A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

Some friend joined him, of whom he asked a question. From the quick glance given to her, she knew that it was of her they spoke – asking her name in all probability. What would he think when he heard it? Surely, he would say to himself that he was mistaken; the Lady Studleigh and the girl who had been so dazzled with his gold could not be the same.

She was right in her conjecture. He had asked her name, and learning it, had been bewildered. When he first saw her – first caught a glimpse of her face – his heart had given one fierce bound of triumph. He had found her; there was not such another face. He had found her; he knew the graceful lines of the figure, the shapely neck, the sheen of the golden hair, the beautiful face. At first he thought of nothing but that he had found her.

Then doubt came to him. Could it be Doris? – this lovely, high-bred lady in the sheen of her jewels and splendor of her attire? Besides, how could Doris be in that box, evidently one of an august circle; the gentleman talking to her had a star on his breast. It could not be Doris; yet he knew – who so well? – the graceful bend of the proud neck, even the pretty gesture of the little white hands. It must be Doris. Who was the gentleman with the white star on his breast? Who the calm, graceful lady? Who the young man with the face of a poet? He could not solve the enigma, but he would find it out. If it were not Doris, then it was some one so much like her that he could not take his eyes from her face.

A friend joined him, no other than Colonel Clifford, who laughed to see him sitting with that intent look.

"So you are doing what you said you never would do," he said.

"What is that?" asked Lord Vivianne.

"Joining in popular devotion," was the laughing reply.

"Clifford," said Lord Vivianne, "do you know that girl – the one with diamonds in her golden hair, and white flowers in her hands?"

Colonel Clifford laughed to himself.

"Yes," he replied, "I know her. She is the Lady Studleigh, the handsome earl's only daughter, Lord Linleigh's heiress, the queen of the season, the belle, par excellence, of St. James'."

"Lady Studleigh! – that Lady Studleigh!" he repeated. "I do not believe you – I cannot believe you!" he gasped.

"It is a great pity, as it is most certainly true. Do you not know the Earl of Linleigh? The other lady with them is the countess. She was the Duke of Downsbury's daughter."

"That Lady Studleigh! I cannot believe it! It cannot be!"

"Perhaps," said the colonel, laughingly, "we should come to some surer conclusion if you would tell me whom you imagine it to be?"

Lord Vivianne looked impatiently at him.

"I did not say that I imagined her to be any one else," he replied, hastily. "So that is really the young beauty over whom just at present London is losing its head?"

"You are right. If you would like an introduction to the earl, my brother is here; he knows him well. What do you think of Lady Studleigh? Report has not exaggerated her beauty?"

"What do I think of her? I will tell you, Clifford, when I have spoken to her, not before."

"You are difficult to please if she does not please you."

"I – I cannot help thinking I have seen some one like her," he said, slowly. "I wonder if I am right?"

"Hardly; it is not a common type of face. You may have done so: I have not."

Colonel Clifford dearly loved gossip. If he had found Lord Vivianne in a better temper, he would have told him the romance of the earl's marriage, and how his daughter was brought up in a very different position of life to that she now occupied. As it was, he did not tell him, feeling that his lordship lacked civility; so it happened that not until long afterward did Lord Charles hear the story that would have solved many of his doubts.

He sat and watched her, sometimes so convinced of her identity that he could have called out "Doris: " again, wondering how he could be so foolish as to imagine he had found his lost love in Lord Linleigh's daughter. He could not take him eyes from the beautiful face. He longed to hear her speak, to see if the voice was that of Doris: he remembered its low, sweet music so well; if he could hear her speak, he would be a thousand times more sure.

He waited until he saw them leave the box, and he hastened so as to be in the dressing-room with them. Standing nearer to her, he would surely be able to judge.

"Are you cold, my darling?" asked Earle, as he saw her drawing the hood of her opera-cloak over her head.

"The house was warm," she replied, in a low voice.

No movement of her enemy was lost upon her. She knew that he was close to her, that the fragrance of her flowers reached him; she saw that he pushed his way even nearer, and stood where he could have touched her. He looked intently at her. Her face was shaded and softened by the crimson hood.

