A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

Rumor said she was the loveliest girl on whom the English sun had shone for many years. She would be wealthy, too, for Lord Linleigh was rich. Expectation was for once fairly aroused; then, too, there was something of romance about her story. The marriage of the handsome, popular earl had been a private one; the Lady Doris, it was said, had been educated in the strictest retirement. People were impatient to see her and pronounce their verdict. She was to be presented by the Duchess of Downsbury, whose name was a guaranty for every good quality.

The eventful day dawned at last. Lord Linleigh had been somewhat anxious over it. True, his daughter's fate in life was fixed – he would not have had her engagement with Earle Moray broken on any account – yet he desired that she should receive all the homage due to her rank and her beauty. No word of her engagement had been made public; that was by Lady Linleigh's advice.

"Give her all the time possible, all the liberty that her heart can desire, and then we shall see if she really prefers Earle to all the world," she said to her husband.

Though he laughed at the advice, he owned it was good.

On that May day surely Lady Doris' dressing-room was one of the prettiest scenes in all London. The sunbeams crept through the rose-colored blind, and fell on the shining jewels, the costly dresses, the flowers and laces. For the first time in her life Lady Doris was arrayed in full court costume, and certainly nothing could have suited her better. The Duke of Downsbury had insisted on presenting her with a magnificent set of diamonds for the occasion, and she wore them now for the first time. She stood in all the splendor of her marvelous beauty and rich costume, smiling at herself in the mirror.

"I do not look much like Doris Brace, the farmer's daughter, now," she said to herself.

Then Lady Linleigh entered the room.

"I could not rest, Doris," she said, "until I had seen you, and knew whether you felt nervous or not."

Something like a smile of contempt wreathed the beautiful lips.

"Nervous, Lady Linleigh! not one whit," she replied. "Now, if I were about being presented to a handsome young monarch, who wanted a queen to reign by his side, I might feel nervous."

"When I was presented," said Lady Linleigh, "I did feel very nervous. I thought of it for days and weeks beforehand."

"You and I, dear Lady Linleigh, differ considerably," said Doris. "I often think myself it is strange, but I am really wanting in that respect – I have no organ of reverence; I do not believe that I stand in awe of any human being."

"It is strange; and I am not sure that such total independence is altogether good for you, my dear. I should like you to bear more on others, less on yourself."

"I am as I was made," laughed the girl; then she blushed slightly, for the earl stood at the door of her dressing-room, looking at her with such admiration in his eyes as they had seldom expressed before. She could not help feeling embarrassed by it. Then she went up to him, saying:

"Now, papa, imagine yourself the queen; let me make you my grand presentation courtesy."

He never forgot her as she stood there, the light flaming in her jewels and falling on the golden hair, the face softened into unusual beauty by the slight flush.

"My darling," said Lord Linleigh, us he laid his hand on her head, "my darling, I am proud of you."

The words were few, but they expressed a whole volume.

"There will not be a fairer girl at the drawing-room to-day," he continued, "Yet you must look out for your laurels, Doris. Lady Blanche Trevor is presented to-day, and the Trevors have always been considered the handsomest family in England."

"I am not afraid, papa," was the calm reply. "We should be going now; it is some time since the carriage was announced."

"Doris," said the countess, "stop one minute, dear."

Doris turned, wonderingly. She detected a faint tremor in the voice; Lady Linleigh's face, too, was very pale.

"Come here one moment," she continued, and Lady Doris went up to her.

The pale, lovely face looked into hers, the gentle hands touched her, the sweet lips caressed her. The countess took one long tress of the golden hair in her hands.

"I could not let you go out into the world, my dear," she said, slowly, "without first wishing you all happiness."

All her heart was on her lips, and her voice trembled with emotion. Lady Doris looked at her in a perfect bewilderment of surprise.

"You are very kind to me, Lady Linleigh," she said; and there was something of haughty surprise in her voice which fell like cold snow on the gentle heart. "You are very kind," she repeated, "but I have no fear."

