CHAPTER LXI.

"I MIGHT HAVE BEEN SO HAPPY, BUT FOR THIS!"

"Shall you go to the opera to-night, Doris?" asked the countess, as they lingered over a cup of chocolate. "I think--do not imagine I am over anxious--I think you require a little rest, dear. You are new to this life of excessive excitement and gayety."

"I find it very pleasant," said Doris, with a smile.

"So it is; I do not deny that. But, remember, I am a veteran compared to you. I have been through many seasons, and I know the fatigue of them. Take my advice, and rest a little if you feel tired."

"I do not think I could rest," said Lady Doris.

And there was something sad in the tone that the countess had never heard before. She looked anxiously at her.

"That is what has struck me," said Lady Linleigh. "Your face is flushed, your eyes are too bright; the very spirit of unrest is on you. You have done too much. Do you know that every time the door opens you look round with a half-startled glance, as though half-dreading what you will see."

"Do I? How absurd! It is simply a habit. I have nothing to dread."

"Of course not; but it seems to me rather a pity for you to get confirmed in nervous habits while you are so young."

Lady Doris laughed, but it seemed to the countess the ring of music was wanting in the sound.

"I shall correct myself, now that I know," she replied.

Then Lady Linleigh crossed the room, and laid her hands on the golden head. She bent down and kissed the beautiful face.

"Do not be annoyed that I am so uneasy over you, Doris; I love you almost as though I were your own mother."

The low voice trembled, and the calm eyes grew dim with tears.

"My own mother?" repeated Lady Doris, and for once something like the music of true feeling sounded in her exquisite voice. "You are too young, Lady Linleigh, to be quite like my own mother; you are like an elder sister to me. I wonder if things would have been very different for me if she had lived, and I had known her?"

"Different?" asked the countess, eagerly. "In what way could they be different?"

"I wonder if she would have been fond of me--if I could have told her all my girlish follies and troubles? I have an idea that no one can be like one's own mother."

The soft, white arms tightened their clasp round the fair neck.

"Doris," said the countess, gently, "could you not fancy that I am your mother, and talk to me as freely as you would have done to her?"

The lovely face was raised with an arch glance.

"Dear Lady Linleigh," was the reply, "I am only sentimentalizing. Did you think me serious? I have no secrets. I should not know what to say to my own mother were she here. Do not take any notice of my idle words." Then she laughed. "I could never, even in my dreams, put you in my mother's place. I have a shrewd idea that my handsome papa married some poor, pretty girl for her beauty's sake--you are the daughter of a mighty duke. A truce to sentiment! Why, Lady Linleigh, your eyes are wet with tears! We were talking of the opera--I must go to it. It is 'Ernani' this evening, and I have the music."

"Earle will go with us, of course," said the countess.

She had unclasped her arms from the girl's neck, and had gone over to the little writing-table, beating back her emotion with a strong hand.

"Yes," laughed Lady Doris, "Earle will go. Earle is rapidly becoming a popular man. I am not quite sure whether I ought not to be jealous of him. The Marchioness of Meriton positively introduced him to Lady Eleanor yesterday, and declared him to be a 'most promising young man!'"

Lady Linleigh laughed at the perfect mimicry of voice and accent.

"I see no one to compare with Earle," she said, at length, "and I think you are a very fortunate girl, Doris."

"To tell the truth, I am well satisfied with my good fortune, and with Earle," she said, quietly, as in good sooth she was. She even wondered at herself, but the truth was she was growing passionately fond of Earle.

The secret of it was that he was so completely master of her, that she had learned to have the highest respect for him--that hers, the weaker, had recognized his, the master soul. In his presence she was learning to conceal her thoughts. As time passed on, and a wiser, fuller, consciousness came to her, she grew more and more ashamed of that dark and terrible episode of her life. Rather than Earle should know it, she would die any death; rather than his eyes should look coldly upon her, his lips speak contemptuous words to her, she would suffer anything, so completely had his noble nature mastered her ignoble one. His grand soul obtained an ascendancy over her inferior one--she loved Earle. The time had been when she had simply amused herself with him, when she had accepted his love and homage because it was the only thing that made life endurable to her. That time had passed. She loved him because he had conquered her, and because he was supreme lord and master.

Lady Studleigh had never looked more beautiful, perhaps, than on this evening when she had decided upon going to the opera. She wore an exquisite costume of blue velvet and white lace, the color of which made her more than ever dazzlingly fair. The white arms, with their glorious curves, the white neck, with its graceful lines, were half shrouded, half disclosed by the veil of white lace. The golden hair was studded with diamond stars; a diamond cross, which looked as though it were made of light, rose and fell on the white breast. She carried a beautiful bouquet, the fragrance of which seemed to float around her as she moved.

