"I promise," said Lady Estelle.
"And I too," repeated the earl, "although it is sorely against my better judgment, my will, my common sense, and everything else."
"Never mind, papa," said Lady Doris, "you have made me happy."
But even then, as she spoke, the tragedy was looming darkly over her.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
THE COUNTESS BECOMES CURIOUS.
"We ought to be very much flattered," said Lord Linleigh, with a smile, as he laid an open letter before his wife. "When did we leave London?—in June. It is only the middle of July, yet some of our friends are growing weary for us."
It was such a July morning as makes the dwellers in cities ill with envy—when the earth hangs like a huge, shining jewel in the firmament of heaven—a morning when life seems the greatest luxury, when to breathe and to live is a blessing without alloy. The sky was dark blue, without even one little white cloud to obscure it; it looked so far off, so much further than when low-lying clouds touch the earth. The sun was golden bright, warm without intense heat; and the air—ah! well, it would require a poet to tell how balmy and soft it was—how it came over the meadows laden with the breath of sweet clover—how it came from the woods with the odor of wild hyacinths—how it came from the gardens with the fragrance of rose and of lily, with the fragrance of every flower that blows. Then it was filled with soft, delicious thrills—with the cooing of the ring-doves, and the song of the lark. Nature was in her happiest mood.
The earl and countess had come down early to breakfast—the long windows were open—the perfumed air came in. They smiled, as among the letters they saw one from Earle to Doris.
"He writes every day," said Lord Linleigh.