"It is such a brilliant world, Doris, but so full of pitfalls – oh! my dear, so full of pitfalls for the beautiful and young."

"I will steer clear of them, dear Lady Linleigh," said the impatient voice. "While the May sun is shining and the carriage is at the door, there is hardly time to talk about the dangers of the world. I am quite willing to take them for granted."

Lady Linleigh said to herself that she could not alter her nature – that she was brilliant, polished, cold, beautiful, without warmth of heart, and that she could not help it. Yet she felt most bitterly disappointed; her heart had yearned for one kind word, for one token of affection from her, but it was not to be.

The earl looked in surprise from his wife to his daughter, but he made up his mind never to interfere between them, or to appear to notice anything that passed. Then they entered the carriage and drove to St. James'.

Those present will not soon forget the beauty of the women or the splendor of the whole scene. Never since the days when her royal consort stood by her side had the queen looked better or happier than on this day, when she woke to the sense that the great voice of a mighty nation was calling her. Noble sons and fair daughters stood around her; the noblest of the realm had hastened to do her homage. The sun that shone upon the palace walls and streamed through the windows, fell on no more calm or royal face than hers.

There was some little excitement when the name of the Countess of Linleigh was announced. Many there remembered her years ago, when she had made her debut, and smiled to think that for love of the gallant earl she had remained unmarried all these years. With the entrance of Lady Doris Studleigh into the royal presence, there was a sensation such as had not been made at the court for many long years. The girl's glorious beauty, her imperial grace, the proud carriage, the splendor of her jewels, the fascination that seemed to clothe her as a garment – even the royal face lighted up with admiration as the queen's eyes fell on her. Words more kind than usual came from the royal lady's lips, and her heart beating high with triumph, her position secure, the Lady Doris passed from that gracious presence. Even as she stood bending low before the queen, she said to herself that she should be a favorite at court, if looks promised anything.

The Duchess of Downsbury was well pleased with her young protegee.

"My dear," she, said to her, when the ordeal was over, "whatever else you may lack, you certainly have plenty of nerve."

Lady Doris raised her eyes unflinchingly to her grace's face.

"Different people," she said, "give other names to the quality I possess. Your grace calls it nerve – the Studleighs call it courage."

"Well," said the duchess, grimly, "I will call it courage, then; you have plenty of it, Lady Doris."

"I have no doubt," was the smiling reply, "that as I go through the world I shall need it all."

The duchess knew that in a passage at arms, even she, well versed as she was, had no chance with Lady Doris. In one way she was pleased at her granddaughter's success, although she disliked so much calm self-possession in one so young.

But the earl saw no drawback, he admitted none. Every one was enraptured with Lady Doris, every one praised her, spoke of her wonderful beauty, and complimented him on having so peerless a daughter. His heart beat high with pride, yet never once did he wish her engagement with Earle Moray broken. He saw Lady Estelle alone a few minutes before dinner, and then he wondered at the paleness of her face, the depression of her spirits.

"Estelle," he said, gently, "what is the matter?"

It seemed as though the question broke through the flood-gates of her sorrow. She raised her eyes to his – they were streaming with tears.

"I am ungrateful, Ulric," she said. "I am wicked and discontented. I see my darling so beautiful, yet I cannot go to her and clasp her in my arms. I cannot say, 'Child, how I rejoice in you, for you are my own.'"

"No, you cannot say that; but you may love her and be as kind to her as you will."

The countess shook her head sadly.

"You do not understand," she said. "Doris is not affectionate by nature, and I can see that my love annoys and teases her. I do not repine, for you love me, Ulric, do you not?"

Love her? Yes, assuredly he did; how could he help it? Yet, all the same, he did wish that Lady Doris would show greater affection for her unknown mother.

CHAPTER LIX

THE NEW BEAUTY DISCUSSED

A group of young aristocrats stood in the billiard-room of Bar's Club. Some one had played a game and won it, some one else had lost; there had been high betting, but, strange to say, for once money had lost its charm – billiards their attraction.

"I am told," said the Honorable Charlie Balsover, "that it is a treat to look at her. My sisters were both at the drawing-room, and they declare that they have seen nothing like it."

