A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

"I watched him. No sooner had I gone away, than he hastened to the shop. I said to myself, what could he possibly want there? what could he want to buy that he would not let me see? Then I went into the shop after him. It is a large place, and I stood where I could both hear and see him without being seen or heard. Innocently enough – I laugh when I think of it – he asked for a case of wedding-rings; he wanted the best, of solid gold. That was to hold you, my lady. It would require a strong ring to make you all his, would it not? He asked for the best – poor, deluded fool!"

Her white face and glittering eyes might have warned him; but they did not.

"He chose the ring, evidently having the size by heart. Then he asked to see some pearl lockets. He selected one, and asked for a certain motto to be engraved on it. But he asked again when it could be done. They told him in two days. This did not suit him; he must have it in a few hours; he was leaving town to-morrow. They asked if he would leave it and they would try. He replied, 'No; that he wanted both ring and locket on the tenth.' And then he left the shop. I need not tell you how that startled me. Why should he want a wedding-ring on the tenth. Then – I can hardly tell you how it was – a certain suspicion entered my mind that the wedding-ring and locket were for you!"

"My poor Earle!" she said, with a long, low sigh.

"I secured the services of some one whom I knew to be clever, trustworthy, and keen. We watched your friend, and found that he was making preparations for a long absence, and that he was going abroad. Still, I must confess, I was not prepared to hear that he had started yesterday, and had taken a first-class ticket to Anderley. It did not require a genius, you know, to put all these strange coincidences together. I guessed in one moment that you were playing me false. I should have been here before, but that an imperative engagement kept me in town. I started at noon to-day, and, owing to some mistake in the trains, did not reach Anderley until too late to take a fly, a cab, or horse, or anything else. I was compelled to walk here, and that accounts for my delay, for my late visit. Now I am here."

She looked steadily at him.

"Yes," she said, "you are here. What do you want?"

CHAPTER LXXX

WHAT HAPPENED AFTER MIDNIGHT

"My demands are few, Lady Studleigh. You are to be married to-morrow to Earle Moray, according to your arrangement; according to mine, nothing of the sort will happen, but you will give your poet his dismissal, and marry me instead."

"I shall do nothing of the kind, my lord," she replied.

"Yes, you will. You will find that alternative, bad as it is, better than the fate that awaits you if you refuse. I grant that it is a thousand pities matters have gone so far; it is your own fault; you will find yourself in a great dilemma: you should have been more straightforward. To-morrow, instead of being married, you must tell the earl, your father, who indulges you so absurdly in everything, that you have altered your mind; that there will be no wedding, after all. He cannot possibly be surprised at any caprice of yours. It will cause no alteration in any one's plans, as no one has been told of the marriage."

"You have planned it all easily," she said, haughtily.

"Yes, when one sees such determined opposition to a settled plan, it is time to make arrangements. I must confess that, coming along, I planned it all, so as to give you the least trouble."

"You are, indeed, kind," she said, sarcastically.

"Ah, my lady, I do not mind your sneers; not the least in the world. You must send for the earl in the morning; tell him the wedding must be deferred, that you have been thinking matters over, and you have come to the conclusion that your happiness is at stake. If you do not like to stay here after such a grand expose, then ask him to take you abroad, or anywhere else. I will join you in a few weeks. Then my wooing can begin, and I will marry you."

She laughed a mocking, bitter, satirical laugh, that drove him half mad.

"I shall do nothing of the kind," she said. "Now for your alternative."

"If you refuse, I shall go away now. To-morrow I shall return, and, before the man who is to be your husband, before your parents and friends, I will tell what you were to me, and what my claim on you is."

"Very well," she replied, calmly; "I accept the alternative; tell them. I cannot answer for the earl and countess; what they will do is, of course, a mystery to me; but Earle will forgive me, I feel quite sure of it; he loves me so dearly, he will forgive me and make me his wife. You will have proved yourself a villain and coward for nothing."

"Earle will never marry you," he said; "no man in his senses would, when he knows what I can tell him."

"I will risk it," she replied. "Do you know that it is even a relief to me that the worst is come? I do not know what I have dreaded, but I am quite sure of one thing – you will do your worst, and you have told me what it is. Let the sword fall: it has hung over my head long enough. Earle loves me. Earle is just as noble and generous as you are the reverse. Earle is forgiving; he will be hurt and angry, but when I tell him how vain I was, and how you tempted me, he will forgive me."

"I do not think so, Lady Studleigh."

"Because you do not know him; you judge him by yourself. Even if he refuses to pardon me at first, if he thinks me beyond forgiveness. I will be patient and humble, and wait. He will love me again in time, and my sorrow will purify me from my sin."

A tender beautiful light came over her white face, a sweet smile played round her lips. She raised her eyes fearlessly to his.

"You see," she said, "how little you can do, after all. You might kill me, but you could not bend my pride; you could not incline my heart to one loving thought of you."

"So I perceive. Then you positively prefer open shame and disgrace, the scorn and mocking of the world?"

"Yes," she said; "I prefer it."

"You must hate me very much, Lady Studleigh."

Sudden passion flamed in her eyes.

"I do, indeed," she replied. "No woman ever hated man more."

"And yet I love you."

She turned from him with an air of haughtiest indignation. He followed her. Suddenly his eyes fell upon the white glittering bridal costume.

"What is that?" he cried, and his whole face worked with fury, indignation and anger.

Before she could interfere to stop him, he had taken the wreath and veil in his hands. He laughed as he held them in derision.

"Oh, fair, pure and spotless bride!" he cried; "well may they robe you in bridal white, hide your face with a bridal veil, crown you with orange blossoms! They will do well."

She made a step forward and would have taken the veil from his hands, but he would not release it.

"See," he cried, "how I serve your bridal veil! I would do the same to your heart, and his, if I could."

His face was transformed with rage, his eyes flashed fire, sudden fury leaped from his heart to his lips, sudden murder sprung like a flame of fire that seemed to scorch him.

He tore the beautiful veil into shreds, he trampled it under foot, he stamped on it in the violence of his rage and anger.

"So I would serve you!" he cried; "so I would serve him if I could!"

She drew back as his violence increased; not frightened – she was physically too brave for that; but wondering where it would lead him to, what he would do or say next.

"You are the falsest woman under heaven!" he cried. "You ought not to live; you are a mortal enemy of man!"

A weaker or more cowardly woman would have taken alarm and have cried out for help; but she did not know fear. If she had but given the least alarm, there were brave hearts near who would have shed their last drop of blood in her defense, who would have died over and over again for her; but she stood still, with a calm, sorrowful smile on her face.

"So much for your veil!" he cried, with a mocking sneer. "Now for the wreath!"

He took the pretty, scented flowers from the box, where loving hands had so gently laid them, and crushed them into a shapeless, dead heap.

"That will never lie on your golden hair, my Lady Studleigh," he said.

She made no effort to save the pretty wreath; his furious violence dismayed her and made her mute. She saw him stamp on the orange blossoms that should on the morrow have crowned her; she saw them lie crushed, torn, destroyed at his feet, and she looked on in a kind of trance. To her it was like a wild, weird, dark dream.

Then he took the costly wedding-dress, with its rich trimmings of white lace, and he laughed as he tore it asunder, flinging it under his feet; then pausing to look on his work of destruction with a smile.

"There will be no wedding to-morrow, fair lady," he said. "Ah, Dora, why have you driven me mad? why have you unmanned me? why have you made me ashamed of myself?"