A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

In the bright heaven of her full content it was the one dark cloud; to the full glory of her most brilliant triumph it was the one drawback.

Ah! if they knew – if the royal hearts that leaned so kindly toward her even dreamed of what she had been – farewell to her sweet dream of court favor. If the innocent young princess who had professed so much liking for her only ever so faintly suspected one half of the horrible truth, farewell to all kindly words! Why, if the handsome earl, her father, dreamed of it, he would send her adrift at once!

She shrugged her white shoulders and said to herself, over and over again, that she must keep her secret. When she was once married, her fortune assured – settled upon her beyond recall – then it would not matter so much. Besides, there were ways out of all difficulties. She held up her white, jeweled hands and looked steadfastly at them.

"Smaller, weaker fingers than these have robbed a man of his life," she said to herself. "If the worst comes, I have an example in history that I should know how to follow."

And indeed it would have fared badly with any one who stood in the path of Lady Doris Studleigh.

There was a great dinner that evening at Hyde House. A Russian grand duke, a German prince, and just the very elite of London were among those present. The Countess of Linleigh was a perfect hostess; and in Lady Doris Studleigh's bright presence there was never any want of brilliancy or wit.

It was Lord Charter who mentioned her lover's name. He turned to Lord Linleigh and asked him if he had seen Lord Charles Vivianne lately.

Lady Doris was sitting near him, so that she distinctly heard the question and answer.

"Lord Vivianne!" replied the earl. "I do not even know him."

"I had forgotten," said his questioner, "how long you have been absent from England; of course you would not know him."

"It seems to me," said the earl, laughing, "that a whole generation of young men have come into fashion since I left the country. I do not recollect having ever seen Lord Vivianne. Why do you ask me?"

"I heard him say how anxious he was to be introduced to you," replied Lord Charter.

"I shall be very happy," replied the earl, indifferently.

She had listened at the very first sound of that name which she had grown to hate so cordially; all her attention had been fully aroused.

"Now for the Studleigh courage," she said to herself, and she listened. The color did not fade from her beautiful face; her lips never lost their smile, nor her eyes their light.

When Lord Charter had finished his conversation with the earl, she turned to him in the most winning manner.

"Vivianne, did you say? What a pretty name! Is it English?"

"Yes," he replied. "Most ladies admire the name and the bearer of it."

"Is he a great hero?" she asked, her eyes bright with interest and innocence as she raised them to his face. "Is he a great statesman?"

"No," was the reply; "I am sorry to say he is a great flirt."

"A flirt!" she repeated, in a voice full of disappointment. "I thought you meant that he was some one to be admired."

"So he is admired, for his handsome face," replied Lord Charter.

She repeated the name again, as though she were saying it softly to herself.

"Is there a Lady Vivianne?" she asked, after a pause.

"Not yet," was the reply; "but from what I hear there is a prospect of one." Then he laughed a little. "You are a stranger among us, Lady Studleigh; you will hardly understand that, at one time or another, almost every prominent man in London has been jealous of Lord Vivianne."

"Indeed! He must be a paragon, then."

There was something of a sneer in her voice, but he did not perceive it.

"Not exactly a paragon, Lady Studleigh; but – I repeat it – a flirt."

"And he is to be married, you say? I should not imagine the lot to be a very bright one for the lady."

"You take things very literally, Lady Studleigh. I cannot vouch for the fact that he is going to be married, but there is a rumor afloat that we all enjoy very much. It is that, after flirting half his lifetime, Lord Vivianne is caught at last."

She tried to look politely indifferent. Great heavens! how her heart was beating, how every nerve thrilled, how intense was the excitement! She had not known how frightened she had been at the idea of meeting him until now!

"I am afraid," said Lord Charter, "that you do not take any interest in my friend."

"Yes, I do. To whom has he surrendered his liberty at last?"

"No one knows," was the answer, given with an air of candor that would at any other time have greatly amused Lady Doris. "There is a mystery about it. Lord Vivianne has been spending some little time in Florence, and there it is supposed he fell in love with a princess in disguise."

