A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

She did not see the quick, hot flush that for one moment burned her daughter's face.

Then Lady Estelle leaned back in her chair, as though the subject had no further interest for her.

Suddenly the duke looked up from his paper.

"Of all the strange pieces of news I have ever read, this is the strangest," he said.

Both ladies glanced at him; the flush dying from the face of Lady Estelle left it unusually pale.

"You remember Ulric Studleigh," continued his grace, "that handsome 'ne'er-do-well?'"

This question produced a singular result. The duchess looked quickly at her daughter, then dropped her eyes. Lady Estelle started as though she had been touched to the heart by some keen, sharp sword.

"What of Ulric Studleigh?" asked her grace, in a curt voice.

"You will never believe it, my dear; he is the last man in the world to whom such luck seemed likely to fall. When he was in London, at the time we knew him so well, there were seven lives between himself and the earldom of Linleigh. By a strange chapter of accidents they are all gone. The young Earl of Linleigh died only last week, and now Ulric Studleigh has succeeded; he is Earl of Linleigh, and is expected in England next week. Only think what a change for him!"

Lady Estelle had left her seat; she stood against the window, and the face that looked through the glass was so white and wild no one could have recognized it.

"It is a great change," said the duchess; "but unless he himself has changed, fortune will not benefit him much."

"The greatest fault in him was his poverty," said the duke. "I must confess I knew little else."

The proud face of the duchess lighted with scorn.

"Did you not? I never liked the Studleigh race myself; 'faithless and debonair' – every one of them, men and women, too, 'faithless and debonair' – fair of face, light of heart, light of word, light of truth. When was a Studleigh either true to a friend or loyal to a love?"

Still no word from the silent figure at the window.

"I wonder," continued the duke, "if he is married yet?"

"It is hardly probable; the Studleighs are proud enough. He would not meet in Indian society any one whom he would care to marry."

Then the duke looked thoughtfully at his daughter. Not one line of her white face could be seen.

"He will succeed to an enormous fortune," he continued. "I should say the earldom of Linleigh is one of the richest in England. He will be a great match for one of our fair friends."

The duchess relaxed some little of her severity.

"He was certainly a very handsome man," she said; "he always made me think of one line in the quaint, old song of 'Allan Water:'

"'And a winning tongue had he.'

"It was impossible to resist him when with him, his daring was so frank, his compliments so graceful and well turned, yet one felt, instinctively, that the truth was not in him. Faithless and debonair. I should not like any one for whom I felt any great esteem to marry Ulric Studleigh, were he thrice an earl."

"Well, I cannot help feeling rather pleased," said the duke. "Perhaps it was a little for his handsome face, but certainly I liked him."

"When is he coming home?" asked the duchess.

"He had sailed for England long before this news could reach him, but it will greet him as soon as he lands. He is expected next week."

There was the sound of the quiet closing of a door. When the duke and duchess looked round Lady Estelle had gone. Then they glanced wistfully at each other.

"She liked him," said the duke.

"I am afraid so," said the duchess. "I half believe that it is for his sake she has remained single. Poor Estelle! Who would have thought it? We shall see how events turn out when he returns to England. They are sure to meet; then we shall see."

While Lady Estelle walked slowly through the hall, she took her garden hat and wrapped a lace shawl round her shoulders. Quietly, with her usual languid, graceful step, she passed out through the hall into the flower-garden beyond. No sound escaped her lips, and her fair, proud face was unruffled; but when she was there quite alone, the self-control and self-restraint fell from her. She raised her face with a despairing cry to the shining heavens.

"Oh, my God!" she moaned; "after so many years of dread – after so many years of unutterable fear and misery – has it come at last!"

Then she, who had never been seen to shed a tear, laid her face on the green grass and wept aloud – wept as only calm, proud people can weep when the depths of the heart are touched. She lay there a long time, while the sun shone on her, then she roused herself. Tears relieved her for the time; but in this sudden and cruel emergency they did her no enduring good.

"What am I to do?" she cried to herself. "How can I best atone for this folly and sin of my youth? What will they say to me? Oh, Heaven! if I could but die!"

