A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

The countess took her injured hand and gently bound it, little dreaming how it had been hurt.

After that Lord Vivianne had been very much subdued. Such an excess of hatred startled him; he could not realize it, he was half alarmed at the violence of the passion he had evoked; still no idea of yielding came to him. As he watched her, day after day, her beauty, her grace, grew more and more enchanting to him. It was not so much love as madness that possessed him; lie would not have relinquished his hold or have given her up to have saved his life.

During the remainder of his stay the countess kept keen, unwavering watch over him, but he had learned his lesson after what he had seen. How little she recked of physical pain, how careless she was of herself. He dared not venture to tease her; he felt that she was quite capable of committing murder if he drove her too far; he contented himself by saying to her when he was going:

"It is understood between us, then, Lady Studleigh, that I return on the twentieth of August for your decision."

"It is quite understood," she replied, with calm dignity.

"I hope it will be a favorable one to me, and I hope my reception will be kinder next time than it has been this."

"You will always be welcomed according to your deserts," she replied.

"I hope, above all, the poor, bruised hand will be better when I come again," he said, with a meaning smile, "and that you will not find any more snakes in those beautiful moon-lit grounds."

"It will be as well for the snakes to keep away," she said.

When he went, the little current of gayety that had come with him died away all together. Lady Linleigh was relieved when he had gone; without knowing what to suspect, she suspected something; she felt like some one walking on the brink of a volcano; but when he was gone, and a few days had passed without anything happening, she felt relieved. She had not forgotten the incident of the bruised hand; although everything else might be fancy, that was not. When Lord Vivianne bade the earl good-bye, he said:

"I have enjoyed my visit very much, Lord Linleigh; so much that if I should return by the same route about the end of August, I shall beg permission to repeat it."

The earl most cordially assured him that he would be welcome.

And so the bright summer days had worn away. To Lady Doris each one brought a fresh sensation of relief. The tenth was drawing near. Lord Vivianne was still in utter and profound ignorance of all that was transpiring. She would be married and away when he came back; how she enjoyed the thought of his discomfiture. She laughed aloud as she thought of his impotent anger.

"He may do as he likes then," she said; "I shall be Earle's wife. My fortune will be settled on me, and I shall defy him; if he tells his story then, he will not find many to believe him; Earle will not believe anything against his wife, I am sure. I must bribe some respectable family to say that I lived with them as governess in Florence. I shall conquer the difficulty when I am once married to Earle."

This was her one haven of refuge, her rock, her safe harbor from all storms; the end which she so ardently desired to gain; the one great object in life that she proposed for herself; it seemed to her all must be well then. She had written to Mattie asking her to come to Linleigh on the first of August: but so desirous was she of keeping her own secret, that she had not told her what for, and she did not tell her until they were driving in the pretty pony carriage back to the court; then she was so eager to tell her story, that she did not notice how pale the brown face had grown, or how the dark eyes looked full of unshed tears.

"So you have sent for me, Doris, to be your bridesmaid," said Mattie; "you, who might have some of the noblest and highest ladies in the land?"

"There would be none that I love like you, Mattie. We were sisters for years, you know."

Then Mattie was silent for a little time. She said to herself at first, that if she had known why Doris wanted her, she would not have gone, she would rather have done anything, have suffered anything than seen Earle married. Then she reproached herself for being selfish, and tried to throw all her heart and soul into her sister's plans.

Lady Doris wondered why Mattie suddenly kissed her face, and said:

"Heaven bless you, my darling; I hope you will be very happy. I should think, Doris, that you are the happiest girl in all the world."

"Yes," said Doris, "I think I am;" and she added to herself, bitterly, "Would to Heaven I were!"

The countess was more than kind to Mattie; in her own mind she was always thinking how to pay back to Mark Brace's daughter the kindness they had shown Doris. When the two young girls stood together in Lady Doris' dressing-room, she drew off her driving-gloves and laid them on the table; then for the first time Mattie saw the terrible bruise on the white hand; she bent down to look at it.

"What have you done to your pretty hand, Doris?" she asked. "What a frightful bruise!"

