CHAPTER XLIV.

THE NOBLEMAN'S OATH.

It was a strange journey home, and during its course Earle often wondered why, at intervals, Doris laughed, as though she found the keenest enjoyment in her own thoughts.

He little imagined that she was reveling in the disappointment Lord Vivianne would feel; and she had enough of the woman in her to rejoice in his pain, and to feel pleased that she could deal him some little blow in return for the blow he had dealt her. In her heart she had never forgiven him that he had not found her beauty and her grace inducement sufficient to make him marry her. She could not pardon him that, and she liked to think that he would be annoyed and vexed by her absence.

She little dreamed of the storm of passion in that heart of his. If she had had any inkling of it, she would most assuredly have done the wisest and most straightforward thing--told him her story, trusted him, and confided in what he called his honor--it would have been by far the safest.

As it was, his love became a fury of rage. He had gone into the city of Florence, thinking of her, anxious to gratify every whim, desirous of pleasing her. It had been her whim to sit by the river-side and read, while he went to purchase flowers and to engage an opera-box. She had plenty of flowers in the luxurious house where he had placed her--she was surrounded by them--but they did not please her; she wanted some from a celebrated florist who supplied--so she had been told--the most fashionable ladies in Florence. Then, too, she had a great desire to hear "Satanella," and knowing that it would be really impossible, unless Lord Vivianne went himself, to secure a box, she had taken the pretty caprice of sitting by the river until his return.

He returned in the highest spirits, having succeeded in all that she most desired. He brought with him some magnificent flowers, beautiful in color, rich in perfume; and he hastened back to the pretty nook where he had left her. The river ran rippling by, the branches waved in the wind, the birds sang on the boughs, but there was no Doris. Thinking that she had gone some few steps further down, he called her by her name, "Dora! Dora!" It seemed as though the wavelets ran away laughing at the sound, and the birds repeated it with mocking charms. Then he saw upon the ground the book she had taken out with her, and smiled to himself as he picked it up. It was a prurient French romance, and a cynical laugh came from his lips.

"I consider myself, to say the least of it, no saint; but it would never have occurred to me to bring such a book as that out into the sunshine to read."

From the river-bank he could see the pretty villa, with its terrace and balconies. He thought it possible that Doris had gone home in search of something, and he sat down under the trees where that most momentous interview had taken place, and sang to himself an opera song. Still, though the time passed pleasantly, she was long in coming. He occupied himself in thinking of her--of the wondrous grace and beauty of her face, of the smile that dazzled him, of the glory of her golden hair, of her wit, her repartee, her piquant words. He owned to himself that she made the charm of his life--that without her it would have neither salt nor savor. Indeed, he had only been absent from her an hour or two, and he felt dull and wearied. Life without Doris--why it would not be worth having!

Then he wished that she had belonged to some station of life so refined that he could have married her; but he checked the thought with a sigh. She was beautiful with a rare loveliness, but hardly the one that any man would choose to be the mother of his children.

Then the sunbeams fell slanting, and his lordship remembered that lunch would be waiting. He felt sure that she must be at home. He walked quickly toward the villa, still carrying the magnificent flowers, but Mrs. Conyers was not there. He went into her room; it was just as she had left it--a scene of elegant confusion--dresses, jewels, laces, all in the most picturesque disorder. The dress she was to have worn at the opera lay there ready, the jewels with it. Evidently she had not gone far. He learned from her maid and other servants that she had not returned to the house since she left with him in the morning. Then Lord Charles became angry; he was not accustomed to this kind of treatment.

"She is hiding, I suppose," he said to himself, sullenly; "but if she expects me to make any fuss about finding her, she is mistaken. She can do as she likes."

He slept away the sunshiny afternoon, and awoke to the fact that dinner was ready, but that Doris had not returned; yet it was not until the shades of night had fallen that he began to feel any fear; then, slowly enough, it dawned upon him that she had left him. At first he was incredulous, and feared some accident had happened: he dreaded lest she should have fallen into the river, and made an active search for her. When he felt sure that she was gone, that she had in real truth abandoned him, his rage was terrible; he could not imagine how or why it was.

"She had everything here," he said to himself, "that any woman's heart could desire. Can she have met any one whom she liked better than me?"

He judged her quite correctly in thinking that nothing but superior wealth would have tempted her from him; but no one was missing from Florence, neither Italian nor English. As for suspecting that Earle had followed and claimed her, such an idea never entered his mind; he would have laughed at it.

