"Quite useless, my lord; a waste of time."
"Then, thanking you for your hospitality, I may as well go," said his lordship, with a smile.
To which remark the farmer, not knowing what politeness required him to answer, made no answer at all.
Although he was baffled, Lord Vivianne could not feel angry.
"It would be a straightforward world," he said to himself, laughingly, "if all the men in it were like Mark Brace." Still he felt that he had in some measure won a victory—he had found out that, in connection with Doris, there was something to conceal.
He went to Quainton and took up his abode for the night in the Castle Hotel. There he fancied he should be sure to hear something or other. Nor was he mistaken. In the billiard-room the conversation turned upon Earle Moray—they were very proud of him, they said that Lindenholm had given to England one of her finest poets—they boasted to each other of having known him, of having spoken to him; they talked of his election for Anderley; there had been no bribery—all had been open as the day. Yes, he had been returned almost without opposition. They spoke of Lord Linleigh's interest in him, and then one or two of the wisest among them told how he was to marry Lord Linleigh's daughter, the beautiful girl who, for some reason or other, had been brought up at Brackenside. It was impossible to keep such a secret quiet; some few in Quainton knew, and others guessed it.
Lord Vivianne listened without a comment, the veins in his forehead swelled, his face flushed a hot crimson flush, his hands trembled. It was a victory he had hardly expected to win.
Then he muttered to himself something that sounded like a fierce oath:
"She shall pay for it," he said to himself. "Madly as I love her, I will not spare her. When I have humbled her pride, I will worship her and marry her; not until then. So it was she, all the time; she looked into my eyes without recognition; she dared me, braved me, laughed at me. She shall suffer. She is the most magnificent and dauntless creature I ever beheld; she is grand enough for a Charlotte Corday, a Joan of Arc. By Heaven! how many girls would have come to me crying, praying that I would keep their secret; she laughs at me, defies me. I will repay her!"
His whole soul was torn between passionate love and passionate anger; at one time he felt inclined to weep at her feet, to pray and beseech her to love him, to be his wife; at another time to feel that he must upbraid her with her perfidy, her falsity, her deceit. Which spirit would master him when he stood in her presence he hardly knew; it would depend upon herself. If she were defiant, so should he be; if she were gentle, he would be the same. Of one thing he was quite determined—do, say what she might, she should be his wife. It would be a most dishonorable thing to threaten to hold her secret over her; but, if she compelled him, he would do it. No thought of pity came into his mind, but he wondered much. That news—the news of her father's succession to the earldom, and his return home—must have reached her while she was in Florence with him. No one even knew where he was; how, then, could she learn it.