A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

"Dislike is too strong a word, papa. I did not care about Lord Vivianne; he tired me very much. How can people admire him?"

"You do not like him?" said the earl. "I suppose it does not much matter, but I am rather sorry. He seemed to take a great fancy to me, and pressed me to try shooting with him. If you do not like him, I shall not."

She laughed.

"There is no need for that, papa: it does not quite follow that because he is not to my taste, he is not to yours, does it?"

"No; but he spoke of calling on us, and did his best to make me understand that he wished to be on visiting terms with us."

"Why not?" she asked, indolently.

"If you do not like him, Doris, I should never care to see him inside our doors."

"I do not like him as a partner, papa; perhaps as a visitor to the house I might like him very well indeed. He tired me with his incessant questions and compliments."

"Perhaps he was very much charmed with you," said the earl, laughingly. "I must say, no one ever showed a greater desire to be on intimate terms with me than he did. I asked him to dine on Thursday – the Bishop of Lingham is coming – and we shall see if he improves upon acquaintance."

"He seemed to me very polite and pleasing," said the countess, quietly.

And then they spoke no more of Lord Vivianne, but Lady Studleigh thought of him incessantly. She had made the greatest effort, which was talking to him, parrying his questions, assuming a part, and carrying it on for some time. She had said to herself that the danger was averted, that she had no more to fear, but she found that she was wrong. In his eyes she read a fixed determination to know her – a doubt that all her skill had not been able to solve, all her talent had not prevented. She felt this; she understood that although he had seemed to acquiesce in all she said, in his own mind suspicion still lingered.

CHAPTER LXV

"IF SHE REFUSES, LET HER BEWARE!"

Standing in the solitary splendor of her room, Doris looked round her with despairing eyes. Was it possible that this sin, of which she had thought so little, would be the means of dragging her down from the brilliant height on which she stood? What were those words haunting her? "Be sure your sin will find you out." Was it possible that her brilliant life, her triumphant career, her happiness, should all be ended by this secret coming to life? Would it be of any use throwing herself on his mercy, and asking him to keep the horrible story to himself? Bah! she hated him so that she would ask no favor from him – not to save twenty lives! The only thing for her to do was to go on baffling him – to treat him, not with unkindness, but with such calm indifference that he would find it impossible to break down the barrier – to avoid conversation with him, and to marry Earle as soon as possible. Once married, she could easily persuade her husband to take her abroad. She would keep out of England a year or two, and then Lord Vivianne would have forgotten his fancy.

"There is one thing I must do the next time I see him," said the unhappy girl to herself. "I must tell him, in some way or other, that my name is Doris. He is sure to find it out. I had better tell him."

She went to rest in her luxurious chamber, perhaps one of the most luxurious in London, and in the whole of that vast city there was not a heart more restless or more sad than hers.

Lady Doris met Lord Vivianne next at a flower-show at Chiswick. It pleased the fair ladies of fashion to congregate there. The Duchess of Downsbury, the Countess of Linleigh, and Lady Doris, had driven together. It was a brilliant fete; the sky overhead was blue and cloudless, the golden sun was shining, the air was filled with the songs of countless birds, and each laden with the fragrant odor of a thousand flowers. The charm of sweetest music was not wanting; from under the shade of the trees came the clear, bright sounds. It was like fairyland.

The earl had ridden down: Earle was prevented from going.

It was there that, for the second time, she met the man who was fast becoming her mortal foe. There was a long, shady avenue of trees, with beautiful chestnuts in full bloom; the air seemed alive and warm with their fragrance. The duchess and her daughter had gone to look at some exquisite specimens of white heath; Lady Studleigh walked slowly down the chestnut grove. She heard footsteps behind her, and thinking it was the duchess, she did not turn. Then the voice that she hated most in the world sounded in her ears.

"Good-morning, Lady Studleigh; I esteem myself very fortunate in meeting you here."

Again he looked narrowly into her face, to see if there was the faintest trace of confusion or fear. It was calm and bright as the morning itself; her eyes shone like two stars, her lips were all smiles.

