A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

She looked in a large mirror. Ah, no! he would not fail her; though she had been traveling all night, the dainty coloring of her exquisite face was unfaded. The light flashed in her eyes, in her golden hair; the smooth satin skin was fair as ever. There was not the faintest trace of fatigue on that radiant beauty, and then she started from her reverie.

One of the servants brought her a card, she read on it the name of "Mr. Conyers," and she knew that Lord Vivianne was there.

CHAPTER XXX

A THORN IN THE GARDEN OF ROSES

"I do not think anything could have been more cleverly managed," said Lord Vivianne. "You have brought nothing with you?"

"No," she replied; and the thought rose in her mind, "I have left all I ought to value most behind;" but prudently enough refrained from speaking.

"I do not see how it can be possible to trace us," he continued, "even should any one try."

"Earle will try," she said, with a slight shudder. "He will look the world through, but he will find me in the end."

Her face grew slightly pale as she spoke, and Lord Vivianne drew near to her.

"You are not frightened at Earle, nor any one else, while you are with me, Dora?" He preferred this name to Doris, and the fanciful change pleased her greatly. "You need not be frightened, Dora," He continued. "You do not surely imagine that I am unable to take care of you?"

"I was not thinking of you, but of Earle," she said, simply. "I am always rather frightened when I think of him: he loved me so very much, and losing me will drive him mad."

An expression of impatience came over Lord Vivianne's face; he was passionately in love with the beautiful girl before him, but he had no intention to play the comforter in this the moment of his triumph.

"Say no more of Earle, Dora; if he annoys you, so much the worse for him. Now we will order breakfast, then take the ten o'clock express for London. I had even thought of crossing over to Calais to-day, if you are not too tired."

Her face brightened at the thought – Earle was already forgotten.

"That will be charming," she replied, all graver thoughts forgotten in the one great fact that she was going where she would be admired beyond all words.

Then, for the first time in her life, Doris sat down to a dainty and sumptuous breakfast. It was all novel to her, even this third-rate splendor of a Liverpool hotel. The noiseless, attentive servants – the respect and deference shown to them delighted her.

"After all," she thought to herself, "this is better than Brackenside."

Then Lord Vivianne turned to her with a smile.

"You are so sensible Dora," he said, "that I can talk to you quite at my ease; and that is a great treat after listening to the whims and caprices of the women of the fashionable world."

With artful sophistry he stated that for family reasons it would be inadvisable, if not really rash, to have a marriage ceremony – that at the present time it would utterly blight his prospects. When two loving hearts were joined by their own free consent, and vowed to live for each other, the union was just as binding, he argued, as though a clergyman had united them. To prevent recognition and gossip, it would be necessary for him to change his name; "and for the future," he added, "we shall travel and be known as Mr. and Mrs. Conyers."

This plan did not please Doris. It was not what she had anticipated.

"Being a farmer's daughter," she thought, "he thinks me unfit to associate with his titled friends. But, for all that, I shall show him that I am their equal. Yes, he shall change his mind. I shall so fascinate him that he will yet be glad to proclaim me his wife, the Lady Vivianne."

She now began to realize that she had made the first false steps in deceiving the trusting poet, Earle Moray, and in consenting to a secret departure from her humble home and loving parents. Yet the die was cast; ambition and a determination to accomplish her wishes forced her forward. She had great confidence, as we have seen, in the influence of her beauty. Therefore, after some half-hearted objections, which he adroitly overcame by his specious arguments, she consented to all his plans.

"Trust me, dear Dora," he said, delightedly, "and you shall have everything your heart can desire."

By this time breakfast was over, and it was time to leave the hotel, if they wished to catch the morning train for London. With no fuss or excitement, just as if he was paying for a cigar; Lord Vivianne settled his bill, gave a liberal fee to the waiter – a golden guinea – and half an hour later "Mr. and Mrs. Conyers" were in a first-class compartment, on the train for the great metropolis.

When they reached London, Lord Vivianne said, looking with a smile at his companion's plain dress:

"You cannot go to Paris in that fashion, Dora. You must have some suitable dresses. It will not be too late for Madame Delame's; you had better go there at once."