"I knocked it against something," was the vague reply. But Mattie saw the burning flush on her sister's face.

"What a pity. Now you will be married with a black, dreadful looking bruise on your hand. That will not get well in ten days."

"Sometimes I think it will never get well at all, Mattie," said Lady Doris, "it has been done some weeks already; I forget how long."

Mattie kissed the dark skin, and Lady Doris shuddered as she remembered whose lips had rested on that hand before.

"When is Earle coming?" she asked, and Lady Doris answered:

"On the eighth, he cannot leave London before, you have no idea what a famous man he is becoming Mattie."

She was glad to hear it; yet the old familiar prayer rose to her lips. Without knowing why, she said to herself: "Heaven save Earle!"

CHAPTER LXXVI

"I SHALL WAKE UP AND FIND IT A DREAM."

The eighth of August! When had any day so beautiful shone before? It was as though the birds had woke earlier to sing. How the sun was shining and the flowers blooming! Lady Doris opened her eyes to the fairest and loveliest day that had ever dawned.

"Earle is coming to-day!" was her first thought.

"Earle is coming!" sung the birds.

"Earle is coming!" whispered the wind, as it stirred the sweet green leaves. She had rested well; for it seemed to her now that her troubles were nearly ended. In two more days she would be his wife; then, who could touch her, what evil could come to her?

Earle was to be at Linleigh by noon. The hours would roll so swiftly, so sweetly by until then. Only two days! She sung to herself sweet little snatches of love songs. While she was dressing she looked at herself in wonder; could it be the same Doris who once thought nothing on earth of any value except money and grandeur? Could she have so mingled her love and life into another's as almost to have lost her own identity, and to think of nothing except Earle?

"I never thought that I should be so much in love," she said, to herself. "How strange it seems!"

She did not quite understand herself. It was not that she loved Earle so passionately; the capability of great love was not hers. It was not that; it was that Earle, the master-mind, had, by the force and nobility of his own character, completely influenced her, and had won a complete ascendency over her. She had not much power of loving; what she had was his. But Earle represented peace, happiness, and prosperity to her – Earle was her sure haven of rest, her shield against all evil, her refuge against her direst enemy and bitter foe, Lord Vivianne.

So, welcome, bright, sunny day! – welcome golden sun and sweet flowers!

The post brought her her daily love-letter; but it was brief. It said simply:

"I cannot write much to my darling. I shall see her to-day, and, in two days more, she will be mine until death parts us."

He thought of the words when he saw them again.

Every face wore its brightest look at the breakfast-table that day. The earl and countess were happy in their beautiful daughter's happiness; Mattie, because she entered so easily into the joy of others.

"Doris," said Mattie, "will you come out? We shall have just time for a stroll in the woods before Earle comes."

Lady Doris laughed.

"I really cannot, Mattie. The spirit of unrest is on me, I cannot go anywhere or do anything until I have seen Earle."

"Have you decided yet about your wedding-dress?" asked Mattie. "This strange caprice of silence makes me afraid to speak; but, silence or not, it is high time that it was seen about."

Lady Doris laughed.

"I am so amused at myself, Mattie," she said. "If any one had ever told me, some years, even some months since, that I should be quite indifferent over my wedding-dress, I would not have believed it."

"But why are you indifferent?" asked Mattie. "I cannot understand. Is it because you are not marrying a nobleman – is it because you are marrying Earle?"

"No," was the reply. "You can believe me or not, Mattie, just as you please, but I assure you I am more proud in marrying Earle than if I were marrying a king."

"So I should imagine. Earle is a king; then why this strange desire for secrecy?"

The beautiful eyes were raised wistfully to her face.

"I may tell you, perhaps, some day, Mattie, but not now, dear – not now. You will marry some good, kindly man, Mattie – some one like yourself, who never knew the fiery heat of temptation; who has always kept – as you have kept – his eyes on Heaven; then, some day, dear, when you are sitting with your little children around you, I shall come to you – world-worn and weary, perhaps, who knows! – longing to lay my head in the clover grass, and then I may tell you all – but not now."

"Then there is a secret?" said Mattie, gently.

