“My darling’s ring!” he murmured aloud, so that the two listeners could hear him where they stood concealed; “my darling’s ring! I would give all the Stoyle jewels to get it back!”
Then he mounted slowly, and with many a backward glance, as if he hoped that even at the last moment he might get a glimpse of it shining among the grass, he rode off.
Then the thought of his happiness rose as a tide and swept away his distress; he had lost the ring, but Doris—beautiful, sweet Doris—was still his!
It seemed too wonderful, too good to be true, and he recalled every word she had spoken, every glance of her love-lit eyes, that he might impress them on his memory.
The air seemed full of her; the birds seemed to sing her name: “Doris, Doris Marlowe;” all the earth, clad in its bright spring colors, was smiling a reflection of the delirious joy that burnt like a flame in his heart.
She was so beautiful! He tried to think of some of the girls that he had known, that he might compare them with her; but they all seemed insipid and colorless beside the intense, spiritual loveliness of Doris, with her deep, melting eyes, and grave, clear brows. And she was not only beautiful, but a genius. Every word she spoke was lifted out of the region of commonplace by her marvelous voice, with its innumerable changes of expression. The touch of her small, smooth hand lingered about him; yet, the shy kiss of the warm lips burned upon his brow.
What had he done to deserve so great, so overwhelming a happiness? And as he asked himself the question Cecil Neville’s face grew grave, and a pang shot through his heart, a pang of remorse—and of shame—for some of the follies of his past life.
Doris was worthy of the best and noblest man in England, and he——! He set his teeth and breathed hard. He had laughed at love, had smiled almost contemptuously at passion, and now he felt that this was the only thing worth living for, and that rather than lose his darling he would ride his mare at the stone wall before him and break his neck.
Then he thought of the marquis and his own position. What would the marquis say? He laughed grimly as he pictured the scene before him. He could imagine the marquis’ cold, haughty face turning to ice and steel as he listened, and the cutting, smiling voice bidding him to marry his actress and go to the devil.
He was entirely dependent on the marquis; was in debt as heavily as even the heir to such a title and estates could be. What would the marquis do when he, Lord Cecil, told him that he could not marry Lady Grace, because he was going to marry—an actress?