A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

"No, thank you, papa. Thank you, Lady Linleigh. I am going to spend the morning in the gardens."

"That means writing a long letter to Earle," said Lord Linleigh, with a smile.

She did not contradict him; and Lady Estelle, when she kissed her and bade her good-morning, thought how beautiful it was to be young, happy, and in love.

Doris went out. There was the shade of fragrant trees, the brilliant colors of a thousand flowers; and Doris saw and heard nothing – she was full of despair.

"Why is he coming," she cried, passionately, "just as I was growing so happy, learning to forgot him and his terrible threats – why is he coming? It is like the serpent stealing into paradise. Ah, Heaven! if I could but undo that unhappy past."

Standing there in the sunshine, with every blessing from heaven lavished upon her – more, according to outward appearances, to be envied than any girl in England – she saw the great canker-worm of her life in its true colors. Sin had spoiled all for her.

Sin! Why, she could remember when, in the innocence of her youth and beauty, she had laughed at the word sin – she had scoffed at it. "What did sin matter?" she had said, to herself; "the only thing was to make the very best of life, to enjoy it with all her power, to grasp its pleasures before they had time to fade." Sin! why it was all sheer nonsense.

Now, when sin had found her out, when its black trail had entered her life and poisoned it – when its consequences, pursuing her, were leading her to shame and disgrace, she began to recognize it for what it was. She said to herself that if she could begin life over again she would be quite different; she would try to be good, like Mattie; she would think less of her own beauty; and if the same temptation came to her again, which had been so artfully offered her once, she would refuse it. She wished with all her heart that she had turned a deaf ear to Lord Vivianne's entreaties. "I did know it was wrong," she said to herself, with unusual candor; "I had enough of what was good in me to know that, and I am sorry, really sorry that I did it."

Who knows how much repentance the Father above requires from a soul? Who shall measure His mercy? The terrible tragedy was drawing nearer; and it might be that the sorrow which rose from the poor, weak, vain soul that morning was sufficient to save it.

So she lived the time through until Lord Vivianne came. She was glad that Lady Linleigh had arranged for a little gayety; meeting him alone would have been simply unendurable. As it was, she met him in a drawing-room half-crowded with guests. He found time and opportunity for saying a few words to her:

"How beautiful you look, Dora! I have never seen you looking so well!"

"I should be flattered at pleasing such fastidious taste as yours," she replied.

"Yes, you do look most lovely; those waves of green and white, and the water-lilies in your hair – you look like Undine!"

"Before or after she had found her soul?" she asked, with a mocking smile.

He laughed that low, light laugh for which she hated him.

"I have never quite made up my mind as to whether women have souls or not," he said. "I am inclined to think not; if they have, they certainly make queer use of them."

"Lady Linleigh!" cried the girl, to the countess, who was just passing by, "what do you imagine Lord Vivianne says?"

"I cannot imagine," replied the countess, with a smile.

"He says he is inclined to believe women have no souls; or, if they have, they make queer use of them."

The countess looked slightly shocked.

Lord Vivianne gave one angry look at the spoiled beauty.

"That is a very dreadful opinion to hold, my lord," said Lady Estelle.

"Lady Studleigh is hardly just to me," he replied. "She tells you what I say, but she does not tell you, although she knows, what led me to form that opinion."

The countess looked quickly from one to the other with a grave intentness that did not escape either. There was something more than mere badinage in this – something which she did not at all understand. Then Lady Doris saw that she had made a mistake in trying to expose him – she must not play with edged tools.

Lady Linleigh left them, not feeling quite satisfied. Why should he speak in that contemptuous manner of women, to a woman who was so young, so beautiful? It was not chivalrous – it was not even gentlemanly. And Lady Doris' manner puzzled her too; it was as though she wished to expose Lord Vivianne, to make others think evil of him. She could not forget the little circumstance.

"Yet it must be a fancy of mine," she thought. "They have so seldom met, they know so little of each other, there can be nothing but the most commonplace acquaintance between them."

Still it made her curious, and she purposely selected Lord Vivianne to take her down to dinner, in order that she might, after a little diplomatic fashion of her own, question him.