Once she looked around, as though curious to see who was near her; then her eyes met his – quietly, coldly, without the least light, or recognition, or shadow of fear in them. She looked at him for one half moment, indifferently, as she glanced at every one else, then looked away again, leaving him more puzzled than ever.

CHAPTER LXIII

LORD VIVIANNE PERPLEXED

It was no wonder that when she reached Hyde House again Lady Studleigh should look ill and exhausted; she had passed through a severe ordeal, and no one but herself knew what it had cost her.

"One more such victory," she said to herself, "and I should be undone."

She lay back in one of the lounging-chairs, while Earle hastened to pour out some wine for her.

"You look so tired, my darling," he murmured – "so tired. I wish we were away from this great London, out in the fresh, fair country again, Doris. Why, sweet, there are tears in your eyes!"

She looked so wistfully, so longingly at him – tears in the eyes he had always seen so proud and bright. She bent her beautiful head on his breast, longing with all her heart to tell him her terrible secret, her dreadful trouble, yet not daring the least hint.

"They are tears of fatigue," she said – "real fatigue, Earle."

"I wish I were Earl of Linleigh for ten minutes," he said; "I would forbid you to go out again, though you are queen of the season and belle of St. James'."

"I should obey you," she replied; and then she bade him good-night, not daring to say more, lest she should say too much.

She wanted to be alone, to collect her thoughts, to look her danger in the face, to gather her forces together, and prepare to give the enemy brave battle. It was a wonderful relief to her to find herself alone.

The worst had happened – she had seen him, he had seen her; he had looked in her face, he had watched her intently, yet she felt quite sure he was not certain of her identity – he fancied that he knew her, yet could not for certain tell; so that the worst, she believed, was over. It might be that he would talk to her, that he would try every little ruse and every possible maneuver, but what would that matter? She would defeat him again with her calm and her nonchalance, just as she had done this time. Then he would assuredly give it up, and say no more about it – make up his mind that he had been mistaken.

So she comforted herself with vague ideas, never dreaming that each hour brought the somber face of tragedy nearer to her.

The next day was the Duchess of Eastham's ball, one of the best of the season – one to which she had looked forward as a crowning triumph. A night's rest, a natural facility for shaking off disagreeable thoughts, a fixed reliance on her own kindly fate, all contributed to make her throw off the dark cloud that oppressed her.

When she joined the earl and countess the following morning, her face had regained its lost color and brightness, her eyes shone like stars, her lips were wreathed with smiles.

"We shall have a large gathering to-night," said Lady Linleigh. "I hear the Eastham ball is considered the best of the season; all the elite of London will be there."

"Then Lord Vivianne is sure to be there," she thought. Her spirits rose with the emergency. "I will look my best," she said to herself; "I will dazzle him so completely in my splendor and magnificence that he shall not dare even in thought to associate me with the Doris he knew."

She spent some hours of the bright, sunny morning in the park, smiling to herself, as she thought what an old-fashioned recipe was fresh air and exercise for keeping a brilliant bloom. She rested after lunch, and spent some time in the evening combining jewels and flowers, so as to form a marvelous effect. To her maid she said:

"Eugenie, I want to be the belle of the belles to-night; you must exert all your skill."

The pretty Parisian stood with her head on one side, studying the face and figure she had to adorn.

"What kind of style does my lady wish? Shall it be gay, brilliant?"

"Magnificent!" said Lady Studleigh, laughing. "I wish to be magnificent as a queen – an empress!"

"It will not be difficult, my lady," was the smiling reply.

Nor did there appear to be any difficulty when she was dressed for the ball. She looked every inch a queen. She wore a superb dress of white brocade, embroidered with small golden flowers, the effect of which was gorgeous in the extreme. Sometimes, and in certain lights, she looked like a mass of gold, in others, like white creamy clouds. The firm white throat was clasped with a diamond necklace, the Duke of Downsbury's gift; large diamond ear rings hung from the pretty ears, a cross of diamonds and sapphires gleamed on her white breast, the fair arms were bound with diamonds, and she wore a circlet of diamonds in her hair. Even her flowers matched her costume. They were fragrant white blossoms of a rare plant, with tiny golden bells.

