What mad folly had possessed him? He gnashed his teeth with rage when he thought of what he had done. Then something brought to his mind the remembrance of that picture, and his heart filled with hope. Perhaps if he could buy it—could have the pictured face in its living, radiant beauty always before him, it might lay the specter that haunted him; it might turn the current. He had forgotten almost what the lovely, living face was like; he only remembered it cold and dead.
He purchased the picture, but it only worked him deeper woe—deeper, darker woe. He fancied the eyes followed him and mocked him; he had a terrible dread that some time or other the lips would open and denounce him.
Then, when he could bear it no longer, he determined to kill himself. He would have no more of it.
All London was horrified to hear that Lord Vivianne had been found dead; he had shot himself. Even the journals that, as a rule, avoided details, told how he died with his face turned to a picture—the picture of a beautiful girl with a fair face, tender eyes, and sweet, proud lips—a picture called "Innocence."
If any one dare to believe that he can sin with impunity, let him stand for one minute while a sin-stained suicide is laid in his lonely grave.
CHAPTER LXXXVII.
SILENT LOVE REWARDED.
Five years had passed since the occurrence of the events recorded in the preceding chapter. Lord Vivianne's place was filled, his name forgotten; flowers bloomed fair and fragrant on the grave of Lady Doris; the earl and countess had drawn themselves more from public life, and found their happiness in the midst of their children. The duchess seemed to have renewed her youth in those same children, and was never so happy as when she could carry one or two of them off with her to Downsbury Castle.
One autumn day Mattie Brace stood at the little gate that led from the garden to the meadow. The sun was shining, and the red-brown leaves were falling from the trees. She was thinking of Earle; how prosperous, how fortunate he had been during these last few years, when he had worked with all his heart to drown his sorrow. How he had worked! And now he reaped the reward of all industry—success. The critics and the public hailed him as the greatest poet of the day. In the House of Commons he was considered a brilliant leader, a brilliant speaker. He had speculated, too, and all his speculations turned out well; he had sent his last poem to Mattie, and told her he should come to hear her opinion from her own lips.
It was not a great surprise to her, on that bright autumn day, to see him crossing the meadows. How many years had she waited for him there! She thought him altered. They had written to each other constantly, but they had not met since the tragedy. He was older, his face had more strength and power, with less brightness. She thought him handsomer, though so much of the light of youth had died away from him.