"How do you think Lady Studleigh is looking?" she asked him, when they had a chance for a few quiet words. "She was not well at all when we left London."

"I think her looking as beautiful as it is possible for any one to look," he replied, "and as well."

"I am glad you think so. It must have been a great privation for her to leave London in the very midst of the season, or, I should say, in the midst of a brilliant finale."

"Yes; I do not remember, of late years, any one who created such a furor as Lady Studleigh," was his reply.

"You met her often during the season?"

"Yes, I met her very frequently; it was impossible to go much into society without doing so – she was an unusual favorite."

The countess saw plainly that if he admired her he was not going to say so; she would not be able to get at his real opinion. Yet the very caution of his words and manner, the restraint in his speech, the guarded expression of his face, all told her that she was right in her half-formed fancy. There was something unusual – either on his part or hers – which she could not make out. She would not devote more time to him that evening; the guests were numerous, and must be entertained.

The gentlemen did not remain long in the dining-room, and the drawing-room presented a beautiful picture; the lamps were all lighted and shone like huge pearls among the countless flowers; the gay dresses and shining jewels of the ladies seemed to shine with unwonted luster. The sweet summer evening was so warm and so fragrant, the rich silken hangings were drawn, and the long windows were open, and from them the countess saw a fairyland of moonlight and flowers.

"I wish we had some music," said the earl; "it only wants that to complete the enchantment. Doris, will you sing?"

She went to the piano, and the rich voice floated through the room. Many who saw her then never forgot her; the green and white dress floating round her, the water-lilies in her golden hair, a flush on the beautiful face, while the rich voice poured out such a strain of melody as few had ever heard equaled.

They who saw her then, and knew what followed, did not forget the picture.

CHAPTER LXXIV

A LAST VAIN APPEAL

"The night is so fine," said the earl, "you young people would enjoy a short time on the lawn. Look at those lilies asleep in the moonlight – go and wake them. Then we will have the card-tables. That is as it should be – cards for the old, moonlight for the young."

That was the very chance Lord Vivianne had been longing for; he did not think he could bear suspense much longer. Now he was sure of a tete-a-tete. Here, in these rooms, half-filled with people, it had been an easy matter to avoid him, or to make others join in the conversation; it would not be as easy out there in the moonlight.

Lady Linleigh, who had never for one moment relaxed her keen, untiring watch, saw him go up to Lady Doris, and speak a few words to her in a low voice. At first the beautiful face flushed hotly, and the bright eyes seemed to flash out a proud defiance. Then there was an expression of half-startled fear, followed by one of submission most unusual in her.

"There is a mystery," she said to herself; "there is something between him and my darling!"

The mother's first impulse was to screen her, to help her. Lady Linleigh crossed the room and went to her.

"Doris," she said, in a clear distinct voice, that all might hear, "Doris, do not go if you prefer remaining here."

The girl raised her eyes to the calm gentle face, and Lady Linleigh was shocked to see tears in them.

"Thank you," she said, calmly; "I shall enjoy going out. Who could resist the moon and the flowers?"

"Then do not remain long. You look tired, and we must remember you are not strong."

Lord Vivianne joined them.

"Lady Studleigh has graciously promised to show me the fountains by moonlight. I will watch her faithfully, and at the first symptom of fatigue I promise you she shall return."

Then the countess could say no more. She saw Lord Vivianne carefully draw the black lace shawl over the white neck and arms.

"Not that you can be cold," he said, in reply to some objection, "but, as Lady Linleigh says, we must be careful of you."

And he smiled down on her with an air of protection and of appropriation, for which she in her rage could have struck him dead, and which made Lady Linleigh wonder exceedingly.

"It is ten thousand pities," she thought, "that he does not know she is engaged to Earle."

Then a new suspicion came to her, which made her even more uncomfortable. Was it possible that her daughter's passionate desire for secrecy had anything to do with Lord Vivianne? Was her daughter afraid of letting him know that she was going to be married? The very torment of the suspicion, faint as it was, filled her with dread. Then she saw the happy little group of guests on the lawn, she caught one glimpse of the white water-lilies and green dress as Lady Studleigh disappeared with her cavalier.