Was it a wonder that as she took a seat in the box, all eyes were directed to her? A beautiful woman is perhaps one of the greatest rarities in creation, but in the hands of a beautiful woman there rests a terrible power. As she sat there, the light gleaming in her jewels, the golden hair with its sheen, the blue velvet and the crimson of the opera box, she made a picture not easily forgotten. The countess, gracious, fair, and calm, was with her; Earle, his handsome face glowing with admiration and pride, stood by her side. The earl was to join them later on in the evening.

It was a brilliant scene. Some of the fairest women and noblest men in London were there. Lady Doris was, or seemed to be, engrossed by the stage; she affected the most sublime and complete, unconsciousness of the glories of admiration; she was thinking to herself, as she was always thinking lately:

"Now, if he, Lord Vivianne, should be here, should suddenly come and speak to me, I must affect the most complete unconcern and indifference."

While her eyes were fixed on the stage, while so many were looking at her, some with admiration, some with envy, that was the thought which occupied her. The dread, the expectation of meeting him had been strong upon her ever since she heard that he was in London--it could not possibly be otherwise. She knew herself to be the beauty of the season; he, of course, as an eligible man, would mix in the same circles, and they must meet. She was brave enough, but there were times when, at the bare idea of it, the color faded from her face, leaving it ghastly white; great drops would stand on her forehead; she would clasp her hands with a cry of agony.

If her attempts at evading him were all useless, if he recognized her and insisted on the recognition, what could she do? The question was, could she deny having been in Florence? No amount of prevarication could alter that. Suppose--only imagine if he should betray her. He might be a gentleman and keep his secret; it was certainly within the bounds of possibility he might keep her secret; but, remembering his character, she did not for one moment think he would. He called himself a gentleman and a man of honor, but he had not scrupled to take a mean advantage of her youth and ignorance, her vanity and folly. What a triumph it would be for him now to turn round and laugh at the lovely Lady Studleigh, and say that beautiful, admired, proud, and lofty as she was now, she had once been content to be his companion. What if he told all this as a secret at first, and the knowledge of it spread slowly, as a social leprosy always does. What should she do? Great heavens! what should she do?

"How mad I was!" she cried to herself over and over again; "how foolish, how blind! I might have been so happy but for this!"

It was the skeleton always by her side, and despite her nerve, her courage, her strength, there were times when it almost hopelessly beat her down. Then the thought of Earle was her shield.

"If he says one word against me, and I cannot kill him," she said to herself over and over again, "I will ask Earle to fight a duel with him, and he will slay him!"

But for this, how unboundedly happy she would have been--how victorious, how triumphant! Who, looking at that most lovely face, with its calm, high-bred air, would have thought that the heart beneath was torn with thoughts of regret, despair, and even revenge that should lead to murder?

"My darling!" said the voice she loved best in her ear. "Doris, I shall be jealous of that music. I have spoken to you so often, and you have not heard me."

The eyes she raised to him had no shadow in them of the terrible thoughts that filled her mind.

"The music is so beautiful, Earle," she said, gently.

"I wonder," he said, abruptly, "who that is--a gentleman in the center box there? He has never once taken his eyes, or rather his glass, from your face."

A cold thrill passed over her, as though a shower of ice had fallen over her--a cold, terrible chill, a shudder that she could not repress. Her own quick, subtle instinct told her that it was he.

The moment she had dreaded had come--the sword had fallen at last.

He was looking at her; the next step he would be speaking to her.

Now for the Studleigh nerve, the Studleigh courage; now for the recklessness that defied fate, the boldness that was to defy fortune! A minute to collect, to control that terrible shudder, then she held up her flowers with a smile.

"You are very negligent to-night, Earle," she said; "you have not told me that you admire my bouquet."

"There is but little need, darling. I always admire you and everything belonging to you. Your flowers are like yourself--always sweetest of the sweet, fairest of the fair!"

Have men ever paused one minute before swallowing deadly poison, before drawing the trigger of a pistol, before sending a long, gleaming knife into their hearts? Have they ever paused with one foot upon a precipice, with one hand on the stake--paused, before taking the irrevocable step, to look around and enjoy one more moment of life? Even so she paused now; she closed her eyes with a lingering look at his face, she buried her own in the sweet, fragrant flowers.

"Do you love me so very dearly?" she asked.

"My darling, when you can collect the gleaming stars of heaven, or the shining drops of the sunny sea, you will be able to understand how much I love you--not until then!"