"Yes," was the wary reply, "there is a secret."

The words seemed half forced from her.

"Does Earle know it?" asked Mattie.

"No, and never will. Do not talk to me, dear; you have been my sister many years, and I love you very much; if ever I seek a confidante it will be you. You need not be anxious over my wedding-dress, Mattie. Lady Linleigh has presented me with my trousseau, and she tells me that no royal princess ever had a more sumptuous one; she told me also that a box would come from Paris to-day, for you and for me; rely upon it, that will contain my wedding-dress."

"How kind Lady Linleigh is to you," said Mattie. "I do not think your own mother could love you better."

"I do not think she would love me half so much," was the laughing reply. Then, in the warm, sunlit air, they heard the sharp clang of the clock – eleven. "He will be here in an hour," said Doris.

"Shall you not go and change your dress?" asked the simple little foster-sister. "I thought great ladies always dressed very grandly to receive their lovers."

"My dear Mattie," was the coquettish reply, "could I look better?"

No, she could not. A white dress of Indian muslin showed every curve and line of that beautiful figure. It was open at the throat, and a lovely rose nestled against the white breast; it was relieved by dashes of blue, and the long, waving, golden hair was fastened by a single blue ribbon. No jewels, no court attire, no magnificence of dress ever became her as did this; she looked young, fresh, and fair as the dawn of a bright spring morning. No one looking at her could have guessed that the foul canker of sin had entered that young heart and soul.

"I am very happy here," she continued, languidly. "I am watching the butterflies and the flowers. Look at that one, Mattie, with the gorgeous purple wings; see, now he hovers round that tall, white lily, then he goes away to the clove carnations; he does not know which to choose. Oh, happy butterfly, to have such a choice! I wonder what it is like, Mattie, to feel quite free from care?"

They were seated under a group of white acacia trees on the lawn, and with every breath of wind the fragrant blossoms fell in a sweet shower over them; the sun shone on the rippling fountains, on the fair flowers, and on the faces of the two girls.

"Free from care!" repeated Mattie, with something like surprise. "Why, my darling, if you are not free from care, who is?"

"I was not speaking or even thinking of myself; I was merely thinking how happy all kinds of birds, and butterflies, and flowers must be to enjoy the dew, and the sunshine, and the sweet winds."

"Happy, but they have no soul, Doris."

She laughed a low, bitter laugh that pierced Mattie like the point of a sword.

"A soul!" she repeated. "I am not sure that a soul brings happiness; those who have souls have the responsibility of saving them."

"Doris, you do not deserve to be happy, for you are not good," cried Mattie; and three days afterward she remembered the words with the keenest pain.

But Lady Doris was unusually gentle; she bent down and kissed the kindly face.

"I am not good, but I am going to try to be better, dear; it seems to be part of my nature to say bad things. I am not quite sure if I always mean them. Hark, Mattie; I hear the sound of carriage wheels. Earle is coming!"

The beautiful face grew white in its intensity of feeling.

Mattie rose from her seat.

"He will like best," she said, "to meet you alone. I will tell him your are here."

It seemed to Doris that the sun shone more golden, the wind seemed to whisper more sweetly, when she heard the sound of footsteps and the voice she loved so well. The next moment strong loving arms were around her, passionate kisses fell on her face, lips and hands.

"My darling!" cried Earle. "My wife, so soon to be my wife."

It was one happy half-hour, stolen almost from paradise, for he loved her so dearly; he found heaven in her face; and she was at rest, at peace with him.

Then Lord Linleigh and Mattie came. The earl with happy smiles and merry jests; he was so glad in her joy.

"Love is very delightful," he said, "but, Doris, we must offer something substantial to a traveler; suppose we substitute cold chicken and Madeira. Then Lady Linleigh desired me to say that a most wonderful box had arrived from Paris, and she wanted you to unpack it."

Then he bent down and kissed the fair face so dear to them all.

"I can hardly believe that we are to lose you in two days, my darling," he said.

"Nor can I believe that I shall win her," said Earle. "I often have the impression that I shall wake up and find it a dream, and that Earle Moray will be in the cornfields at home."