"Women cannot judge of women," said Major Maitland, contemptuously.

The Honorable Charlie looked up haughtily.

"My sisters are as good judges of beauty as any one in England," he said, hastily.

"There can be no question about it," interrupted Lord Piercy; "Lady Studleigh is, par excellence, the beauty of the season. I saw her myself, and – well, it takes a great deal to satisfy me, but she did it."

"We shall have the noble Piercy, spurred and booted, going in for a conquest," laughed another.

"No, my dear boy; I am, fortunately for me, in the full possession of all my senses. I took my own measure very accurately long ago, and I, for one, should never aspire to such a conquest as that of the Lady Studleigh."

"What rare and touching humility," laughed a fair-haired officer. "I should like to see this paragon."

At that moment they were joined by a tall, handsome man, who, until that moment, had been standing alone at the billiard-table, practicing a stroke he wished to master. He sauntered to the little group.

"I have not heard one word that you have been saying, but from the peculiar expression of Piercy's face, I would wager that you are talking of beauty in some shape or other," he said.

"We are talking of a new star which has suddenly arisen in the fashionable skies – the beautiful, golden-haired Lady Studleigh, Lord Linleigh's daughter."

"What of her?" asked Lord Charles Vivianne. "If anything interesting, tell me quickly. At this moment the click of the billiard-balls is sweeter to my ears than the praise of fair woman."

"It is my opinion," said Colonel Clifford, laughing, "that in Vivianne's case 'a burnt child dreads the fire.' A little bird whispered to me some romantic story about Florence and some lovely being to whom he was devoted there."

Lord Vivianne turned fiercely on him – so fiercely that those present looked grave.

"It would be as well for you, Clifford," he said, "to refrain from talking of that which does not concern you."

"My dear boy," replied the colonel, "I meant no harm. If I had known that Florence was a sore subject with you I would not have touched upon it."

"Who said it was a sore subject?" cried Lord Vivianne, passionately.

Then, seeing that in all probability a quarrel would ensue, Major Maitland interfered.

"We are forgetting the subject under discussion," he said. "You asked me what it was, Lord Vivianne. We were speaking of the wonderful beauty of Lady Studleigh, the handsome earl's daughter. Have you seen her yet?"

"No," he replied, "I have not."

"Then, by all means, contrive to do so. The Prince of B – is almost wild about her. Every one ought to see her, just to know what a really beautiful woman is like."

Then Colonel Clifford, anxious to make up the quarrel, went off in a long and rapturous description of the fair lady's beauty and grace.

"I shall be sure to see her," said Lord Vivianne, briefly. "To tell the truth, I do not feel much interested. A beautiful face is a rarity, and the chances are ten to one the owner is either a simpleton or a flirt. I, for one, shall not offer my admiration at the new beauty's shrine. Au revoir."

And with his usual proud, careless step, Lord Vivianne walked away. The others looked curiously after him.

"I never saw a man so completely changed in all my life," said Colonel Clifford. "He used to be so good-humored, fond of a jest, and able to bear any amount of teasing; and now, one word, and he is like a madman. I shall begin to think what I have heard of him is true."

"What is that?" asked the Honorable Charlie Balsover.

"I was told that he fell in love at Florence. I did not hear all the particulars, but I was told that he completely lost his heart there."

"He never had a heart to lose," said one.

"Who was the lady?" asked another.

"I do not know. Some one said she was a princess in disguise; others, that she was of low origin, but of marvelous beauty. The whole affair was a mystery. Some said she was English, others that she was Florentine; in any case, it is believed that she jilted him, and he has never been the same man since. He used to boast that no woman had ever resisted him. I believe that he fancied he was irresistible. Perhaps he does not like learning his lesson."

"The biter generally gets bitten," said the Honorable Charlie. "I should not wonder if some one has avenged the wrongs of the sex upon him. He has certainly gone to great lengths."