"What has come over me?" said the countess. "I have a presentiment, heavy as death! What can be wrong? I shall begin to think I am growing old and fanciful. What danger can be near my darling?"

She set herself resolutely to play at whist, but every now and then her partner saw her turn pale and shudder, as though she were cold.

Doris and Lord Vivianne were out in the moonlight together, and alone at last. At first they maintained complete and perfect silence. Lord Vivianne placed the white jeweled hand on his arm. She did not make the least objection; it was all useless, she was in his power, and she knew it; she would not even ask the question that trembled on her lips, and filled her with despairing wonder – what had brought him there? She walked by his side, silent, proud, and uncomplaining.

"My darling," he said, at last, "does not this evening remind you of Florence, and the moonlight on the river?"

"If I am to talk to you, Lord Vivianne, and it seems I am compelled to do so, I must ask you to refrain from using such expressions as 'darling.' I will not answer you if you do: they are utterly hateful to me."

"Yet I remember the time when they pleased you passing well. Do you remember, Dora, when I gave you a diamond ring? You have diamonds now on your neck and arms, in your ears, and your hair. They shine like fire-rivers over your beautiful figure; you are so accustomed to them that they have ceased to have any particular value for you. But do you remember your delight in the first?"

"Women remember their first diamonds, as they do their first long dress or their first lover," she replied.

"I suppose so. Oh, Dora, be a little kind to me! We are here in this sweet moonlight together, yet you do not give me one word, one smile. You were not always so hard or so cruel. In Florence, you used to walk with both these beautiful white hands clasped over my arm. Do you remember it?"

Then she raised to his a face that, in its pride and anger, he never forgot.

"I will not permit you to mention those days to me," she cried. "They are hateful; the very memory of them brands me as with a red-hot iron. I will not bear it. I would sooner – listen to me – I know the words are unwomanly – I would sooner pass through the infernal fires than go to Florence with you again."

He laughed.

"I like to see you in a passion, Dora; it suits you; you would have made a grand tragedy queen. I do not wish to vex you or to tease you, because, as you know, I wish to make you my wife. Do you know, can you guess, what has brought me here?"

"No. You have broken our compact in coming, I know that!"

Still it was the question over which she had pondered, by day and by night, ever since she had heard he was coming. It made her heart beat fast, but she would not give way; there was not the least sign of emotion.

"Do you not wonder what has brought me here, Dora?" he repeated.

"I am very indifferent," she said; "no one could be more so."

"I will tell you. I came to see if you were keeping faith with me, if there was any rumor of a lover, any rumor of an engagement. I came purposely for that."

"And if there had been?" she said.

"If there had been, why, you see, Dora, matters would have turned out very awkwardly for both of us."

"You are satisfied that there is not?"

"Yes, tolerably so. There is no lover here; I hear of none in the neighborhood. And you are not engaged to be married – that I do know!"

"How do you know?"

"Because I have made inquiries in the proper direction. I am, I may say, quite satisfied."

He could not tell the sensation of intense relief that came over her – the wild throbbing of her heart. She was safe then, so far, and could marry Earle. Half of the dread and fear she had felt faded away from her.

"I own," continued Lord Vivianne, "that I have suspected you unjustly. You deceived me once, and I fancied that you intended to deceive me again; you eluded me once, you will not elude me again?"

"You thought I was going to do so?"

"I thought your manner strange, your leaving London in the height of your triumph strange, your coming to this quiet, though beautiful country home strange."

"I told you that I wanted time for reflection," she said.

"Yes: and even that, when I came to think of it, was strange. Of course I shall keep my word now that I have given it. But why should you, how can you, need time for reflection? The idea is utterly absurd. You cannot for a moment hesitate between my threat and my offer."

"But I do hesitate," she said, "incredible as it may seem to you."

He looked in her face, so fair and calm in the moonlight, and so proud.

"I wish you would tell me why you hesitate?" he said.

