CHAPTER LXXIV.

A LAST VAIN APPEAL.

"The night is so fine," said the earl, "you young people would enjoy a short time on the lawn. Look at those lilies asleep in the moonlight--go and wake them. Then we will have the card-tables. That is as it should be--cards for the old, moonlight for the young."

That was the very chance Lord Vivianne had been longing for; he did not think he could bear suspense much longer. Now he was sure of a _tete-a-tete_. Here, in these rooms, half-filled with people, it had been an easy matter to avoid him, or to make others join in the conversation; it would not be as easy out there in the moonlight.

Lady Linleigh, who had never for one moment relaxed her keen, untiring watch, saw him go up to Lady Doris, and speak a few words to her in a low voice. At first the beautiful face flushed hotly, and the bright eyes seemed to flash out a proud defiance. Then there was an expression of half-startled fear, followed by one of submission most unusual in her.

"There is a mystery," she said to herself; "there is something between him and my darling!"

The mother's first impulse was to screen her, to help her. Lady Linleigh crossed the room and went to her.

"Doris," she said, in a clear distinct voice, that all might hear, "Doris, do not go if you prefer remaining here."

The girl raised her eyes to the calm gentle face, and Lady Linleigh was shocked to see tears in them.

"Thank you," she said, calmly; "I shall enjoy going out. Who could resist the moon and the flowers?"

"Then do not remain long. You look tired, and we must remember you are not strong."

Lord Vivianne joined them.

"Lady Studleigh has graciously promised to show me the fountains by moonlight. I will watch her faithfully, and at the first symptom of fatigue I promise you she shall return."

Then the countess could say no more. She saw Lord Vivianne carefully draw the black lace shawl over the white neck and arms.

"Not that you can be cold," he said, in reply to some objection, "but, as Lady Linleigh says, we must be careful of you."

And he smiled down on her with an air of protection and of appropriation, for which she in her rage could have struck him dead, and which made Lady Linleigh wonder exceedingly.

"It is ten thousand pities," she thought, "that he does not know she is engaged to Earle."

Then a new suspicion came to her, which made her even more uncomfortable. Was it possible that her daughter's passionate desire for secrecy had anything to do with Lord Vivianne? Was her daughter _afraid_ of letting him know that she was going to be married? The very torment of the suspicion, faint as it was, filled her with dread. Then she saw the happy little group of guests on the lawn, she caught one glimpse of the white water-lilies and green dress as Lady Studleigh disappeared with her cavalier.

"What has come over me?" said the countess. "I have a presentiment, heavy as death! What can be wrong? I shall begin to think I am growing old and fanciful. What danger can be near my darling?"

She set herself resolutely to play at whist, but every now and then her partner saw her turn pale and shudder, as though she were cold.

Doris and Lord Vivianne were out in the moonlight together, and alone at last. At first they maintained complete and perfect silence. Lord Vivianne placed the white jeweled hand on his arm. She did not make the least objection; it was all useless, she was in his power, and she knew it; she would not even ask the question that trembled on her lips, and filled her with despairing wonder--what had brought him there? She walked by his side, silent, proud, and uncomplaining.

"My darling," he said, at last, "does not this evening remind you of Florence, and the moonlight on the river?"

"If I am to talk to you, Lord Vivianne, and it seems I am compelled to do so, I must ask you to refrain from using such expressions as 'darling.' I will not answer you if you do: they are utterly hateful to me."

"Yet I remember the time when they pleased you passing well. Do you remember, Dora, when I gave you a diamond ring? You have diamonds now on your neck and arms, in your ears, and your hair. They shine like fire-rivers over your beautiful figure; you are so accustomed to them that they have ceased to have any particular value for you. But do you remember your delight in the first?"

"Women remember their first diamonds, as they do their first long dress or their first lover," she replied.

"I suppose so. Oh, Dora, be a little kind to me! We are here in this sweet moonlight together, yet you do not give me one word, one smile. You were not always so hard or so cruel. In Florence, you used to walk with both these beautiful white hands clasped over my arm. Do you remember it?"

Then she raised to his a face that, in its pride and anger, he never forgot.

"I will not permit you to mention those days to me," she cried. "They are hateful; the very memory of them brands me as with a red-hot iron. I will not bear it. I would sooner--listen to me--I know the words are unwomanly--I would sooner pass through the infernal fires than go to Florence with you again."

He laughed.

"I like to see you in a passion, Dora; it suits you; you would have made a grand tragedy queen. I do not wish to vex you or to tease you, because, as you know, I wish to make you my wife. Do you know, can you guess, what has brought me here?"

"No. You have broken our compact in coming, I know that!"

Still it was the question over which she had pondered, by day and by night, ever since she had heard he was coming. It made her heart beat fast, but she would not give way; there was not the least sign of emotion.

"Do you not wonder what has brought me here, Dora?" he repeated.

"I am very indifferent," she said; "no one could be more so."

"I will tell you. I came to see if you were keeping faith with me, if there was any rumor of a lover, any rumor of an engagement. I came purposely for that."

"And if there had been?" she said.

"If there had been, why, you see, Dora, matters would have turned out very awkwardly for both of us."

"You are satisfied that there is not?"

"Yes, tolerably so. There is no lover here; I hear of none in the neighborhood. And you are not engaged to be married--that I do know!"

"How do you know?"

"Because I have made inquiries in the proper direction. I am, I may say, quite satisfied."

He could not tell the sensation of intense relief that came over her--the wild throbbing of her heart. She was safe then, so far, and could marry Earle. Half of the dread and fear she had felt faded away from her.

"I own," continued Lord Vivianne, "that I have suspected you unjustly. You deceived me once, and I fancied that you intended to deceive me again; you eluded me once, you will not elude me again?"

"You thought I was going to do so?"

"I thought your manner strange, your leaving London in the height of your triumph strange, your coming to this quiet, though beautiful country home strange."

"I told you that I wanted time for reflection," she said.

"Yes: and even that, when I came to think of it, was strange. Of course I shall keep my word now that I have given it. But why should you, how can you, need time for reflection? The idea is utterly absurd. You cannot for a moment hesitate between my threat and my offer."

"But I do hesitate," she said, "incredible as it may seem to you."

He looked in her face, so fair and calm in the moonlight, and so proud.

"I wish you would tell me why you hesitate?" he said.

"I will. I dislike you so much. The idea of having to spend my life with you is so utterly abhorrent to me, that I hesitate between that and the total ruin that would follow my refusal."

"You must indeed dislike me," he said, "if you prefer ruin, shame and disgrace to me."

"I do."

"Will you tell me why?" he asked.

"I should have thought both answer and question useless. Why, to begin with, you tempted me to sin and shame, by flattering my vanity and my pride----"

"You did not really require much temptation, Lady Studleigh."

"Thank you--you are as generous as you are gentlemanly. Granted that I did not require much temptation, you placed what little I did want before me. Do you not see," she cried, with sudden passion, "that you have spoiled my life? It would be bright, hopeful, full of charm, but for _you_--you have marred and blighted it. I do not like you--I never