She desired nothing better. She held out her white hand to him with a charming gesture.

"You must advise me," she said; "I shall not know what to buy. This was the most extensive purchase of my life," and she pointed to a plain, dark silk dress which Mrs. Brace thought much too good for a farmer's daughter.

"I know what will suit your fair style of beauty," he said; "a rich costume of purple velvet."

Her eyes shone with delight – purple velvet! her ambition was realized. For a few moments she was speechless with joy. She forgot altogether, in that, the first realization of her dream, the price she had paid for it.

In the next hour Doris was standing, flushed and beautiful, in Madame Delame's room. If madame had any idea who her aristocratic customer was she made no sign. When he said that Mrs. Conyers was going abroad, and that she wanted to begin with an elegant traveling costume, the lady blandly acquiesced. Even Madame Delame, accustomed as she was to aristocratic beauty, marveled at the high-bred loveliness of the girl before her. Very young to be Mrs. Conyers – very young to be married.

She looked involuntarily at the small white hand; a gold ring shone there – was it a wedding-ring? Madame Delame knew the world pretty well, but she sighed as she gazed.

Her artistic talents were called into play; she had not often so lovely a patron to dress, nor carte blanche as to the number and price of the dresses. She took a positive pleasure in enhancing the girl's beauty, in finding rich, delicate lace for the white neck and rounded arms, in finding shining silks and rich velvets; and when Doris stood arrayed in marvelous costume, the graceful, slender figure shown to the greatest advantage by the dress – the dainty coloring of the face made more beautiful by contrast with the rich purple, then madame raised her hands in silent admiration, then trusted she should again have the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Conyers.

Lord Vivianne said to Doris in a low voice:

"I think you have all that you require here; you can get more in Paris, when you have a maid."

Madame Delame said to herself, as they left the place, that no matter how long she lived, she should never forget the face of Mrs. Conyers.

Once more they were driving through London streets, and this time Doris was too happy to think of anything except her dresses. Lord Vivianne could not take his eyes off that beautiful face. He congratulated himself, over and over again on his wonderful good fortune.

"Who could have thought," he said to himself, "that so fair a flower blossomed in that obscure place."

And while he looked at her, it seemed to him, as it had done to Gregory Leslie, that there was something familiar in the face; that he had either seen that or one very like it before.

A few more days, and they were settled in one of the most luxurious mansions near the Tuileries. Then, indeed, was every wish of Doris' heart fulfilled. Well-trained servants waited upon her; the magnificent rooms were carpeted with velvet pile, the hangings were of the richest silks and lace; wherever she went large mirrors showed the beautiful figure from head to foot; she had a carriage and a pair of horses that were the admiration of all Paris; she had jewels without number, and more dresses than she could wear; she had a maid whose business it seemed to be to anticipate every wish. What more could she desire?

Lord Vivianne was kind, but he did not treat her with any great amount of deference. There was, however, one very good characteristic, as she thought it – he was unboundedly generous; if she expressed a wish he never hesitated about gratifying it; he never counted either trouble or expense.

Enhanced by the aid of dress, of perfume, by the skill of a Parisian maid, her beauty became dazzling. He was very proud of her; he liked to drive out with her, and see all the looks of admiration cast upon her; he liked to feel himself envied. She was, without exception, the fairest woman in Paris; and his pride in her was proportionately great.

The opera was then in full tide of success, and Doris never wearied of going there. It was not that she was particularly fond of music, but she enjoyed the triumph of her own bright presence; she was the observed of all observers. The sensation that her fair loveliness created was not to be surpassed.

One asked another, "Who is it?"

"The beautiful Englishwoman, Mrs. Conyers."

"Who is Mrs. Conyers?"

No one knew, and there lay the sting; there was the one thorn in her garden of roses; she drained the cup of pleasure to the dregs; she missed no fete, no opera; she was introduced to gentlemen, but never to ladies; she had pleasant little dinners, where some of the wittiest conversation took place, but no ladies came near; and she would fain have seen herself envied by women as well as admired by men; that was the one thing she desired above all others. But there was no one to envy her.

She asked Lord Vivianne one day why it was. He looked at her and laughed a most peculiar laugh.