"I will. I dislike you so much. The idea of having to spend my life with you is so utterly abhorrent to me, that I hesitate between that and the total ruin that would follow my refusal."

"You must indeed dislike me," he said, "if you prefer ruin, shame and disgrace to me."

"I do."

"Will you tell me why?" he asked.

"I should have thought both answer and question useless. Why, to begin with, you tempted me to sin and shame, by flattering my vanity and my pride – "

"You did not really require much temptation, Lady Studleigh."

"Thank you – you are as generous as you are gentlemanly. Granted that I did not require much temptation, you placed what little I did want before me. Do you not see," she cried, with sudden passion, "that you have spoiled my life? It would be bright, hopeful, full of charm, but for you– you have marred and blighted it. I do not like you – I never did. The very way in which you won me was hateful to me; your love was all self. I never liked you. And now, when I could be happy – ah, Heaven, so unutterably happy – you come like a black shadow and rob my life of every bit of happiness that it contains. No wonder that I loathe you!"

"No," he said, gently, "it is not."

"Then why do you not be kind to me, and let me be quite free?" she asked, emboldened by the softening of his voice.

"You have guessed the reason," he replied. "You have said – it is because I am selfish to my heart's core. I sacrificed you once to my selfish love; is it likely that I should hesitate a second time?"

"You might well hesitate, because I suffered so keenly over the first."

The red flush deepened on his face, a strange light came into his eyes.

"I will not let you go free, neither will I cease from my endeavors to make you my wife; and the reason is because I love you. Oh, proud, fair, lovely woman! I love you with the very madness of love, with a desperation of the fiercest passion with a love that is my doom and yours. You have heard of men made desperate through love: look at me, you will see it. I will kill you if you attempt to leave me – if you attempt to give the love that ought to be mine to another man!"

"Thank you for the threat," she said.

"You drive me to threats, you give me no other recourse. I would fain be all that is kind and good to you; I would worship you; I would lay all that I have at your feet, only begging of you to take it. What would I not do to prove how dearly I love you."

"It is all self. We will have the plainest possible understanding. If there be any manhood in you, it shall be shamed. You shall have it in plain words. You quite understand that if ever I should marry you, it would be because by threats you had compelled me to do so; that I should hate and detest you if I became your wife even more than I hate and detest you now. As the days passed on, my loathing would become greater, so that no friendly word would ever pass between us, and I should consider you simply as a tyrant who bound me in chains. You understand all this?"

"I will risk it," he replied. "I should not despair of regaining your love in time."

The face she turned to him was pallid in its despair.

"You never would regain it," she said, calmly. "Yet there is one way in which even now you might gain my liking, my esteem, my sincere friendship."

His face kindled at the words.

"How, Dora? Tell me how!" he cried, eagerly.

"By saying to me: 'You are free. I took advantage of your youth and innocence; I am sorry for it. You are free! Forgive me the wrong that has been done, and let us friends.' If you would do that, Lord Vivianne, even now I should like you with a warm, true liking."

He was silent for a few minutes; her appeal had touched him greatly. Looking at him, she saw that his face had softened. Impulsively she laid a warm, soft hand on his.

"I never thought to use words of persuasion to you," she said. "I never thought to plead or to pray to you, but I do so now: be kind to me, and let me go free."

He was tempted for one minute; but that warm, soft hand crept like fire through his veins, his pulses thrilled, his heart beat.

Give her up! – this fair woman whose beauty maddened him! No! never, never – come what might!

"I would not release you, Dora. I would not give you up, if every angel, and every fiend combined, tried to take you from me!"

CHAPTER LXXV

"HEAVEN SAVE EARLE!"

"August at last," said Lady Linleigh; "it is the first to-day. Not long now, Doris, until the tenth."

"No; not long," was the reply.

"Everything is ready and waiting at Hyde House," continued the countess; "the whole of your trousseau is ready, and a more magnificent one was never designed."

"I am more than satisfied with it," said the young beauty, "What time will Mattie Brace be here, Lady Linleigh?"

"About noon. I shall send the carriage to the station."