Despite the Studleigh courage and her own strong nerve, she could not prevent herself from growing pale; her heart beat loud with a terrible fear; the lights seemed to swim in one confused mass before her eyes; then with a violent effort she controlled herself.

"Florence," she repeated; "he went far enough afield for his romance. Why was the princess disguised?"

"It may be all nonsense. I have heard many different stories; some say that his heroine was really a person of low birth and humble position. I cannot tell; I only know one thing."

How her heart beat as she repeated those two words.

"One thing! What is it?"

"Why, that love, or something else, has quite changed Lord Charles Vivianne. He used to be gay, good-humored, slightly cynical; now he is gloomy, sullen, and bad-tempered. I heard a friend of his say that he seemed to be always looking for some one."

The beautiful face, in spite of all her efforts, grew paler.

"Looking for some one! What a strange idea!" she said.

"Perhaps the lady refused him, and he wants to be revenged. Perhaps she jilted him, and he is looking for her," laughed Lord Charter, little dreaming how near he was to the truth.

If it had been to save her life, she could not have uttered another word. Lord Charter went on to relate some brilliant anecdotes of people he knew, and she affected to be engrossed in them, although she did not know one word that he was saying. Then, when he paused, she said:

"It is a strange world, this London; it seems to me full of hidden romances."

"You will say so when you have been here for a few years longer," he replied. "I have seen far stranger romances in the lives of my own friends and acquaintances than I have ever read in books."

She was mistress of herself now; the first deadly pain of fear had passed; her heart had ceased to beat so quickly; the color came back to her lips and face. She wished to make a good impression on this Lord Charter, so that if he spoke of her to her former lover, he could praise her simplicity, her innocence, her ignorance of the world and its evil ways. That would be altogether unlike the cynical, worldly Doris he had known.

Most admirably she assumed the character; indeed, her proper vocation would have been the stage – she could play any part at a moment's notice.

As he looked at her beautiful face, her bright, clear eyes, the sweet smiles that played around her perfect lips – as he listened to the low, musical voice, admired the high-bred simplicity, the innocence that was a charm, the utter want of all worldly knowledge – Lord Charter said to himself that he had never met such a wonderful creature before; while she congratulated herself on the impression she had made.

CHAPTER LXI

"I MIGHT HAVE BEEN SO HAPPY, BUT FOR THIS!"

"Shall you go to the opera to-night, Doris?" asked the countess, as they lingered over a cup of chocolate. "I think – do not imagine I am over anxious – I think you require a little rest, dear. You are new to this life of excessive excitement and gayety."

"I find it very pleasant," said Doris, with a smile.

"So it is; I do not deny that. But, remember, I am a veteran compared to you. I have been through many seasons, and I know the fatigue of them. Take my advice, and rest a little if you feel tired."

"I do not think I could rest," said Lady Doris.

And there was something sad in the tone that the countess had never heard before. She looked anxiously at her.

"That is what has struck me," said Lady Linleigh. "Your face is flushed, your eyes are too bright; the very spirit of unrest is on you. You have done too much. Do you know that every time the door opens you look round with a half-startled glance, as though half-dreading what you will see."

"Do I? How absurd! It is simply a habit. I have nothing to dread."

"Of course not; but it seems to me rather a pity for you to get confirmed in nervous habits while you are so young."

Lady Doris laughed, but it seemed to the countess the ring of music was wanting in the sound.

"I shall correct myself, now that I know," she replied.

Then Lady Linleigh crossed the room, and laid her hands on the golden head. She bent down and kissed the beautiful face.

"Do not be annoyed that I am so uneasy over you, Doris; I love you almost as though I were your own mother."

The low voice trembled, and the calm eyes grew dim with tears.

"My own mother?" repeated Lady Doris, and for once something like the music of true feeling sounded in her exquisite voice. "You are too young, Lady Linleigh, to be quite like my own mother; you are like an elder sister to me. I wonder if things would have been very different for me if she had lived, and I had known her?"

"Different?" asked the countess, eagerly. "In what way could they be different?"

"I wonder if she would have been fond of me – if I could have told her all my girlish follies and troubles? I have an idea that no one can be like one's own mother."

The soft, white arms tightened their clasp round the fair neck.