Eugenie wondered why the beautiful lady stood looking so long and earnestly in the mirror. She was not admiring herself – no light of gratified vanity came into her eyes, no flush of delight colored her cheeks. She was examining herself gravely, critically, severely, trying to estimate in her own mind the exact impression that she would produce on others. Her thoughts were evidently favorable to herself. No one looking at the beauty of that patrician face would dare to recognize her as anything less lofty than she seemed to be. As for believing what Lord Vivianne might say of her, who would do it?

Just as she had foreseen, she was the belle of the ball. The Duke of Eastham selected her for the opening of it, and the evening was one long ovation and triumph for her. Yet, though flattery and homage were all round her, she never for one moment forgot her chief object, which was looking for Lord Vivianne. She knew by instinct when he entered the room; she saw him look round, and knew, as well as though he had told her, that he was looking for her.

Now was the time! Her face flushed into rarest loveliness; her eyes grew radiant. She had the world at her feet to-night. Let him come and do his worst; she could defy him.

She saw him go up to the Duchess of Eastham, who listened to him with a smile, then they both looked in her direction, and in a few minutes were standing by her.

She never betrayed the least sign of fear. He looked curiously at her. The light flashed in her jewels, but the diamonds lay quite still on the white breast; the golden bells of the flowers never trembled.

In a few smiling words the duchess introduced Lord Vivianne to Lady Studleigh. She bent her graceful head and smiled. He begged to know if she had yet one dance to spare, and she answered "Yes." He listened attentively to the voice; it was certainly like that of Doris, but he fancied the accent was more silvery, more refined.

"It is very warm," she said, looking straight in his face; "I should like an ice."

"Quite a happy inspiration," he replied, and they went away together.

If she felt the least tremor of fear she did not show it; she laughed and talked quite gayly to him, with the simple innocence of a child, not shrinking even in the least, while his eyes looked deep down into hers, as though he would read every thought of her soul. If she had shrunk from him – if she had shown the least fear – if she had avoided his glance, refused to dance with him, he would have had more reason to suspect her; as it was, he was fairly bewildered, and more than once he called himself a simpleton for his suspicions. The bright, fearless glance, the child-like smile, the frank gayety, would have puzzled a wiser man than Lord Vivianne.

"I will try her," he thought. "If she be the girl who went to Italy with me, I shall find it out."

He offered her his arm, so that he could feel her hand tremble, if tremble it did. He began by admiring her bouquet.

"You have some very rare flowers there, Lady Studleigh," he said – "white blossoms with golden bells; it is an exotic. Is it Indian or Italian?"

She looked at him with a frank smile.

"I am very ignorant," she said. "I love flowers very dearly, but I never made them a study. Long Latin names frighten me."

"Yet it is a beautiful study," he said.

She laughed again.

"I believe, honestly," she said, "that if I knew, for instance, the Latin and Greek name of this lovely flower, with its whole history, I should not enjoy it half as much as I do now. That is a mystery to me."

"Do you like mysteries?" he asked, quickly.

"I can hardly tell; I think I should if I had one."

He looked into the very depths of her eyes – they were as clear and open as the day.

"You are too frank to care for mystery," he said.

"Yes, frankness is what Lord Linleigh calls one of my failings."

"Why is it a failing?" he asked.

"Because I carry it to excess. I have an unfortunate habit of saying whom I like, whom I dislike, what I care for, and what I do not care for."

That frank abandon was not much like the Doris he had known.

"That is very nice," he said; "I wish I dare ask if you are likely to like me?"

"I will tell you when I know more of you," was the reply. "I have a fashion of showing my liking, which I am quite sure is a little outre."

"Have you ever been in Italy?" he asked, watching her intently as he spoke.

If there had been the least change of color, if her eyes had drooped in the least from his, he would have said: "Doris, I have found you!"

As it was, the only expression on her face was one of innocent surprise.

"In Italy?" she repeated. "Oh, yes, I finished my education there!"