"Good-morning," she replied, laughingly; "I shall have my ideal of fairyland after this, Lord Vivianne."

"What will it be?" he asked.

"A flower-show. It is really very beautiful; I cannot tell you how much I enjoy it."

"Perhaps novelty adds to the charm," he said. "The most beautiful flowers I have ever seen are at Downsbury Castle. You have been to Downsbury Castle, Lady Studleigh?"

"Yes," she replied, with the frankest unconcern, "I was there last year. I thought the flowers very beautiful."

"I once saw a flower," he said, "that I would defy all creation to equal."

"Did you? For my part, I think them all beautiful alike. Have you seen the japonicas here?"

"No, I have only just arrived."

To himself he added, despairingly:

"I must be wrong. She could not be so frankly unconcerned. Besides, how could the girl I took to Florence with me be Lord Studleigh's daughter?"

"Did you like Downsbury Castle?" he asked, again.

"Yes, but I cannot say that I was ecstatically happy there."

"Why not?" he asked. "You ought to be happy everywhere."

She laughed a low, musical laugh.

"I do not think," she said, "that I was a great favorite with her grace."

"With the duchess – why not?"

"For many reasons. She did not like the color of my hair, because it is brighter than Lady Linleigh's. She did not like my name; she said it had the flavor of common poetry about it."

"Your name? If I am not presumptuous, what is it?"

"Doris," she replied, and she raised her eyes to his with a look of most angelic innocence. He was bewildered.

"Doris," he repeated. "I knew a Doris once – the one so like you."

"Doris – how strange." Again the low, sweet laugh that maddened him. "I assure you," she continued, "that I am like the duchess – I dislike the name exceedingly."

He was looking at her in a maze of perplexity. She was so like; it must be his Dora. The name, too; it could not be a coincidence. Yet, if she were the girl he had betrayed, it was not natural that she could refrain from showing some little emotion, some fear, some surprise. She did not appear to notice that there was anything strange in his silence or his fixed regard.

"I have a theory of my own about names," she continued, "and I think it the most cruel thing in the world to give a child either an ungainly or an unusual one. If I had had a sensible name, I should not have been full of caprice, as I am now."

He laughed, still wondering. Could it be his Dora, the girl he had learned to love with such a fierce, mad love – the girl to recover whom he would have cheerfully laid down his wealth? He would not have believed it possible, if any other man had told him such a story; he would have said it could not be, that it must be clear at once whether she were the girl or not; yet he was puzzled. If a kingdom had been offered to him at that moment to say whether this was the girl he had loved or not, he could not have told. Still, he would try her, and try her until some incautious word, some half-uttered exclamation, some sudden look of fear would betray her. If none of these things happened, he would take further steps – go down to Brackenside, where he had first met her, and see what he could find out there.

Then, as he listened to her, his faith was shaken again. Surely, if she dreaded recognition, she would be less natural, she would seek in some measure to disguise her voice, her laugh; but no one could be more frank or natural. Then a new idea came to him. If she were really Dora, as sooner or later he must discover, then he would compel her to marry him by threats; if she were not, he would win her love and marry her.

Looking at the exquisite face, the proud eyes, all the mad, fierce love that he had felt for his lost Dora came over him. Then he was startled to find the laughing eyes looking at him with some curiosity.

"I have heard of day dreams, Lord Vivianne," she said, "now I have seen a day dreamer. We have been through this chestnut grove twice, and you have not spoken; you have been building castles in the air."

"I have been building castles of which I have dared to make you the queen," he replied.

"I should like to be the queen of something more substantial than an air castle," she replied laughingly.

"You do not know," he said, "that being with you, Lady Studleigh, is at once the highest happiness and the greatest misery."

"I ought to be flattered at producing such a variety of emotion," she replied, with a laugh.

"You would be serious – you would pity me if you knew all," he said.

"Shall I pity you without knowing anything?" she replied.

"No; but, Lady Studleigh, you are so pretty, so exactly like some one I – I loved and lost; you are the very counterpart of her – her true likeness. I have never seen anything so marvelous!"

"How did you lose her?" she asked. "Did she die?"