"You are a poet," laughed the earl, "and poets are not accountable for anything."

Then they went together to lunch. Mattie knew that it was by Lady Linleigh's orders that the table was so gracefully ornamented with flowers and fruit; the pretty thought was like her. They spent perhaps one of the happiest hours of their lives together. Then Lady Linleigh said:

"Now for the Parisian box. Earle, you must be banished while that is unpacked."

The ladies went together up to Lady Linleigh's room.

"We will have no curious ladies' maids or servants," she said; "we will unpack this ourselves. The key came to me this morning by registered letter. Doris, my dear, the box and its contents are yours – you shall unpack them."

Lady Studleigh took the key and opened it. There were layers of fine white wadding and tissue paper. One by one Lady Doris raised the costly packets in her hands and laid them down. There was a bridesmaid's costume all complete, a marvel of pink and white silk, with everything to match; white silk shoes, with little pink rosettes; white bonnet, that looked as though a puff of wind would blow it away, and a costly pink plume; gloves, fan, jewels, all matched exactly, and Mattie's face grew radiant.

"All this for me! Oh, Lady Linleigh, how am I to thank you?"

"By looking your prettiest in them," laughed the countess, as she placed the fairy-like bonnet on the brown, shining hair. "I thought pink would suit you, Mattie; so it does. See how nice she looks, Doris."

Lady Studleigh kissed her foster-sister's face.

"Mattie always looks nice," she said, "just as she always looks happy and good."

Then came the bride's costume.

"You would not allow the earl and myself to show that we felt your wedding to be the happiest event of our lives," said Lady Linleigh; "but you could not prevent my intention of seeing you dressed as a bride."

Such a wedding-dress – one of Worth's most marvelous combinations of white satin and white lace – a dress fit for a queen; and it was trimmed so beautifully with wreaths of orange blossoms. There, in a pretty scented box, lay the bridal veil – such a wonder of lace, so exquisitely worked, large enough to cover a bride, yet so fine and delicate that it could be drawn through a wedding-ring. Then came the wreath of orange blossoms!

Lady Studleigh was accustomed by this time to splendor – there was little in the way of dress that could ever give her the agreeable sensation of surprise; but she uttered a little cry of admiration as she saw the elegant costly presents the countess had arranged for her. Everything was complete and beautiful, even to the little bouquet-holder, made of pure white pearls. She took Lady Linleigh's hands and kissed them.

"Are you pleased, my darling?" she asked, gently.

"Oh, Lady Linleigh, you have left me without words – quite without words! I cannot thank you."

The countess bent her head.

"Could your own mother have pleased you more?" she asked.

"No – a thousand times no!" was the sincere reply.

Then Mattie said: "Lady Linleigh, let us dress Doris in her bridal robes, so that Earle may see her."

And the countess laughed as she gave consent.

CHAPTER LXXVII

TRYING ON THE WEDDING-DRESS

"What does she look like?" cried Mattie in a passion of admiration, as they placed the bridal veil on the golden head.

"It would require a poet to tell us," said the countess; "and as we have one close at hand, we will ask him. Mattie, go and bring Earle here. Close the door after you. I should not like every one to know what we have been doing."

And presently, Earle stood before a figure that seemed to him too beautiful to be real – a tall, graceful figure that seemed to rise from the waves of white satin and lace – as a graceful flower from its stem. Through the bridal veil he caught the sheen of the golden hair – the dainty color of the face – the deep color of the violet eyes. The sweet odor of orange blossoms floated to him.

"Doris," he said, in a low voice; "my beautiful love, let me see your face."

It was Lady Linleigh who threw back the veil, so that he might see the lovely, blushing face. Tears stood in the young lover's eyes, although he tried to control his emotion.

"Is it possible, Lady Linleigh?" he asked, "that this is my wife – that – well, I had better not say too much; you do not think I shall wake up and find it all a dream?"

"No, it is real enough."

Then he drew nearer to her.

"You will let me give you one kiss, Doris – Lady Linleigh will not be horrified. You will be Lady Moray soon. What is my poor name worth, that it should be so highly honored?"

He kissed her sweet lips.