He made no reply, but began to think to himself that he must indeed have been mistaken. Then he talked to her about many things. Her answers gave him the impression that she was very quick, very clever, but innocent, almost with a child-like simplicity.

He had but one resource, one more question to ask, and if he were baffled in that, he should be at a loss what to think. He gazed earnestly into the beautiful face.

"Lady Studleigh," he said, "I cannot help fancying that I have seen you before – that we have met before, and have been good friends. Is it so?"

There was no trace of emotion in her face – nothing but girlish surprise.

"Met before? I do not remember it, Lord Vivianne. I have been introduced to so many strangers, it is possible I may have forgotten some. Still, I think I should have remembered your name."

"It was not in London we met," he said. "Carry your memory back to last year – only last year. Have you no place for me in it?"

"No," she replied, "I have not. Last year I spent at Linleigh Court. Have I really seen you before, Lord Vivianne? Indeed, I apologize most sincerely for not remembering you."

"It may be only a fancy," he said.

"But if you knew me, and knew that I ought to recognize you, why did you ask for an introduction to me?" she asked, wonderingly.

"Because I was not sure," he replied, gloomily. "I am not sure now – I am bewildered."

Then when he saw the surprise on her face deepen into annoyance, he said:

"I beg your pardon. I did know some one once who was like you – oh, so like you! – some one who made me very unhappy. That is our dance. Lady Studleigh, smile, that I may know you have forgiven me."

She smiled, and they went away to the ball-room together.

CHAPTER LXIV

A TERRIBLE TRIAL

"Earle," said Lady Doris, "it seems so long since you left me."

She was standing in the ball-room with the countess. Her late partner, Lord Vivianne, had gone to fulfill his engagement elsewhere.

"It seems so long," she repeated.

And Earle, who knew every tone of her voice, detected something unusually sad in it. His face grew bright with happiness that she had missed him.

"I saw you dancing with the gentleman who admired you so greatly the other evening," he replied. "You seemed so interested in his conversation that I never dreamed you would miss me."

"He has tried me so, Earle," she said, gently. "Before I can enjoy myself again, I must go somewhere and rest for a few minutes. Where shall we go?"

Earle silently placed the little white hand on his arm, and led the way to a brilliantly-lighted conservatory, where the rippling of the fountain mingled with the songs of tamed birds. There was no one else in that spacious fragrant place. He drew a chair to one of the fountains and placed her in it. She drew a deep breath of unutterable relief, as one who had passed through mortal peril and escaped it. Looking at her, Earle saw that her beautiful face was ghastly white; the eyes she raised to him were dim and shadowed with horror.

"Earle," she said, with a faint attempt at a smile, "I do not look much like the belle of the ball now, do I?"

He was full of concern.

"Not much," he replied. "What is the matter, darling? – what has made you ill? I have thought so often lately that you looked ill and unlike yourself."

She tried to smile, but the expression on her face belied the smile.

"I never did faint in my life," she said – "it is an achievement quite beyond me – but I feel much inclined to do the deed now. Earle, fetch some brandy for me."

"Brandy!" he repeated. "Wine would be better, my darling; brandy is very strong."

"Wine tastes like water," she said. "I want something that is all fire – all fire! to make me strong. Be quick, Earle – be quick! I have to dance with Prince Poermal before supper. I would not be seen looking like this for all the wide world!"

"I do not like leaving you alone," said Earle.

"No one will come here," she said impatiently. "That is the 'Elisir d'Amor' waltz – no one will miss us. Go quickly, Earle."

He bent down and kissed the pale face, then he went quickly to the buffet, poured some brandy in a small glass and carried it to her. She sat just as he had left her – the white arms had fallen listlessly by her side, the white blossoms with the golden bells lay at her feet. Earle thought she looked like some one whose whole strength had been expended in a dire struggle.

"Doris," he said, gently, "drink this dear."

She raised her head and drank the brandy as though it had been so much water. He looked at her in wonder. Then the color slowly returned to her face.

"I understand, Earle," she said, "now, for the first time, why people take to drinking."

There was something so strange in her manner that Earle felt almost frightened.