"No. To me it was almost worse than that. She, this lovely girl whom I so dearly loved, was beneath me in station, yet I worshiped her. She affected to love me – whether she did or not, Heaven only knows. But just as I had made up my mind to marry her, because I loved her so dearly I could not live without her, she disappeared – went away out of my life, and I have not seen her since."

"What a strange story," she replied, indifferently, "and how strange that you should tell it to me, Lord Vivianne."

"Because," he cried, with sudden passion, "you are so much like her – do you not see? You are so much like her that I could look in your face and cry out – 'Dora, Dora, have you forgotten me?'"

She laughed again.

"Could you? How strange! I should feel very much surprised if you did."

"You are so like her. When I look at you my heart seems to leave me."

Her violet eyes, with their proud light, looked into his calmly.

"I did not think the men of the present day knew much about love," she said; "but you seem to have loved her."

"Loved her! – but I forget myself, Lady Studleigh; you might as well try to imagine what the heat and thunder of battle are like, from seeing them painted on canvas, as guess how I loved her from hearing me use the word love."

"You should find her and tell her all this," she said.

And from the half-tired expression that for one moment crossed the beautiful face, he knew she was growing politely wearied of the theme.

"I am searching for her," he said, his lips growing white and hot as he spoke. "I am looking for her. There are times when I believe that I have found her."

"That is well," she replied.

"No, it is hardly well. When I am sure that I have discovered her, I shall ask her to marry me; and if she refuses, let her beware! let her beware!"

The words came from him with a hiss. Her sunny laughter smote him like the edge of a sharp sword.

"How dramatic, Lord Vivianne! I shall begin to think you are rehearsing for a tragedy."

He looked confused.

"If she be not Dora," he thought, "what will she think of me?"

Then he continued:

"I ought to apologize, Lady Studleigh. I cannot help it, you are so much like her. I loved her so dearly that, do you see, I would lose my life rather than my hope of winning her for my wife."

"But how can you make her your wife, Lord Vivianne?" she asked, wonderingly. "If she had loved you, and had been willing to marry you, she would not have run away, would she?"

"I have never understood it; there was a mystery in her disappearance that I never fathomed. But I will fathom it, I will find her, and make her my wife."

"Did she run away from all her friends, too?" she asked.

He turned to look at her, and they glanced for one half minute steadily at each other.

"If I have asked an intrusive question," she said, with a smile, "it was your fault for telling me. Remember, I did not ask your confidence – you gave it to me."

"As I would give you the whole world, if I had it," he replied, passionately.

"Because I am so much like some one else?" she replied smilingly. "I ought to be grateful to you."

"If ever harm or evil comes to me," said Lord Vivianne, "it will be through her. I am not master of myself; when I think of her it maddens me. I believe if I met her – found her, and she refused to be my wife, I should – "

"Should what?" she asked, as he hesitated.

"I should kill her!" he said, fiercely.

"How dreadful! You are quite a tragedy hero, Lord Vivianne." She laughed as she spoke, and shrugged her shoulders. "Suppose this lady of whom you speak should be like you, and say the same thing – that she would rather kill you than marry you. What then?"

"Why, then we should fight it out to the bitter end."

"Here is the duchess," said Lady Studleigh, calmly. "Mind, Lord Vivianne, I do not think you have done the wisest thing in trusting a stranger, like myself, with your secrets; however, your confidence in me shall not be misplaced, I will keep them."

Then the duchess and Lady Linleigh joined them. He remained with them, affecting to talk to them, but secretly engaged in watching Lady Doris. But it was all in vain. There was no trace of thought or care on her face. She talked and laughed gayly, as though he had not spoken a word; the only thing was, that in her manner to him he detected a gentle pity that she had not shown before.

"I must be mistaken," he said to himself. "Eyesight, hearing, memory, all must be wrong – all must have failed me; but – she could not possibly be playing a part – she cannot be my lost Dora. No woman could be so utterly indifferent. I must be mistaken, but I will find it out!"