When there was no longer any doubt--when long days and longer nights had passed, and there was no sign of her return--when she never wrote to him or gave him the least sign of her existence, he was in a fury of rage and passion. He paid the servants and sent them away. He flung her dresses and pretty ornaments into the river; he would have none of them. Then he swore to himself an oath that, let him find her again, as he would--wherever he would--he would take his revenge.

It would have been a thousand times better for her had she told him the truth and trusted him. Then he went away from Florence, but he swore to himself that he would find her, and when she was found she should suffer.

But of this, Doris, triumphant and happy, knew nothing. That journey home was delightful to her. She gloried in seeing Earle lose the dignity, the stern self-control, the coldness that had been so distasteful to her; she delighted in making his face flush, in saying words to him that made his strong hands tremble and his lips quiver; she delighted in these evidences of her power. Gradually he became the warm, impassioned lover that he had been once, and Doris was happy. While Earle was her friend all was safe.

"I hope," she said to him one day, "that they will not tease me at home with tiresome questions; I am so impatient, I should never answer or hear them."

"If by home you mean Brackenside," said Earle, "it is not very probable; you will not be there long."

"You had better give them a caution, Earle. I know my own failings so well. Tell them that you met me in Florence. Mind, if you use the word _found_ I shall never forgive you. You met me in Florence, and hearing that they were in trouble over me, I returned; that is what you have to say, Earle, neither more nor less."

He smiled at her vehemence.

"I will do all I can to please you, Doris," he said.

"That is well; if you do so, Earle, we shall be all right together. I like to be obeyed."

"It suits you," said Earle; "you were born to be a queen."

"Do they know anything at Brackenside of this wonderful story, Earle?" she asked, after a time.

"No, not yet--not one word; no one knows it but myself and you."

Yet he could see that, as they drew nearer home, she was nervous and ill at ease. Once he asked her why it was, and she half laughed as she said:

"Mattie is so tiresome; I shall have no peace with her."

And again he repeated his formula of comfort, "It is not for long."

On the evening they reached Brackenside it was cold and windy.

Rain had fallen during the day, but the rain-clouds had all disappeared; the sky was clear and blue, the moon shone, but the cold was great. The scene in England was quite wintry; there was no Italian sun to warm it; the flowers and leaves were all dead; the fields looked gray, not green, and the wind wailed with a sound so mournful that it made one shudder to listen to it.

As they walked up the fields together, Earle said to his beautiful companion:

"According to Mark Brace's story, it was on such a night as this that you were brought to Brackenside."

She laughed.

"Do you know, Earle," she said, "I am quite ashamed of it, but I have a very uncomfortable sensation that I am returning home very much after the style of the prodigal son."

"Nothing of the kind," said generous Earle. He would not allow her to depreciate herself.

The wind was fearful; it bent the tall trees, and swayed them to and fro as though they were reeds. It moaned and wailed round the house with long-drawn, terrible cries.

"One would think the wind had a voice, and was foretelling evil," said Doris, with a shudder. "Listen, Earle!"

But the attention of the young poet was drawn to a pretty scene. Through the window of the farm-house a ruddy light came like a beam of welcome.

"They are sitting there," said Earle--"the farmer and his wife, with Mattie. Let us go to the window, Doris; we shall see them, but they will not see us."

They drew near to the window. It was the prettiest home scene that was ever imagined. The ruddy light of the fire was reflected in the shining cupboard, in Mark's honest face--it played over the bent head of his wife, and on Mattie's brown hair.

Tears came into the young poet's eyes as he stood and watched; for Mark had taken the great Bible down from the shelf, and was reading aloud to his wife and child. They could not distinguish what he was reading, but they heard the deep reverence of his voice, and how it faltered when he came to any words that touched him. They could see the look of reverence on Mattie's face, and the picture was a pleasing one--it touched all that was most noble in the heart of the young poet.

"I have seen just such a look as Mattie wears on the pictured faces of the saints," he said; and although Doris affected to laugh at his enthusiasm, she was half jealous of the girl who excited it.

Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to Earle; he turned quickly to her.

"Doris," he said, "raise your face to the quiet skies; let me look into the depths of your eyes. Tell me, before Heaven, are you worthy to return and take your place as sister by the side of that girl, whose every thought is pure, and every word devout?"

"I understand you," she said, coldly. "Yes, I am quite worthy to stand by her side."

"Swear it, before Heaven!" he cried.

And the unhappy girl swore it!