"Do not talk in that fashion, my darling," he said. "I cannot endure to hear you. Sweet lips like yours should not utter such words."

She laughed; her lips were quite red now, and there was color in her face.

"I can understand it," she repeated, laughingly. "When you brought that to me I was almost dead – it seemed to me that all strength had left me, all the life in me was freezing; now I am warm, living, and well. The next time I feel ill I shall take brandy."

He did not know whether she were laughing or not, whether she meant the words seriously or not, but they impressed him most disagreeably.

"Doris," he said, gravely, "never do that. You are only jesting, I know, dear, and this unhealthy style of life will soon be over for you. You exhaust your strength by over-doses of gayety and excitement. Do not fly to stimulants to restore it; you could not do anything more fatal."

She laughed.

"Of course I am jesting. This is a rest to sit here with you. Lord Vivianne tired me so dreadfully." She shuddered as with cold, and laid her head back on the chair. "How is it, Earle, that some people are so disagreeable and others so nice?"

Earle laughed, so happy to think that she called him nice.

"Which is Lord Vivianne?" he asked.

"Oh, disagreeable, you may be sure of that. See how he has tired me."

"But the world in general considers him a very agreeable man," said Earle.

"I do not. We will not talk of him. Say something very loving and very pleasant to me, Earle, that will send all tiresome thoughts out of my mind."

"You have no right with tiresome thoughts. What are they? Tell me them," he said.

She laughed, but the laugh was a sigh.

"What tiresome thoughts can I have, Earle, except that I regret youth and pleasure are not immortal? I can have no other. Say something loving to me, Earle."

He bent over her and whispered words that brought a sweet, bright blush to her face; then she stood up.

"Now give me my flowers, Earle."

He did so, shaking the little golden bells.

"Do I look bright and brilliant again?" she asked – "like the belle of the ball?"

"Yes, bright as the morning star."

"Now for Prince Poermal and some sugared German compliments," she said.

And they returned to the ball-room.

The prince, all smiles, all gallantry, all devotion, came up to claim her hand. Earle watched her as she danced with him; she was all smiles, all brightness, all light. She talked gayly, she laughed, and the prince appeared to be charmed with her.

Earle wondered more and more. Was it possible this brilliant, beautiful girl was the one he had seen so short a time before, white, cold, and silent, as though some terrible trouble lay over her. He saw what universal admiration she excited; how many admiring glances followed her; he saw that in that brilliant assembly there was no one to compare with her, and he wondered at his own good fortune in winning so peerless a creature. Yet he felt that there was something strange about her, something that he could not understand. Her spirits were strangely unequal; one minute she was all fire, animation, and excitement, the next dull and absent. He tried to account for it all by saying to himself the life was new to her – new and very strange – and it was only natural that she should feel strange in it.

Later on in the evening, when the brilliant ball was almost over, Lord Vivianne sought Lady Studleigh again.

"I am going to ask a great favor," he said; "it is that I may be permitted to call. I have had the pleasure of an introduction to the Earl of Linleigh."

"I shall be much pleased," she replied, indifferently – so indifferently that he could not possibly tell whether she were pleased or otherwise.

"Shall you remain much longer in town?" he asked, determined to keep up a conversation with her.

"I hope so," she replied. "I think London is incomparable; I cannot imagine any other life half so delightful."

"You should see Paris," he said, looking earnestly at her.

"Yes, I should like to see court life in Paris. I was there as a child, but, as a matter of course, I have no knowledge of French society. I was too young to know much about it."

"You must try to spend some time there; there is a brilliancy about French society that we do not find in England."

She looked as politely indifferent as possible, not sufficiently so to offend him, but enough to show him that she felt no great interest in the conversation. He could not find any excuse for delaying any longer, but he left her with the determination to see her again as soon as possible.

"The ball has been a brilliant success," said the earl. "Have you enjoyed it, Doris?"

"Yes," she replied, "I liked Prince Poermal, and I liked the Duke of Eastham, but I did not like all my partners."

Lord Linleigh laughed.

"That is hardly to be supposed," he said. "If it be not a rude question, which of them did your ladyship dislike?"