CHAPTER LXVI

A LITTLE ARTIFICE

It did not occur to Lady Doris that in all probability Lord Vivianne would recognize Earle. He had seen him once, and once only – that was walking with her, near Brackenside. But his lordship had no eyes then to spare for the rustic lover. He had also known his name – Earle Moray – but he was proverbially careless, forgetful and indifferent. It was a question whether he had paid the least heed to it, not thinking it could even interest him.

On the day of the dinner party at Hyde House it had occurred to her that they would meet. They had both been at the Duchess of Eastham's ball, but in a crowded ball-room even friends often failed to recognize each other. How would it be when they met in the same room, dined at the same table? People would be sure to make some allusion to Earle's poems, some one would be sure to mention Downsbury Castle, then Earle would join in and she would be lost. She might, by her indifference, make him believe that he was mistaken: but if he once found out who Earle was, and that Earle was still her lover, she could blind him no longer. Had she met him only at rare intervals, she might have continued to mislead him. Had she met him casually in society, she could have carried on her deception until it was too late for him to injure her. But now that he was coming, as it were, into the very heart of her home, she had less chance.

If he found out about Earle, he would find out about her, too. Then – well, suppose it came, this discovery that she dreaded so terribly, what would he do if she refused to marry him? "Kill her," he had said; but that was not so easily done. She might compromise and secure her own safety by refusing to marry Earle, and marrying Lord Vivianne. He would keep her secret then. People would only say that she had changed her mind, and say that she was like all the Studleighs – faithless. But she loved Earle with all her power of loving, and she hated Lord Vivianne with an untold hatred.

She said to herself that if she had to save herself from the most terrible death by marrying him, she would not do it. She loathed him; she would have been pleased to hear that he was dead, or anything else dreadful had happened to him, for he had spoiled her life. Of what use was all her wealth, her luxury, her magnificence? Her life through him was spoiled – completely spoiled.

"I wish he were dead," she said to herself, over and over again. "The toils are spreading around me; I shall be caught at last."

She flung her arms above her head with a terrible cry. What was she to do? She must, first of all, prevent them from meeting that night. They must not dine together at her father's house; that was the evil to be immediately dreaded. She flung the masses of golden hair back from her white face.

"If I dare but tell Earle, and let him avenge me," she thought.

Then she wrote to him a coaxing little note, telling him that she had a particular reason for desiring him not to dine at Hyde House that evening – a reason that she would explain afterward, but that she herself desired to see him alone. Would he come later on in the evening and ask for her? She would arrange to receive him in Lady Linleigh's boudoir. Then she rung for a footman in hot haste.

"Take this note to Mr. Moray," she said. "Never mind how long you have to wait. Give it into his own hands, then bring me the answer."

"Oh, these lovers," sighed the servant. "What there is to do to please them!"

Still, he did his best. He waited until he saw Earle, put the note in his hand, and waited for the answer.

Earle only smiled as he read it. He was so completely accustomed to these pretty little caprices, he had ceased to attach any importance to them. He merely wrote in reply that he was entirely at her command.

"You remember the old song, my darling:

"'Thou art my life, my love, my heart,The very eyes of me;Thou hast command of every part,To live and die for thee.'

"I will come later on in the evening and see no one but you."

He laughed as he closed the note.

"I wonder what pretty caprice possesses my darling now," he said to himself.

The man who took the note back wondered at his young mistress, her face was quite white, her golden hair clung in rich disorder, the white hands, so eagerly extended to seize the letter, trembled and burned like fire.

"They must have had a quarrel," he said to himself, with a knowing nod, as he closed the door. "They have had a quarrel, and my lady wishes to make it all right again."

It was a reprieve. She kissed the little note with a passion of love that was real.

"My darling," she said, "if we could but go away together."

And as she sat there a sudden memory of the time when she had run away from him came to her. She saw the old-fashioned garden at Brackenside; she saw the great crimson roses, and the sheaves of white lilies; she saw the kindly face of Mattie, and heard Earle singing:

"Thou art my soul, my life – the very eyes of me."

