A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

"Good-bye to the moonlight," said Earle, "to the tired flowers and shining stars, and the fair, sleeping world."

He parted with her at the foot of the broad staircase; she was going to her room.

"Good-night," said Earle, kissing the red lips; "good-night, and sweet dreams."

But when he had gone about two steps away, she called him back again. She raised her arms and clasped them round his neck; she raised her face that he might kiss it again.

"My darling Earle, my love Earle, my lover, my husband!" she said, with a passion of love in her face, "good-night."

He was half startled. He watched her as she went up the broad staircase, the white, shining silk, the gleaming opals, the golden hair, the fair, sweet face – watched her until she was out of sight; then, despite his happiness, he turned away with a sigh.

"She will be my own to-morrow, and I shall not need to feel anxious over her," he said to himself; and then he went in to smoke his cigar with the earl.

Doris called in Mattie's room and said:

"Good-night. Have you any nice book lying about here, Mattie?" she asked. "I know quite well that I shall not sleep; I do not feel the least tired."

She chose one of the volumes Mattie brought to her.

"I should like to read that story papa was telling us of," she said; "but it is in the library, and he is smoking there with Earle."

"I would not read it; a gloomy, melancholy story like that is not fit for your wedding-eve."

Doris stood with the waxen taper in her hand.

"Even," she said, "if a girl has not been quite good, even if she has been what good people call wicked, it would be cruel to kill her on her wedding-eve, would it not?"

"What a strange idea, Doris! – and how strange you look! Put that book away and go to sleep, so that Earle may see bright eyes to-morrow."

They parted, and Doris passed into her own room. According to her usual custom, she locked the door and took out the key.

The first room was her sleeping-room. She did not wait there; it was empty. She had told Eugenie, her maid, not to wait for her on that evening, as she might be late. Then came the bath and dressing-room; they also were empty, although both were brilliantly lighted. She reached the boudoir, fitted for her with such taste and luxury. The lamps were lighted, and there, on the chair where Mattie and she had so carefully placed it, lay the beautiful wedding costume. There could be no mistaking it; the veil was thrown over the dress, and the wreath of orange blossoms lay on the veil. She looked at them for some minutes in silence, thinking of the Miriam who was burned on the night of her wedding-day.

Then she opened the book and began to read. How useless it was – the letters swam before her eyes. It was her wedding-day to-morrow; after to-morrow all her cares and troubles would be over; after to-morrow all would be peace.

She lay down upon the little couch, with a long, low sigh. It was wonderful how tired and wearied she felt. She had suffered such a fever, such a torture of suspense, that the reaction of feeling that she was in perfect safety at last was too much for her. There came a fever of unrest upon her, her heart beat with terrible rapidity, her hands were like fire, her eyes and lips seemed to burn as though they had been touched by flame; she had not known until now how much she had suffered. Then she pictured Lord Vivianne coming on the twentieth and finding her married – married and gone far out of his reach! How he would rage! It would serve him right. He might tell his story then. Who would believe him? They would all think it the bitter exaggeration of a disappointed man.

Then the room seemed to grow warm, the perfume of the flowers overpowering.

"I wish," she thought, "that I had not let Eugenie go; I feel nervous and lonely to-night."

She half-debated within herself whether she should go back to Mattie or not. The sense of being thought cowardly deterred her.

There lay the moonlight, so calm, so still, so bright, streaming through the open window.

"I will go down into the grounds," she said to herself; "a walk there will refresh me, and I shall be able to rest."

She took out her watch and looked at it; it was nearly midnight.

"There will be a pale bride to-morrow," she said, "if I am not to sleep all night."

She unfastened the door that divided the room from the spiral staircase leading to the grounds. The staircase itself was almost hidden by dense green foliage and flowers; because it was so nearly hidden no one thought it dangerous; no stranger would have observed it. She went down to the grounds, it was so cool, so bright, still, and beautiful; the dew was shining on the grass, the moon and stars were shining in the sky; there was a rich odor of rare flowers; the night wind seemed to cool her heated brain; her lips grew pale and cool; the burning heat left her hands; it refreshed her.

"I will walk here for half an hour," she said, "then I shall be sleepy enough."

It struck her that she would go round to the library window, where Earle was with her father. She hoped they would not see her; but if they did, she should tell them she could not rest. Then she remembered that the earl had cautioned her never to use the spiral staircase at night lest it should be dangerous. She walked round to the side of the house. Ah! there was the light from the library-window; they were still there.

Then – her heart almost stood still – she saw the figure of a man advancing across the carriage-drive toward the great hall-door.

At midnight. Who could it be?

The moon shone full upon him; and as he drew nearer, she saw the face of her mortal enemy, her hated foe – Lord Vivianne!

CHAPTER LXXIX

WHY HE SUSPECTED

Lord Vivianne! – there was no mistake. The moon shone full in his face; she knew the impatient walk; she knew every line of his figure, and for one moment her heart almost stopped beating.

What, in the name of the most high Heaven, did he want there?

She saw him going quickly up the broad flight of steps; the moon, shining on them, made them white as snow; the light from the library window shone softly on the ground.

He had stretched out his hand to ring the bell, when, with a sudden impulse, a sudden cry, she called out:

"Stop!"

Another half-minute and she had almost flown across the lawn and stood by his side.

"Stop!" she cried again, and laying her hand on his arm; then she looked at him. "You!" she said – "is it you?"

"Yes, Lady Studleigh; there is little cause for wonder – it is the man you were about so cleverly to deceive."

"In Heaven's name," she cried, impetuously, "what has brought you here? Do not ring the bell! What has brought you to my father's house? You were not to come until the twentieth."

In her fear and agitation she lost something of her usual dignity.

"That was nicely managed," he replied, with a sneer; "you were to be married on the tenth, and I was to come on the twentieth. It was dramatically arranged, Lady Studleigh; it is very sad it should have failed."

For one moment her face grew white as with the ghastly pallor of death, her eyes grew dim, her arms fell nervously by her side. So she stood for a few minutes; then she said, in a low, hoarse voice:

"Do not ring the bell; do not arouse them; I will talk to you now. Come this way."

Side by side they walked down the broad path together; in the bewilderment of her thoughts she had but one idea – it was to keep him away from the library window.

"Now," she said, breathlessly, "let us talk here."

The moon was bright – so pitifully bright, it traced their shadows along the white stone; it seemed to rejoice in the warm night.