"I am afraid, Dora, that you must learn to be content with the society of gentlemen."

She understood, then, it was one of the penalties of her sin.

Another thing annoyed her and made the gayeties of Paris unpleasing to her. She was walking with Lord Vivianne in the Champs Elysees, and suddenly she saw him start, and looking at him, his face flushed hotly.

"How unfortunate!" he muttered to himself.

Then she saw in the distance a little group of English people; a young gentleman, who was talking to an elderly lady, with a mild, sad face, and a tall, dark girl with proud, bright eyes. The gentleman saw Lord Vivianne first, but instead of stopping to speak his lordship turned quickly away, much to Doris' disappointment.

"I would not have missed seeing these people on any account," he said impatiently.

"Why did you not speak to them?" she asked wonderingly.

"How could I," he retorted, "while you were here?"

She made no reply, but the words struck her with a terrible pain.

She, the fairest woman in Paris, she whom Earle called his queen – it was not to be borne.

She went home, resolved if possible, to alter this state of things, and if she could not, to go away from Paris.

"We will go to Italy," she thought, "where he will not meet English people whom he knows."

Her desire was granted. Five days after that little scene she was with Lord Vivianne in one of the prettiest villas near Naples.

CHAPTER XXXI

"I COULD SOONER PLUNGE A DAGGER IN HIS HEART."

Such a beautiful morning! The golden sunbeams falling like blessings on the earth; the birds singing in a delirium of happiness. The sweet, warm air brooding over the fragrant flowers; all nature seemed awake, happy and smiling; the sky gave its fairest colors; earth yielded its richest fragrance.

Earle woke with the earliest singing of the birds. He smiled at his own impatience. He had not seen Doris since yesterday morning, and it seemed to him a whole week. She had asked him to go to Quainton under the pretext of fulfilling some little commission, and he had not caught one glimpse of her afterward. He was impatient to behold her. The glory of the morning sun, the rapturous music of the birds, was nothing to him, who longed for one look at her face – for one sound of her voice.

It was so early, he hardly dared venture on going to Brackenside, yet he could not rest away. He walked across the fields, little dreaming whose light footsteps had passed over there last. He lingered by the stiles and in the lanes until it struck eight, then he felt sure that Doris would be down-stairs.

At the farm all was activity; the men were at work; the rosy-faced dairy-maid was tripping along with her well-filled cans. He saw Mark Brace in the distance, deeply intent on driving a very comfortable pig where it sternly refused to go. The air was filled with pleasant sounds – the busy hum of work, the song of birds, the ripple of the stream, the murmur of the wind. Earle, the poet, heard it all. He laughed aloud when he saw Mark wiping his brow, and nodding at him as though he would fain say that all conversation would be useless until the struggle was ended. Comedy and tragedy always go hand in hand. Earle's hearty, genial laugh rang out clear on the morning air, and while he lived he never so laughed again.

"Thank Heaven!" he said to himself, "that I am not to be a farmer."

Then when he came through the garden, one of the prettiest scenes in the world met his eye.

There was a large porch before the house, cool, roomy, and shady, overhung with jasmine and roses. The morning was very warm, and the day gave promise of being intensely hot. A white table had been placed in the porch, and on it stood a quantity of ripe, delicious fruit. Mrs. Brace and Mattie were busily engaged in preparing it for preserving; their fingers were stained crimson with the juice. Both faces looked up as Earle entered, and smiled, while Earle thought he had never seen a prettier picture than the sunlit garden with its gay flowers. The shady porch, the luxurious fruit, the kindly faces, yet he looked anxiously around. Without Doris it was like the world without the sun. The bright, beautiful face was sure to be smiling at him from the flower-wreathed windows, or from beneath the trees.

"You are looking for your love, Earle," said Mrs. Brace, in her kindly way. "She is a lazy love this morning. She is not down yet."

"I am glad she is resting," said Earle, too loyal to allow even the faintest suspicion of idleness.

Mrs. Brace laughed.

"Doris leads a life very much like the lilies in the field," she said. "She neither toils nor spins. Mattie shall call her if you like."

"No," said Earle. "I will wait until she comes."

Then Mattie joined in the conversation.