So through the summer hours she wept and moaned. What should she do? The future looked dark as the past. For so long she had been putting off this evil day – fighting hard with her conscience and every impulse of honesty and goodness – hoping against hope that the evil day might, perhaps, never come at all. Yet here it was, and she was helpless.

"If she were here," she thought to herself, "it would not be so bad. I cannot see my way out of this labyrinth." And though she spent hour after hour thinking and planning, she could decide upon nothing.

That evening there was a grand dinner party at Downsbury Castle, and the principal guest was a writer from London, whose name was a power in the government. During the course of the long, stately dinner the great writer, turning to the duke, said:

"You have a famous poet in your neighborhood, or rather you have one who in time will be a famous poet."

His grace, who had forgotten what he had heard of the "gentleman and poet," asked eagerly who it was.

"The author of 'English Lyrics,'" replied the writer. "He lives, unless I mistake, at a place called Lindenholm, on your estate. Unless I make the greatest mistake, that young man has a grand career before him. I should like to meet him."

Lady Estelle, pale and stately, listened intently. This was the poet who was to marry Doris. She listened again. They spoke of the poet's sterling worth, his wonderful honesty, his noble character, and there came to her a gleam of hope in her distress.

She would go to him. In all the wide world there was no one to help her but him. She would risk all, and try him. If he proved untrue – if he refused to help her – why, even then, matters could be no worse; whereas, if he did not refuse, and was willing to come to her aid, her troubles would at least be lessened, and she could meet Ulric Studleigh with a calmer face.

CHAPTER XXXV

"I MUST TELL YOU MY SECRET."

Earle Moray was dreadfully puzzled. Into the threads of his life a mighty, passionate, wonderful love had been woven, but there had been nothing of mystery. It had been a beautiful life, full of love, and dreams, and poetry, but it had all been open to the eye and pleasant to read.

He held something in his hands now that puzzled him – a letter written on thick satin wove paper – a letter asking him if he would be at the gate leading to Quainton woods at noon to-morrow, there to meet some one who wanted his aid.

It was a strange request. If any one wanted his aid, why did the person not seek him in his own home? Why desire to meet him in Quainton woods? Then, what could he do to help any one? Of what avail was he? He was not wise enough to give advice. If money were needed, he would do his best, certainly, but he could do little.

Then another thing puzzled him. The letter was evidently written by a lady. Certainly, the hand was disguised, but it was clear and elegant. What lady could wish to see him? Not Mattie for he had spent the whole of yesterday at the farm; he knew no one else, save Doris. His face grew hot, then cold, as he thought of her. Could it concern Doris in any way, this strange letter? Had she grown weary of being without him? Had she sent him a letter or token? Did she wish to see him? He tormented himself with doubts, hopes, and fears, but resolved to go. He was getting quite strong now; he was able to travel; he had taken care of himself; and those who did not know his motive wondered that he recovered so quickly. He had never swerved from his resolution to go in search of his lost love. Perhaps the saddest sight of all to him was the quantity of manuscript lying unfinished in his room – copies of the poems he had been engaged upon when his life was so suddenly taken from him – the great work that was to have secured for him immortality. He sighed when he looked at it, but he had never once attempted to continue it. If in the time to come he found Doris, and won her for his own again, then the golden dreams of fame and immortality would return to him; until then they were like his hopes – dead!

He had to control his impatience as best he could until noon of the day following; then he went quickly to the appointed place. An idea occurred to him that the letter might be a hoax, although on looking round on his circle of friends, he knew no one who would be likely to play any jest with him.

As he drew near the gate that led to Quainton woods, he saw that it was no jest, for walking down the woodland glade, pausing occasionally to look from right to left, was the figure of a tall, stately lady, whose face was closely veiled.

His heart beat so quickly he could hardly endure the rapid pulsation; but it was not Doris. This lady was taller, of a more stately presence than his golden-haired love; still, it might be some one whom she had sent to him.

He raised his hat and walked bare-headed to where the lady stood. The wind lifted the fair hair from his noble brow, and freshened the spiritual handsome face. As he bent before her, the lady stood quite still and looked at him long.