"Doris," said the countess, gently, "could you not fancy that I am your mother, and talk to me as freely as you would have done to her?"

The lovely face was raised with an arch glance.

"Dear Lady Linleigh," was the reply, "I am only sentimentalizing. Did you think me serious? I have no secrets. I should not know what to say to my own mother were she here. Do not take any notice of my idle words." Then she laughed. "I could never, even in my dreams, put you in my mother's place. I have a shrewd idea that my handsome papa married some poor, pretty girl for her beauty's sake – you are the daughter of a mighty duke. A truce to sentiment! Why, Lady Linleigh, your eyes are wet with tears! We were talking of the opera – I must go to it. It is 'Ernani' this evening, and I have the music."

"Earle will go with us, of course," said the countess.

She had unclasped her arms from the girl's neck, and had gone over to the little writing-table, beating back her emotion with a strong hand.

"Yes," laughed Lady Doris, "Earle will go. Earle is rapidly becoming a popular man. I am not quite sure whether I ought not to be jealous of him. The Marchioness of Meriton positively introduced him to Lady Eleanor yesterday, and declared him to be a 'most promising young man!'"

Lady Linleigh laughed at the perfect mimicry of voice and accent.

"I see no one to compare with Earle," she said, at length, "and I think you are a very fortunate girl, Doris."

"To tell the truth, I am well satisfied with my good fortune, and with Earle," she said, quietly, as in good sooth she was. She even wondered at herself, but the truth was she was growing passionately fond of Earle.

The secret of it was that he was so completely master of her, that she had learned to have the highest respect for him – that hers, the weaker, had recognized his, the master soul. In his presence she was learning to conceal her thoughts. As time passed on, and a wiser, fuller, consciousness came to her, she grew more and more ashamed of that dark and terrible episode of her life. Rather than Earle should know it, she would die any death; rather than his eyes should look coldly upon her, his lips speak contemptuous words to her, she would suffer anything, so completely had his noble nature mastered her ignoble one. His grand soul obtained an ascendancy over her inferior one – she loved Earle. The time had been when she had simply amused herself with him, when she had accepted his love and homage because it was the only thing that made life endurable to her. That time had passed. She loved him because he had conquered her, and because he was supreme lord and master.

Lady Studleigh had never looked more beautiful, perhaps, than on this evening when she had decided upon going to the opera. She wore an exquisite costume of blue velvet and white lace, the color of which made her more than ever dazzlingly fair. The white arms, with their glorious curves, the white neck, with its graceful lines, were half shrouded, half disclosed by the veil of white lace. The golden hair was studded with diamond stars; a diamond cross, which looked as though it were made of light, rose and fell on the white breast. She carried a beautiful bouquet, the fragrance of which seemed to float around her as she moved.

Was it a wonder that as she took a seat in the box, all eyes were directed to her? A beautiful woman is perhaps one of the greatest rarities in creation, but in the hands of a beautiful woman there rests a terrible power. As she sat there, the light gleaming in her jewels, the golden hair with its sheen, the blue velvet and the crimson of the opera box, she made a picture not easily forgotten. The countess, gracious, fair, and calm, was with her; Earle, his handsome face glowing with admiration and pride, stood by her side. The earl was to join them later on in the evening.

It was a brilliant scene. Some of the fairest women and noblest men in London were there. Lady Doris was, or seemed to be, engrossed by the stage; she affected the most sublime and complete, unconsciousness of the glories of admiration; she was thinking to herself, as she was always thinking lately:

"Now, if he, Lord Vivianne, should be here, should suddenly come and speak to me, I must affect the most complete unconcern and indifference."

While her eyes were fixed on the stage, while so many were looking at her, some with admiration, some with envy, that was the thought which occupied her. The dread, the expectation of meeting him had been strong upon her ever since she heard that he was in London – it could not possibly be otherwise. She knew herself to be the beauty of the season; he, of course, as an eligible man, would mix in the same circles, and they must meet. She was brave enough, but there were times when, at the bare idea of it, the color faded from her face, leaving it ghastly white; great drops would stand on her forehead; she would clasp her hands with a cry of agony.