"I must be careful," he said. "You look like a fairy. Perhaps you would vanish if a mere mortal touched you. Now, let me look at you, darling – at your dress, your veil, and your wreath. The picture is perfect. I wish that I could put it into words."

He did, afterward – into words over which all England wept. Then, for a few minutes, the three – Lady Linleigh, Mattie, and Earle – stood looking at her in silence, they hardly knew why. Then Earle said:

"When I see that pretty veil again, it will be on the head of my beloved wife."

Then they all three looked at the veil. Heaven help him! he little dreamed how and when he should see it again. If they could have had the faintest foreknowledge of that, the tragedy might have been averted.

Then Earle went away, and the bridal robes were taken to Lady Linleigh's boudoir.

"They will not be seen there," said the countess. "I will lock the door and keep the key; to-morrow it will not matter."

And Mattie helped her – poor, helpless child! – place them over a chair so that the shining robes might not be injured.

It was Earle who proposed a ramble to the woods; dinner was to be later than usual.

"Let us all three go," he said. "Mattie with us, Doris; it may be years before we meet all together so happy again."

So it was settled, and they spent the remainder of that sunny, happy day together.

They were sitting in a green, sunny dell, with the fall grass and wild flowers springing luxuriantly around them, the tall trees spreading overhead, the little birds filling the wood with song.

Lady Doris had never been so happy; she had almost forgotten the dark background of sorrow and care. Mattie was happy, for it was impossible to see them so young, so loving, with their graceful caresses and love, without rejoicing with them.

"This is like Brackenside," said Earle. "How often we have sat together in the woods there! And Mrs. Brace used to wonder how the farms would advance if they were left to us."

"And well she might wonder," said Mattie; "even when I believed Doris to be my own sister, I thought her the most beautiful, but the most useless of human beings!"

"Thank you," laughed Lady Studleigh.

"It is altogether like a fairy tale," said Earle; "if I had read such a story, I should say it was untrue; I should call such a story exaggerated; yet, here we are, the living, breathing actors in the drama."

"It is not such a very wonderful history, Earle," said Lady Studleigh; "there are many private marriages, many children brought up in ignorance of their real name and station; many a man like you – a gentleman and genius by birth – rises by the simple force of his own merit to be one of the magnates of the land."

Then she sighed to herself, and her brightness was for one moment overcast as she remembered that hers was the only part of the story that was improbable or extraordinary; no one would believe that she had been guilty as she had been.

How often, in after years, they went back to that bright, long day. Earle never saw a wild flower, or a green fern, that he did not turn from it with a sick, aching heart.

They dined together; the earl would not have any visitors; it was the last day but one of their darling, and they would have it all to themselves. There they sat in the gloaming, and Doris sang to them. Who knew the pain, the aching in one lonely heart? who knew the quiet heroism of the girl with the brown, kindly face and shining hair?

The lamps were lighted, and, Lord Linleigh, laughing to think how they had all been engrossed, drew a large parcel toward himself.

"This shows," he said, "that we have something unusual going on. This packet of periodicals has been in the library for several days, and no one has thought of opening it. It is the first time such a thing has happened."

He unfastened the string and looked through them casually. One, however, seemed to attract his attention. It was beautifully illustrated, and he laid it down with a smile.

"Read that, Doris," he said; "it contains a warning for you."

"What is the warning, papa? I would rather take it from you than from print."

"I have not read it. Look at the engraving. It is evidently the story of a bride who, on her wedding-eve, dresses herself in her bridal-robes – girlish vanity, I suppose – just to see how she looks. The wedding-dress catches fire, and she is burned to death. Moral: young ladies should never try on their wedding-dresses beforehand."

"What a tragical story!" said the countess.

"I can never see the use of such stories," said Mattie; "they make every one sad who reads them."

"Burned to death on her wedding-eve," said Earle, "and all because she wanted to see if she should be charming enough in the eyes of her lover! There is no poetic justice in that."

"What was the heroine's name, papa?" asked Doris.

"Miriam Dale. I always notice that if a heroine is to come to any pathetic end she is called Miriam."

"Did she love her lover very much?" asked Doris.