"I will drive my pretty ponies," said Doris, eagerly. "I have only used them once since papa gave them to me. She will be so pleased if I meet her."

"It is well thought of, my dear," said Lady Estelle. "Doris, do you know what I have done?"

"No, something kind and nice, like yourself; I know by the sound of your voice."

"I have ordered a very nice little trousseau for Mattie – dresses that will not be unsuited to her at home, yet will do for her to wear here. I shall be so lonely when you are gone that I thought of asking her to remain here. I shall miss you so much, Doris."

"And I shall miss you, dear Lady Linleigh. I never thought when you came home to my father's house, that I should learn to love you so dearly."

Lady Linleigh clasped her arms round the girl's neck.

"Tell me one thing," she said, caressingly; "do you think I have been as kind to you as your own mother would have been?"

"I do not think, dear Lady Linleigh; I am quite sure," she replied.

"It is an odd fancy of mine," said the countess, with a wistful smile, "but I have always been so fond of children. I have such a longing to hear a child call me mother. Doris – you will have left me in ten days. Will you kiss me, and say, 'Heaven bless you, my own mother?'"

"Of course I will. Heaven bless you, my own dear mother; you have been one to me. You have helped me in every little trouble and perplexity; you have been kind to me, without ceasing. Why, Lady Linleigh, your face is wet with tears!"

"Is it, darling? I feel your going away so much. But we must not remain talking here. If you wish to drive to the station, it is high time the ponies were brought round, and I myself wish to see that everything is as she will like it in Mattie's room."

The warmer days of the golden summer had passed away rapidly; it was the first of August, and the marriage was to be on the tenth. So great and entire had been the secrecy preserved, that no creature in that vast establishment knew anything at all about it, the servants and every one else thought that Mattie was simply coming for her yearly visit; but that the wedding of their young lady was on the tapis, no one for a moment suspected.

Lord Vivianne had not made a very long stay at Linleigh Court; matters were not very pleasant for him there. Lady Linleigh seemed suddenly to have grown very observant, and he found but few opportunities of speaking to Doris. After his impassioned, violent words on that evening, she had made no answer; the rapture and tenderness had all died from her face – a hard, fixed look came in her eyes.

"Let the worst come now," she said; "it will serve him right."

She pleaded and prayed no more; and it was well for him that he could not read the thoughts that were in her mind. He poured out such a torrent of passionate words she heard none of them. After a time she said:

"I think we have been out quite long enough, Lord Vivianne: we will return, if you please."

When they reached the lawn again, where the ladies, with their attendant cavaliers, were enjoying the fair, sweet night, he suddenly took her right hand, and kissed it.

"I shall hope to make this mine, one day," he said.

She snatched it from him with sudden violence, and it struck the trunk of a tree with such terrible force that he thought she had broken it.

"I will cut my hand off," she said, "if you touch it again."

He was startled by her vehemence.

"You do indeed hate me, Dora," he said, sadly.

"I do, indeed," was the reply.

And then they saw Lady Linleigh walking across the lawn to them.

"My dear Doris," her ladyship cried, "what is the matter, darling? See! you have a great stain of blood on your dress – and your hand! What has happened?"

She took the white hand, with its purple, bleeding bruise, into her own.

"What is the matter, Doris? Lord Vivianne, what is the matter?"

She saw that he looked dreadfully distressed.

"Dear Lady Linleigh, it is nothing," said Lady Doris, quickly, fearing that he would speak. "I was resting against the gate there, and I thought something was on my hand, a snake crawled over it – a horrible, slimy snake – and in my hurry, I bruised it against the gate – that is all."

"But," said the countess, perplexedly, "Lord Vivianne was with you."

"Oh, yes, he was there!"

"I was there, Lady Linleigh, and I am terribly distressed over the accident, but Lady Studleigh was too quick for me, before I could assure her that there was nothing the matter, she had flung her hand so violently that I thought she had broken it. There was no snake."

"There could not be," said the countess. "I have never heard of any snakes at Linleigh. Give me your hand, child. What a terrible bruise!"