If her attempts at evading him were all useless, if he recognized her and insisted on the recognition, what could she do? The question was, could she deny having been in Florence? No amount of prevarication could alter that. Suppose – only imagine if he should betray her. He might be a gentleman and keep his secret; it was certainly within the bounds of possibility he might keep her secret; but, remembering his character, she did not for one moment think he would. He called himself a gentleman and a man of honor, but he had not scrupled to take a mean advantage of her youth and ignorance, her vanity and folly. What a triumph it would be for him now to turn round and laugh at the lovely Lady Studleigh, and say that beautiful, admired, proud, and lofty as she was now, she had once been content to be his companion. What if he told all this as a secret at first, and the knowledge of it spread slowly, as a social leprosy always does. What should she do? Great heavens! what should she do?

"How mad I was!" she cried to herself over and over again; "how foolish, how blind! I might have been so happy but for this!"

It was the skeleton always by her side, and despite her nerve, her courage, her strength, there were times when it almost hopelessly beat her down. Then the thought of Earle was her shield.

"If he says one word against me, and I cannot kill him," she said to herself over and over again, "I will ask Earle to fight a duel with him, and he will slay him!"

But for this, how unboundedly happy she would have been – how victorious, how triumphant! Who, looking at that most lovely face, with its calm, high-bred air, would have thought that the heart beneath was torn with thoughts of regret, despair, and even revenge that should lead to murder?

"My darling!" said the voice she loved best in her ear. "Doris, I shall be jealous of that music. I have spoken to you so often, and you have not heard me."

The eyes she raised to him had no shadow in them of the terrible thoughts that filled her mind.

"The music is so beautiful, Earle," she said, gently.

"I wonder," he said, abruptly, "who that is – a gentleman in the center box there? He has never once taken his eyes, or rather his glass, from your face."

A cold thrill passed over her, as though a shower of ice had fallen over her – a cold, terrible chill, a shudder that she could not repress. Her own quick, subtle instinct told her that it was he.

The moment she had dreaded had come – the sword had fallen at last.

He was looking at her; the next step he would be speaking to her.

Now for the Studleigh nerve, the Studleigh courage; now for the recklessness that defied fate, the boldness that was to defy fortune! A minute to collect, to control that terrible shudder, then she held up her flowers with a smile.

"You are very negligent to-night, Earle," she said; "you have not told me that you admire my bouquet."

"There is but little need, darling. I always admire you and everything belonging to you. Your flowers are like yourself – always sweetest of the sweet, fairest of the fair!"

Have men ever paused one minute before swallowing deadly poison, before drawing the trigger of a pistol, before sending a long, gleaming knife into their hearts? Have they ever paused with one foot upon a precipice, with one hand on the stake – paused, before taking the irrevocable step, to look around and enjoy one more moment of life? Even so she paused now; she closed her eyes with a lingering look at his face, she buried her own in the sweet, fragrant flowers.

"Do you love me so very dearly?" she asked.

"My darling, when you can collect the gleaming stars of heaven, or the shining drops of the sunny sea, you will be able to understand how much I love you – not until then!"

CHAPTER LXII

"I HAVE SEEN SOME ONE LIKE HER."

One moment, only one, she kept her fair face in the fragrant blossoms – one moment, to taste, perhaps for the last time, the sweet draught of love – one moment, in which to curse the folly, the bitter, black sin of her girlhood, and to moan over the impending evil. Then she raised her face again. Surely some of the sweetness of the flowers had passed into it; it had never seemed to Earle so tender or so sweet.

"What were you saying just now, Earle, about a glass, or some one's eyes never being taken from my face? If my grammar is involved, it is your fault."

"I cannot imagine who he is!" cried Earle. "We have been here nearly an hour, and he has never looked at the stage – I do not think he has heard one note of the music; he has done nothing but look at you earnestly."

"Perhaps he admires my jewels or my flowers," she said, coquettishly.

"It is your face," said Earle, impatiently. "What do men care for jewels or for flowers?"

"Who is he, Earle? Where is he? Is it any one I know?"