"You are Earle Moray, gentleman and poet," she said, in a voice of marvelous sweetness. "I recognize you from a description I once heard given of you."

"I am Earle Moray," he said; and still the lady looked as though she would fain read every thought; then, with a deep sigh, she held out her hand to him.

"I can trust you," she said. "I have but little skill, perhaps, in reading faces. I made a great mistake once when I tried, yet I can read yours. Truth, honor, loyalty, are all there. Nature never yet wrote falsely on such a face as yours. I will trust you with that which is dearer to me than my life."

Then they walked side by side in silence, until they reached a broad, shady walk which was darkened by the large, spreading boughs of the trees, Earle wondering who she was – marveling at the rich silk and velvet she wore, at the dainty grace of the gloved hand, at the proud, yet graceful beauty, at the sweet voice. Who was she? Some one who trusted him, and who should find that he was to be trusted even to the very depths.

Then the lady turned to him.

"I know it is an idle question," she paid, "but I ask it for form's sake. Will you keep true and sacred the trust I am going to place in you?"

"Until death!" he replied. "I promise it."

"Now tell me," she said – "I have a right to ask the question, as you will learn – you were betrothed to Doris, who was known as Doris Brace."

"Yes," he replied in a low voice, "I was."

"Would you mind telling me whether that engagement still exists?"

His face quivered with pain as he turned it to her.

"I cannot answer you," he said; "I do not know. To me it exists solemnly and sacredly. I do not know what Doris thinks."

Her voice was wonderfully soft and gentle as she continued:

"I know that I am paining you; I am sorry for it. Was there any quarrel between you when you parted?"

"No," he replied, "there was no quarrel."

"How was it?" she asked, gently. "Do not fear to tell me."

"I do not know; I was not good enough for her, perhaps – not bright and eloquent enough. Perhaps I loved her too dearly. She was the life of my life. She may have got tired of my mad, passionate love – only God knows. She left me."

"How did she leave you?" persisted the sweet, pitiless voice.

"I left her one day, believing she loved me, that in a very short time she would be my wife. I returned the next, and she had gone away, leaving a letter for me."

"What did that letter say?"

"It said that she could never marry me; that the quiet life and quiet ways would not suit her; that she had resolved to leave them. She was going abroad to teach some little children, and she prayed me never to find her, for she would never return."

He drew his breath with a hard, painful gasp as he finished the words.

"I shall find her," he added, with quiet force. "She promised to be my wife, and in the sight of the just God she is mine. I will never rest until I have found her, life of my life, the very heart of me. She shall not escape me."

"Then she left you and broke her promise without any sensible reason whatever?"

"If you will have the truth," he replied, "yes, she did so."

"Faithless and debonair," murmured the lady, "like all of her race."

"She is young," said Earle, in quick excuse, "and very beautiful. Perhaps in the years to come she may have more sense, and will be sorry for what she has done."

"All the sorrow in the world could not undo the wrong she has done you," said the lady.

"I would forgive her," said Earle. "She could do no wrong so great but that I could pardon her."

"You are true and noble; you are of the kind whom women torture and kill. Tell me, have you no idea where she is?"

"I have not the faintest," he replied, "I cannot tell even in what quarter of the world she is; but I have confidence in my own will – I shall find her."

"Suppose," said the lady, "that you succeed, that you find her, and that she is unwilling to marry you – what shall you do then?"

His face darkened – a new expression such as she had never seen came over it.

"That is between Heaven and myself," he replied. "Until I am tried and tempted I cannot tell you what I should do."

"You would not harm her!" she cried, laying her hand on his arm.

"Harm her! hurt Doris! Oh, no! how could I harm her? She is life of my life, heart of my heart! How could I harm her?"

"That is well. I am weak and easily frightened; I have lived for nearly twenty years in one long dream of terror. I was a girl of eighteen when my fear began – I am a woman of thirty-eight now, and I have never known one moment's cessation of fear. Do you pity me?"

"With all my heart," said Earle.

