her a suitable companion for Mattie? No; she knew that he would not; he would have forgiven any sin save that. A disgraceful sin like hers he considered beyond pardon.

If Mark Brace, with his kindly, simple heart, could not pardon her, was it probable that Earl Linleigh would? No! The only hope that remained to her was to keep her past life, with its terrible blunder, a dead secret--there was no other resource. Could she do that? It was just possible.

Only yesterday she had been railing against her life, declaring that it was all a disappointment, that she saw no one, and was getting tired of it; now she felt thankful that it was so, that she had seen but few strange faces, and most of these had been Italian ones. So that if she could keep her secret, she trusted no one would recognize in Lady Doris Studleigh the person who had been known as Mrs. Conyers.