Ah, peaceful, innocent days! Blind, mad fool that she had been ever to listen to Vivianne – to let him tempt her – to let him take her from the innocent, happy home! What had she gained? And – ah, Heaven! – what had she lost? If she could but have foreseen, have known, how differently she would have behaved.

"I am strong," she said, pushing away the golden hair with her white hands. "I am strong, but I could not live this life – it would kill me."

She sat for half an hour, thinking steadily, then her resolve was taken. She would tide over the dinner as well as she could, throwing him more and more off his guard. She would see Earle that evening, and tell him that she wanted their marriage hastened; that she was tired of so many lovers, and wanted to go away with him; that she was wearied of London life.

She knew that Earle would be on the alert to serve her, he would manage it all. She had faith in his great love. Then she would tell the earl that her health and strength were failing her; ask him to take her to Linleigh Court. Lord Vivianne would not dare to follow her there. It was like a haven of rest to her. When the summer came, she would marry Earle quietly and go abroad. Then she would be out of her enemy's power; he could no longer hurl her from her high estate, or compel her to marry him. She would be another man's wife then, and it would be his place to protect and avenge her.

The plan, rapidly conceived, rapidly sketched, was her only resource, her only safety. True, it would spoil her life, the triumphs that she now enjoyed would be hers no longer. She would cease to be the belle of the season, the queen of beauty and fashion. She must lose that part of her life which she valued most – the homage, the adulation, the brightness, and all through him. How her whole soul raged in burning fury against him!

If he had been lying there on the ground, her foot on his neck, she would not have spared him. She would have seen him die with pleasure. It did not lessen her anger and her rage that she had to talk to him, to smile, and charm him.

"If a look could kill him," she said to herself, "he should die."

She longed to be in Italy, where a bravo, for a comparatively small sum, would soon have ended his life. She was obliged to soothe her anger, to still the fierce tempest of rage, to calm her fears, to take an interest in her dress, to smile, to look sweet and winning, with the most vindictive hate in her heart.

Then she went into the little drawing-room. Lord Linleigh went up to her.

"What a pretty toilet, Doris," he said. "White lace and roses. Your taste is simply superb. But, ah, me! ah, me!"

"What is it, papa?" she asked, as he laughed, gently.

"Earle is not coming, my dear. I am afraid you will be disappointed. He has sent a hurried little note to say that it is impossible. He is busy about his election, you know."

A few minutes afterward and Lord Vivianne, with a smile on his face, entered the room. Her fingers clutched the flowers she carried so tightly; the thought passed through her mind that if he could but have fallen dead over the threshold it would have been well for her.

"I shall see him if he comes in later on," she said.

A few minutes afterward he was seated by her side, and they were talking in the most friendly manner. The dinner passed over better than she had hoped. Earle was not mentioned nor did any one allude to Downsbury Castle. Lord Vivianne had contrived to secure a place by Lady Studleigh's side, and he did his best to please her. She could not help remarking how courteous and gallant was his manner in society. She contrasted it with what she had seen of him in Florence. When dinner was over, and they had gone into the drawing-room, he bent over the back of her chair.

"Lady Studleigh, have you forgotten my terrible outburst of the other day?"

"Yes," she replied; "I have seen much that is amusing since then."

"It was not very amusing to me," he said. "When a man lays bare the core of his heart, he does not do it for amusement."

"Not for his own, perhaps," she said; "but if he does it in your tragic style, he cannot help other people being amused."

"I could call you Doris," he said, "when you look at me with that piquant smile."

"I hope you will not, Lord Vivianne. I should always fancy papa was talking to me."

"Did you think I was mad that day in the chestnut grove?"

Lady Doris laughed.

"My experience of the world is not very large at present," she said. "Whenever I see or hear anything unusual, I think it is the fashion of the times."

"Ah, Lady Studleigh, I wish I could persuade you to be serious – you are always laughing at me."

"Tendency to laughter is hereditary with me," she said. "I cannot help it. I am afraid that I have no talent for sentiment. The only matter I find for surprise is why you should have selected such a very unsuitable character as myself for your confidante. I cannot say what may be in store for me, but I do not remember that any love affair ever possessed the least interest for me yet."