"After twenty years," she continued, "I stand face to face with the realization of my fear; the dream that has haunted me has come true; the sword has fallen; I have to answer for my girlish folly and sin – a thousand times greater than Doris'!"

Then between them for some minutes there fell perfect, unbroken silence. Again the lady broke it.

"I am in sore need," she said, "and I want a friend. I have sought you because you love Doris."

Wondering more and more, he answered that he would do anything on earth to help her.

"I feel sure you would," she said; then throwing back her veil, she asked: "Do you know me?"

He looked at her. No, he did not know her. He thought to himself that he could never have forgotten such a face if he had seen it before.

"I am Lady Estelle Hereford," she continued, "the only daughter of the Duke of Downsbury."

He was not surprised; he would not have felt surprised if she had told him she was Queen of England.

"Lady Estelle Hereford," he murmured; "but what is it possible that I can do to help you?"

"You wonder that I, the daughter of a mighty duke, should be driven to seek aid," she said. "Oh! believe me, there is no one in all England who needs it more than I do. Tell me, Earle Moray – 'gentleman and poet' – I like the title – tell me, have you ever heard me discussed – spoken of?"

"Yes," he replied, frankly, "many times."

"Tell me how people speak of me!" she asked. "I know what your answer will be. It will not pain me."

"I have always heard your beauty praised," said Earle, honestly – "that you were accomplished and beautiful, but that you were one of the proudest ladies in the land."

"It is true," she said; "the time was when no girl in England was prouder than I."

He looked at the pale, high-bred face.

"It was natural," he said, simply; "you had everything to make you so."

"And now," she continued, "the proudest woman in England, Lady Estelle Hereford, is here by stealth, asking that aid from a stranger which no one else can give to her."

"Life is full of strange phases," said Earle. "But, Lady Hereford, what is it that you think I can do for you?"

"I must tell you my secret first," she said, "before you can understand – "

"Nay," he interrupted, generously, "I need not understand. If there is anything in the world that I can do for you, you have but to command me. I will be blind, deaf, mute, in your service. There is no need for me to understand."

"You are very good – I feel your delicacy," she said. "You are loyal and noble; but I must tell you my secret, and my story is not a short one. I am tired; can I rest while I tell it to you?"

In less time than it took her to ask the question, he had cleared away the creeping moss and trailing leaves from the fallen trunk of a tree.

"It is a rude resting-place," he said.

But Lady Estelle seemed grateful enough for it. She drew aside the rich silk and velvet.

"Sit down by my side," she said, gently.

He would have remained at a distance; but, with a little, graceful gesture, as of one used to command, she called him to her.

"Sit down here," she said, and he had no resource but to obey her.

Then again she was silent for some minutes; her face wore a dreamy, musing expression.

"What a strange fate!" she said. "After keeping my secret for all these years – after guarding it jealously as my life – after sacrificing only Heaven knows what to it – I tell it to you, to you, young, loyal, true-hearted – you who love Doris! There is a terrible irony, after all, in fate!"

CHAPTER XXXVI

LADY ESTELLE'S STORY

Looking at Lady Estelle, Earle saw that her face had grown very pale, and her hands trembled. It was so strange for him, on this beautiful, sunlit morning, to find himself seated by this pale, high-bred lady. The sun shone through the thick, green branches, and the light fell in slanting rays on the greensward; the birds sang gaily in the trees – the sweet, pitiless birds, who sing whether we are in sorrow or joy; the wild-flowers raised their beautiful heads, so fair and delicate, so fragile and sweet; there was no distress in nature.

"Dear Lady Hereford," he said, "spare yourself. You do not like to tell me this story – why do it?"

"I must," she said. "Never mind the pain for me; the pain has been greater in bearing it for twenty years than it is now in the telling of it. Looking at me, Earle Moray, can you imagine what I was twenty years ago?"

"Yes," he said, gently, "I can imagine it. Time does not dim and line a face like yours. I can see you now as you were then."