"I should imagine that it is some one you know, who is waiting for some sign of recognition from you," said Earle. "You cannot fail to see him, Doris, in the center box on the second tier. He seems to be a tall, handsome man; he wears a white japonica. His glass is turned straight upon you."

"I cannot return the compliment and look fixedly at him," she said, "but I will take one glance at him, and see if I know him."

Calmly, slowly, deliberately, yet with the fire and hate of fury burning in her heart, she laid down her dainty bouquet; she took up the jeweled opera-glass, held it for a moment lightly balanced in her hand, then, with a calm, proud smile, raised it to her eyes.

Oh, heavens! that the first glimpse of those dark eyes, looking fire into her own, did not kill her. Her heart gave a terrible bound; she could have cried aloud in her agony, and have died; but the Studleigh nerve was uppermost, the Studleigh courage in full play; her hands did not tremble, nor her lips quiver. Quite calmly she looked, as though she saw a stranger for the first time, and even then a stranger who did not interest her. She laid down the glass, and turned to Earle, with a smile.

"I do not know the gentleman; I have not seen him before."

At that same moment he who had been watching her with such eager interest made her a low bow.

"He appears to recognize you," said Earle; "he is bowing to you."

She did not make even the least acknowledgment in return.

"He cannot know me," she said, calmly; "he is mistaken. I have never seen him before."

"He must be either very dull or foolish to mistake you, my darling, for anyone else," said Earle. "I defy the whole world to show another face like yours. It is some one whom you have met and forgotten. Be kind, and give him some little acknowledgment, Doris. See, he is bowing again."

She raised her eyes to his face.

"Lady Studleigh returns no bows from strangers," she said, haughtily, and Earle felt himself rebuked.

At that moment Sir Harry Durham entered the box to pay his respects to the belle of the evening. Earle asked him eagerly if he knew the gentleman in the center box, who wore the white japonica?

"Know him!" said Sir Harry, laughingly; "yes, of course I do – every one knows him. That is Lord Charles Vivianne."

The familiar name fell upon her ears like a death-knell. Earle repeated in surprise:

"Lord Vivianne! I have heard of him often enough, though I never saw him before. I have surely heard some romantic story about some love affair."

"Earle," interrupted Lady Doris, "do you think Lady Linleigh looks tired?"

She merely asked the question, the first that came into her mind, to divert his attention. She succeeded perfectly – Sir Harry went to ask the countess if she were fatigued. Earle bent over Lady Doris' chair.

"You have some strange deeds to answer for," he said, lightly.

For one moment she looked startled.

"What do you mean, Earle?" she asked.

"I believe," he replied, "that you have made a conquest of this famous Lord Vivianne."

"Heaven forbid!" she said; and she said it so earnestly that Earle looked at her in utter wonder.

"I am tired of conquests, Earle," she said, trying to smile. "I want nothing – no one but you, no love but yours."

"It is almost cruel, Doris, to make me such a beautiful speech in the presence of a crowded opera house, where it is impossible that I can thank you properly for it."

"How would you thank me properly for it, Earle?" she asked, coquettishly.

"I would count the number of letters in the words, and would give you as many kisses as there are letters."

"Kissing is not fashionable," she said; "it is very well for common people, but ladies of fashion do not indulge in such old-fashioned manners."

"Then I hope you will not be a lady of fashion much longer," said Earle.

The opera was over; Lady Studleigh looked across the house to see if her enemy was gone. No; he was still there, looking earnestly at her.

"Perhaps," she thought to herself, "he is waiting to go out when we do."

"Shall you wait for the ballet, Doris?" said Earle.

Wait! She would have waited until doomsday to have avoided him.

"Yes," she replied; "I should like to see the ballet."

Then she asked herself if she had not done a very stupid thing in trying to defer the evil day. He would speak to her, that was evident; perhaps it would have been better over and done with. He had still to wait during the brilliant scenes of the ballet. She sat, as it were, with her grim fate in her hands; she talked, she laughed, she played with her flowers, coquetted with her fan, she listened to love speeches from Earle, she exchanged smiling remarks with the countess, yet, all the time she was perfectly conscious that he sat silent, immovable, his burning glance fixed on her face, never for one moment releasing her.