"Why not call a spade a spade?" said Major Maitland. "Give his follies the right name. He has broken more hearts, ruined more homes, dragged more fair faces through the dust, than any man of his age in England. Serves him right, I say, if he has something to suffer in his turn."

Which was all the sympathy Lord Vivianne received when he was supposed to have suffered at the hands of a woman.

He thought but little over what had been said about Lady Studleigh.

"Men were always making idols of some woman or other," he said to himself. "If they choose to go mad in crowds over the handsome earl's daughter, let them; I, for one, shall not join them."

It had been a great blow to him, the loss of Doris. That one love was the master passion of his life. He had not intended it to be; he had only thought of her at first as one whose beauty was well worth the winning. Afterward, when her strange fascination, her wonderful grace, her marvelous talent and wit had bound him fast in her chains, he gave her the one great love of his life, none the less fierce and passionate because he had had many love affairs.

While they were still at Florence, he had made up his mind to one of two things, either to be true to her all his life, and spend all his life with her, or to marry her. As his love increased, his scruples died away; he would marry this beautiful girl, whose coldness had a charm for him that nothing else ever possessed. His love grew fiercer as she grew colder; he had made up his mind that she should never be parted from him – that he would slay any one who tried to separate them.

When he found that she had left him, many long months did he spend in searching for her. He had quite decided what to do when he did find her. If any one had bribed her to leave him, the crime should be most dearly avenged. He would tell her that he was willing to make her his wife, and then he would marry her.

"Marry her!" he repeated the words to himself, with a bitter laugh. He would have done anything, have slain her and killed himself, rather than leave her again, or let her go out of his life. She would, of course, be delighted to be Lady Vivianne; it was not likely that she would refuse such an offer. He sneered at himself for being willing to make it; he sneered at himself for his own great, overweening love. He hated himself because it had won such power over him – because it had humbled him even to the yoke of marriage.

"I shall be the first Vivianne who has ever done anything of this kind," he said to himself, yet all the same he resolved to do it. Having wrought himself up to this height of heroism, it was humiliating in the extreme to find it all in vain – he could find no trace of the girl he intended to marry. Whether she had left him in a fit of pique because he had not married her, whether she had gone away in a sudden access of sorrow and regret, he did not know. He was only sure of one thing – she was gone.

Had she left him for any one else, or in one of her sudden caprices? She was capricious enough for anything – it was just one of the things that she was likely to do. For all he knew, she had been near him all the time; she was quite capable of that. He knew that to her his long search, his fever of anxiety, his despair, would only be a comic entertainment; yet, knowing all this, judging her as he did, believing her to be capable of almost anything, still he could not help loving her with the whole force and power of his soul; it was the influence that a wicked woman does obtain at times over a wicked man, and it is stronger than any other.

He came to England at last, despairing to hear any news of her abroad. He argued to himself that if she were still in Italy he should certainly have heard of it; a face like hers could be remarked anywhere; he should have heard of this golden-haired beauty, whose style of loveliness was one so rarely seen in sunny Italy.

He had been in London now for some weeks, but he had heard nothing, and was puzzled what to do next. He never dreamed of looking for her there, in the upper world of fashion; he had no idea, not even the faintest, of ever seeing her. If she were the reigning star in any other world, he would have heard of her before this. With his mind so perplexed and agitated, his soul tossed on a tempest of love, he had no thought to spare for any one else. Let people rave about Lady Studleigh, let her be as beautiful as she would, she could not surpass Doris.

In the meantime Lady Studleigh was creating a sensation to which the fashionable world had long been a stranger. She was the queen of the season. Hyde House was the most popular resort in London; to be admitted there was to have the entree to the most exclusive circle; to be unknown there was to be unknown to fame.

It was not often that one house held two such women as the Countess of Linleigh and Lady Studleigh. The countess was all grace, and suavity, and high breeding; Lady Studleigh all brilliancy, beauty, and wit. Even old courtiers, who had seen some of the first beauties of both empires, declared there was nothing to equal her. Another great attraction to all clever people was the constant presence of the now famous poet, Earle Moray, at Hyde House. His conversation was a great charm, although some, wiser and more thoughtful than others, said it was hardly right to expose a young and talented man like Earle Moray to the constant fascinations of Lady Doris Studleigh.

