She knew perfectly well that on the morrow she had to meet her lordly lover, yet, when Earle clasped her in his arms, and drew her head on his breast, she mutely accepted his caresses.
What she said was true—she might do what she would, she might love the prestige of Lord Vivianne's rank, she might love his wealth, and what it could bring her, but the whole affection of her heart—poor, mean, and false as it was—had been given to Earle.
As she listened to his low-whispered words, she thought to herself that it was most likely for the last time. The story of woman's falseness is never pleasant to write. When Earle thought that he had detained her as long as Mark Brace would wish her to be out, he said:
"I must go, Doris; it would be just as difficult to leave you in an hour's time as now. Good-bye, my love, good-bye."
Then she raised her golden head and fair, flower-like face. She clasped her soft, white arms around his neck, and said:
"Good-bye, Earle."
It was the first voluntary caress that she had ever offered him, and his heart beat with a perfect rapture of happiness.
She turned away; false, fickle, coquette as she was, the sight of his face touched her with no ordinary pain. How he trusted, how he loved her! Heaven help him! how his whole heart, soul, and life seemed wrapped up in her.
Doris went back into the sitting-room, where honest Mark Brace sat waiting for her, and Earle walked home. He hardly knew how he reached there, the glamour of his love was strong upon him, the moonlight was so fair, the whole earth so fragrant and so beautiful; he crushed the sweet blossoms under his feet as he walked along; he had gathered the spray of syringa, and he held it to his lips; shining among the stars he saw the fair face of his love, he heard her voice in the sweet whisper of the wind; he stood bare-headed under the night sky, while he said to himself, "Heaven bless her!" And when he entered his mother's house, the look of rest on his face, the light in his eyes struck her so, that she said:
"You look very well to-night, my son. Is it poetry or love?"