"Doris is tired this morning, Earle," she said, quietly. "She sat up quite late last night writing letters."

"Letters!" repeated Earle, with a touch of pardonable jealousy. "To whom was she writing, Mattie?"

And the girl who loved him so deeply and so silently detected the pain in his voice. She looked up at him with a smile.

"To some schoolmates. She liked some of the girls very much."

Then Earle was quite at ease. He sat for some time watching the sunlit scene, and the busy fingers among the scarlet fruit. At last, while the bees hummed drowsily, they heard the clock strike nine; and the sound seemed to die away over the flowers.

"Nine," said Mrs. Brace, laughingly. "Mattie, you may be sure that Doris does not want to stain her fingers with the fruit. Go and tell her she need not touch it."

Earle felt deeply grateful toward the woman. It was all very well, but even he did not like the idea of those sweet white hands all crimsoned with ripe fruit.

"Tell her from me, Mattie," he added, "that the whole world will be dark and cold until I see her."

Mattie hastened away with a low laugh on her lips at the extravagant words. She was absent some little time, and kindly Mrs. Brace, seeing that Earle looked anxious, entertained him in her simple fashion with many little anecdotes about Doris, her beauty and wit as a child, her pretty, imperious fashion of managing Mark.

When Mattie returned she did not look anxious but surprised.

"See how we have all misjudged Doris," she said; "she must have been up and out for some time."

"Out!" repeated Earle.

"Yes; she is not in her room, nor in the house. The morning is so fine, and so sweet, it has very probably tempted her."

"But where can she have gone?" asked Earle. "I did not see her."

"No; you came from Lindenholm, while she is most probably gone to post the letters she wrote last night; gone to Quainton."

"Then I will go and meet her," said Earle. "But what a strange idea of her to go to Quainton alone. Why did she not wait for me?" He looked at Mattie as he spoke.

She answered him with a smile.

"When I can tell you what the birds are singing about," she said, "I shall be able to explain the caprices of Doris. Go and meet her; then you will understand."

Once more Earle hurried off in the sunshine, leaving mother and daughter busy with the fruit.

Mrs. Brace looked after him with a sigh.

"Poor Earle," she said. "Doris might be a little more civil to him. Although they are going to be married, Mattie, I do not think she cares for him a bit."

Mattie made no answer. She had long since arrived at the same conclusion. Whatever Doris might be going to marry Earle for, it certainly was not for love.

An hour passed. The sunshine grew warmer, the bees hummed, the butterflies with bright wings hovered round the roses; but neither Earle nor Doris returned.

Earle hurried on the road to Quainton. As he crossed the high-road he saw a man breaking stones. He went up to him and asked him if he had seen a young lady pass by.

"No; he had been to work there since five in the morning, but no one had passed by."

"Strange," thought Earle; "but he is old and half blind – most probably he did not see her; yet, with her bright, lovely face, and hair like threads of gold, how could he miss her?"

He walked on until he came to the toll-bar. Outside the pretty, white-gabled cottage a woman sat knitting in the sunshine. To her Earle went, with the same question – "Had she seen a young lady pass by?"

"No." She had been there since seven, knitting and keeping the gate. There had been gentlemen on horseback, farmers' wagons, but no young lady had passed by that gate since seven.

He did not understand it, and a vague uneasiness came over him. Still he walked on to Quainton. The post-office was in the principal street, and if she were there at all, he should be sure to see her. But at the post-office he found men busily repairing the outer wall – they had been at work some hours. From them he asked the same question – "Had they seen a young lady who had come to post letters?"

"No." They had been to work since six, but they had not seen any young lady.

"Then Mattie must have been mistaken," thought Earle; "my darling has not been near Quainton at all; perhaps she is waiting for me now at home."

He returned by the woods, and when he came to any favorite nook of hers, he stopped and cried aloud: "Doris."

The only answer that came to him was the rustling of the sweet western wind in the leaves, and the song of the birds.

The church clock struck eleven as he came in sight of Brackenside. He raised his eager eyes – Heaven help him! – expecting to see Doris in the garden or in the porch; but she was not there.