She bore her triumph with a certain grand calm that impressed her parents wonderfully.

"Race does tell, after all," said the duchess, as she watched the young beauty. "Any other girl would have shown some elation at the great amount of admiration offered – Lady Studleigh shows none. After all, race will tell."

Invitations came for a royal ball, and it was remarked by all present that the whole of the royal circle seemed to look upon the proud young beauty with great favor. Then came invitations to a royal concert. One of the young princesses, whose marriage was then on the tapis, declared that she would have the Lady Doris on the list of her bridesmaids. No fete was considered a success without her – a ball without Lady Studleigh was almost a failure.

"That girl has homage enough paid her to turn her head," said the earl, laughingly, to his wife.

The countess sighed.

"My dear Ulric," she said, "I think it would require a great deal to move either her heart or her head; both seem to me equally safe."

"You always sigh when you speak of Doris. Why is it, dear?" asked Lord Linleigh.

"I cannot help wishing that she had less beauty and more love," she replied. "There are many perils in this world – perils of soul and of body – but I think the greatest of all is certainly the perils of beauty."

"I think you are right," observed the earl; "but we must hope, having escaped so far, she will escape the rest."

CHAPTER LX

DORIS AFFECTS A LITTLE CURIOSITY

"You are not looking quite so well as usual this morning, Doris," said Lady Linleigh. "You are nervous, too; you start at every sound. What is wrong, dear?"

"Nothing," replied Lady Doris, "but that I did not sleep well. I had a most unpleasant dream."

"What was it?" asked the countess.

"About Italy – about some one I knew, I saw there. Only a foolish dream, and I am foolish to mention it."

"Of all people in the world, you are the last I ever should have imagined to know what being nervous meant."

"I am not nervous," replied Lady Doris, quickly. "It would annoy me very much to hear any one say so."

But though she indignantly denied the fact as being a very discreditable one, she looked pale, and the laughing eyes had lost something of their brightness. She started at every sound; and once, when a violent peal from the bell sounded through the house, Lady Linleigh saw that she dropped the book she was holding.

Much did the countess wonder what had affected her fair young daughter. Yet it was such a trifle, such a foolish dream that had caused her to stop for one moment in her career of triumph, and look at the possible dangers in store for her.

She dreamed that she was walking in a pretty wood near Florence, when suddenly the tall trees began to assume the most grotesque shapes; huge branches became long arms, all trying to grasp her, leaves became fingers trying to detain her. No sooner had she eluded the clutch of one giant arm than another was stretched out toward her. In vain she tried to elude them. Then she heard her own name called out in a voice which, with a strange thrill of fear, she recognized as Lord Vivianne's. Then she saw him standing underneath one of the giant arms, and he held a long, shining knife in his hands.

"I have been looking for you for some time," he said; "now that I have found you, I mean to kill you, because you were faithless to me."

She tried to escape, but the giant arms clutched her, the fingers clasped round her, the shining steel flashed before her eyes, and she awoke – awoke to feel such fear as she had never before known.

She took herself to task for it. Suppose that the worst should come, that she had to meet him again! Was it likely that in this altered position he would know her? It was most unlikely, most improbable. Suppose that she met him in a ball-room – where it was most probable they would meet – and they were introduced to each other as strangers! Well, even then, she had nerve enough, courage enough, to look at him and fail to recognize him. She would, at the worst, solemnly swear that he was mistaken, and he – well, for his own sake, it was most improbable that he would dare to mention the terms upon which they had lived. Nothing but shame and dislike of all good people could follow such an avowal on his part. It would do him ten thousand times more harm than good.

"So I need not fear," she said to herself. "I have no reason to be afraid, even if I should meet him face to face to-day!"

She did not feel the least regret or remorse for her sin. For her lost innocence, her fair fame, her soul's welfare, she cared but little – yet she would have given much if she had avoided this wrong, not because it was wrong, but because the penalty of it might be unpleasant.