"The lightest heart – ah, me! the happiest girl – there was not one so happy! Proud, because every one told me how much I had to be proud of. I was beautiful, and the Duke of Downsbury's only daughter. What people call high prizes in this world ought to have been mine. Listen to what I have won. At eighteen I made my debut in the great world, and before I had even time to look round me, I had a number of lovers and admirers, thanks to the prestige of my father's name. I had more offers during the first season than falls to the lot of most young ladies. There was not one among the crowd of admirers for whom I cared; none interested me, none touched me. Young as I was, I longed for something that I did not find. I had great ideas of the happiness and sanctity of love. In this new world I heard but little of it. People talked of diamonds, opera-boxes, country-houses, pin-money, settlements; but I heard little of love. I had firmly resolved in my own mind that when I married it should be for love alone. I had everything else – rank, title, wealth, position. I wanted love. One great man after another – great according to the world's estimation – laid title and wealth before me, the Duke of Downsbury's heiress. I had flattery, homage, compliments, praise, but not what I thought to be love. In discussing different offers my mother would say: 'This one belongs to the oldest family in England;' of another, 'He has the fairest estates in the country;' of another, 'He is a great favorite at court;' of another, 'He can give his wife jewels fit for an empress;' but she never urged as a recommendation that any one loved me. As a rule, one values least that which one has, and longs most for that which one has not. I was born and reared in the very heart of luxury – I knew nothing else – so that I valued splendor and magnificence, luxury and wealth far less than I valued love; and while wiser heads than mine were occupied in discussing which would be the most advisable suitor for me, I was occupied in looking for some one who would love me. Is it natural, Earle Moray, that one should long to be loved?"

He looked at the pale, sad face.

"Just as natural, Lady Hereford, as that the thirsty flowers should long for dew," he replied.

"So I think. I made a terrible mistake. I wrecked my whole life; yet I think that if I had to live over again I should look first for love.

"One evening there was a ball at the palace, and I went with the duchess, my mother. On our way she began to talk to me about a certain Lord Alverton, whose proposal of marriage had delighted her.

"'I should certainly advise you, my dear child,' she said, 'to accept him. He will be at the palace this evening, and I shall be pleased to hear that you have accepted him.'

"'But I do not love him, mamma,' I said.

"She looked surprised.

"'Never be vehement, Estelle,' she said, in a tone of reproof; 'it is not lady-like. And, my dear child, remember, rank has its penalty. In ours we do not marry for love.'

"She meant it all kindly. She loved me then, and loves me now, better than half the mothers in this world love their children. She spoke as she herself had been taught; but I was resolved never to learn the same lesson. I would marry for love, and nothing else. I entered the palace gates, resolved to dismiss his lordship, and to wait until some one loved me.

"As I was promenading with one of my partners, my eyes fell suddenly upon one of the handsomest men I had ever seen – a face that irresistibly drew my attention, it was so handsome, high-bred and debonair. I looked at him again and again in wonder. I watched him as he spoke to different people. I saw that he left everyone whom he addressed laughing. I wondered who he could be. A royal duchess spoke to him, and seemed to enjoy his conversation; so that he must be 'one of us,' I thought to myself. Suddenly I asked my companion, 'Who is the gentleman to whom the Duchess of K – is talking?'

"He laughed a little, low laugh.

"'That is Captain Ulric Studleigh,' he replied, 'the handsomest, the most popular, and the most good-for-nothing man in London.'

"'Good-for-nothing,' I repeated; 'how is that? What do you mean?'

"'Perhaps I should apologize for the expression,' said my companion, 'but really I know of none other so suitable. He is a Studleigh, and you know the character of the race.'

"'Indeed I do not,' was my earnest reply.

"'The Studleighs are all faithless and debonair,' he continued: 'they have made more love and broken more hearts than any other race even of twice their number.'

"'But every one seems to like Captain Studleigh. See how people listen to him, talk to him, laugh at him.'

"'I tell you, Lady Hereford, that he is really the most popular man in London.'

"'But how can he be popular,' I persisted, 'if he is what you say?'

"'Faithless and debonair,' he repeated. 'But I do not know that the world will like him any the less for that. He has a handsome face. Look at his smile; it is like a gleam of sunshine. And, to tell you the truth, Lady Hereford, I know of no one else who can talk as he does.'