"What is that in your face?" he cried. "What is it? What is the matter?"
"Heaven help you, my poor boy!" said the earl, in a broken voice. "It would seem better to take away your life at once than to tell what I have to tell."
"Doris is ill. She—no—she cannot have changed her mind again—she cannot have gone away!"
"You will not be married to-day," said the earl, sadly. "My poor Earle."
"I cannot believe it," he cried. "Is Heaven so cruel; would God let that sun shine—those birds sing—those sweet flowers bloom? Yes, kill me, slay me, take my love away. I will not believe it."
"Hush," said the earl, laying his hand on the quivering lips; "hush, my poor Earle. Whatever happens, we must not rail against Heaven."
"It is not Heaven," he cried. "I tell you, God would not do it. He would not take my darling from me. You are afraid to say what has happened. I know she has gone away and left me, as she did before. Oh! my love, my love! you shall not cheat me! I will follow you over the wide world; I will find you, and love you, and make you my own! Oh! speak to me, for mercy's sake! Speak—has she gone?"
"My dear Earle, I do not know how to tell you, words seem to fail me. Try to bear it like a man, though it is hard to bear—Doris is dead!"
He saw the young lover's face grow gray as with the pallor of death.
"Dead?" he repeated, slowly—"dead!"