The sun was slanting over the flowers, the busy murmur of the farm grew louder. Mattie and Mrs. Brace still sat at their work, but of Doris there was no sign.

"My darling!" he said to himself, "where is she?"

"You have not met her, Earle?" said the loud, cheery voice of Mark Brace.

"No, she has not been to Quainton," he replied, "and I do not know where to look for her."

"Do not look anywhere," said Mark; "the longer you look for her the less likely you are to find her. Girls are so uncertain in their ways. Sit down and drink a glass of cider, she will come soon enough then. It seems to me," continued the honest farmer, "that she is having a game of hide-and-seek with you."

Earle thought that very probable. He drank the foaming cider, but he would not sit down.

"I must find her," he said. "If it be her sweet will and pleasure that I should look for her, I will do so."

The farmer laughed, Mrs. Brace felt sorry for him, Mattie was indignant, and Earle went through the pretty garden and all the little nooks she loved best.

He never glanced under the shade of a spreading tree, or turned aside the dense green foliage, without expecting that the bright face would turn to him with a smile; he never looked where the ferns grew most thickly, and the tall grass waved in the wind, without expecting the laughing eyes to meet him, and the gay, clear voice to ring out in sunshiny laughter. No fear, no doubt, no suspicion came to him. It was a bright morning, fair and sweet enough in itself to inspire any desire of frolic, and she liked to tease him. She had hidden away – hidden among the flowers; but he would find her, and when he did find her, he would imprison the sweet, white hands in his – he would kiss the laughing lips and beautiful face – he would take a lover's revenge for the jest she had played him.

He looked until he was tired; he called aloud, over and over again, "Doris!" until it seemed to him that the birds took up the refrain and chanted "Doris!"

He gave it up; he could not find her; he must own himself conquered; and, tired with the sultry heat and his hard morning's work, he walked back to the farm.

It seemed to him, as he drew near, that there was a strange stillness over the place. He looked in vain for Mark's honest face. The porch, too, was empty, although the fruit still stood upon the table.

"Where are they all?" thought Earle. "What a strange morning this has been!"

He looked through the rose-wreathed window of the little sitting-room, and there he saw a group that filled his very heart with dismay. Mark, Mrs. Brace, and Mattie, all standing close together, and bending over an open letter.

He watched them in silence, fighting, with a terrible courage, with this first foreboding – a chill, stern presentiment of coming evil that, man as he was, robbed him of his strength and clutched at his heart with an iron hand.

Then he heard a sob from Mrs. Brace. He saw the farmer clinch his strong hand, while he cried out:

"In Heaven's name, who is to tell Earle? I cannot."

"You must!" said Mrs. Brace.

But Mark drew back pale and trembling.

"I tell you, wife," he said, "I love the boy so well that I could sooner take him out in the sunshine and plunge a dagger in his heart than tell him this."

A great calm seemed to come over Earle as he heard.

"My darling is dead," he said to himself, "she is dead, and they are afraid to tell me. I can die too!" and opening the door he went in.

At the sight of him Mark turned away, but Mattie went up to him with outstretched hands.

CHAPTER XXXII

"I AM A MAN, AND I WILL HAVE JUSTICE."

"I know," said Earle, gently. "I know; you are afraid to tell me; Doris is dead."

"It would be better, perhaps," said Mrs. Brace; "death is not always the greatest trouble that can happen to us."

Then Earle drew nearer, and a more terrible fear came over him. There were troubles worse than death! Surely not for him. Great drops stood on his brow, the veins in his hands swelled like huge cords, his lips grew white as the lips of the dead.

"Tell me what it is," cried he, in a hoarse voice. "You are killing me by inches. What is it?"

"She has gone away from us," said Mrs. Brace. "She has gone and left us."

He started back as though the words had stabbed his heart.

Mattie laid her hand on his arm. By the might of her own love she understood his fears.

"Not with any one else, Earle," she said. "Do listen to me, dear. She has not gone away with anyone else; but life here was dull for her; she did not like it; she has gone abroad to teach little children. It is not so dreadful, Earle, after all."

But he looked at her with vague, dull eyes.

"Not like the life!" he repeated. "But I am here! Dull! How could it be dull? I am here!"