A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

There was a strange glitter in her eyes, and a strange expression on her face.

"I did not mean to be so violent; you have driven me to it. Not that I regret destroying your wedding-dress: I would do it over again a hundred times; but I am sorry to have frightened you."

"You could not frighten me," she replied.

And if ever calm scorn was expressed by any human voice, it was by hers.

There came a lull in the storm. He stood looking partly at the ruin he had caused, partly at her. She seemed, strange to say, almost to have forgotten him. She stood where the light of the lamp fell on her disheveled hair and flushed face.

The fragrant calm of the summer night reigned unbroken outside, a calm broken only by the musical rustle of the leaves. The moon shone bright as day; its beams fell on the sleeping flowers, and silvered the waving trees; they fell, too, on the beautiful face, with its look of restless scorn.

During that moment so strangely silent she thought of Earle – Earle, whom she was to marry to-morrow – Earle, whom she would marry, let the morrow bring what it might. No matter if her wedding-dress were torn into shreds – no matter if Lord Vivianne stood with a drawn sword in his hand to bar her progress to the altar – no matter if the whole world cried out, with its clanging, brazen voice, that she was lost, she would marry him!

She turned to her enemy, with a flush on her face, a scornful light in her eyes.

"You are but a coward after all," she said, "a paltry, miserable coward! You can do me no real harm, and you cannot take me from Earle."

"You did not always think me a coward, my Lady Dora. There was a time when you delighted to sun yourself in my eyes; you have not always held aloof from me as you do now. I have held you in my arms; I have kissed your lips; I have won you as no one else will ever win you. I like to look at you and remember it; I like to dwell on my recollections of those old days. Ah! your face flushes. Let me kiss you now."

He hastened toward her, trampling in his hot haste on the torn shreds of the wedding-dress.

"Do not touch me!" she cried. "Do not come near me!"

"I have kissed you before, and I will kiss you again," he said.

"I will kill you if you dare to touch me!"

She snatched up the first thing that came to her hand; it was the long, shining, sharp knife that had been used to prune the overhanging branches.

"I will kill you," she repeated, with flaming eyes, "if you come near me!"

He laughed, but the angry blood surged into his brain. He went nearer; he seized the white hand that held the knife. The beautiful face, the white, bare neck were close to him.

"I hate you!" she hissed.

Only God, who sees all things, knows what followed. Her words, may have angered him to murder heat; his passion of love and sense of wrong may have maddened him – only God knows.

There was a struggle for one half minute, followed by a low, gasping cry:

"Oh, Heaven! I am not fit to die!"

It may have been that in the struggle the point of the knife was turned accidentally against her; but the next moment she fell to the ground, with the blade buried deep in her white breast.

The crimson life-blood flowed – it stained his hands, still grasping her – it stained the torn wedding-dress, the bridal veil – it soon formed a pool on the carpeted floor. He stood over her for a minute, stunned, horrified.

"Dora!" he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Oh, Heaven! I did not mean to kill her."'

She opened her eyes, and her white lips framed one word, half sigh, half moan – "Earle!" – and then the soul of the unhappy girl went out to meet its Judge.

He made no attempt to raise her; he stood like a man lost.

The crimson stain crept onward until it touched his feet.

"Oh, Heaven!" he cried again; "I did not mean to kill her."

Then his whole soul seemed to shrink and wither away with fear. He had killed her; it was the pallor of death blanching the lovely face; and – oh, horror! – the crimson stain had reached the golden hair.

She was dead; he had slain her in his mad frenzy. He looked at the cruel knife buried in the white flesh – he dare not touch it. He looked at the face so rapidly growing cold in death – he dare not touch it. He would have given his life to have touched those cold, dead lips, but he dare not, because he had murdered her. He clinched his strong hands in an agony that knew no words.

"Oh, Heaven!" he cried again; "I have slain her!"

He gave one hurried glance around on a scene he was never to forget – the luxurious boudoir, its hangings, its lights and flowers; the bridal costume, all torn into shreds: the crimson stain, spreading so slowly, so horribly; the beautiful dead face upraised to the light; the white breast, with its terrible wound; the quiet figure, the golden hair – and, with a moan of unutterable remorse, he turned away.

It just occurred to him that his only safety lay in flight. The door was opened that led to the spiral staircase; the next moment he was creeping along under the shadow of the wall, and Lady Doris Studleigh lay dead and alone!

CHAPTER LXXXI

THE SILENT BRIDE

"Good-night, Earle," said Lord Linleigh; "now that is really the last time. You shall not draw me into another discussion. I will not say another word. Remember you are to be married to-morrow."

"I am not likely to forget it," said Earle, with a happy laugh.

"Let us have some rest," said Lord Linleigh. "I am positively afraid to look at my watch. I know it is late."

"It is not two o'clock," said Earle; "but I will be obedient. I will say no more."

Yet they talked all the time as they went slowly up the grand staircase.

"I hope Doris will cure you of liking to sit up late," said the earl, as he stood for one moment against the door of his room.

"Hark!" said Earle, suddenly bending his head in a listening attitude. "Hark!"

"What is it?" asked Lord Linleigh.

"I fancied I heard a cry," said Earle, and the two listened intently. All was silent.

"It must have been fancy," said the earl.

"It may have been, but it really sounded like a sudden, half-choked cry."

"Some of the servants are about still. It is nothing. For the last time, good-night, Earle."

Then they parted, each going to his room; but Earle could not forget that cry.

"How foolish I am," he thought; "but I shall not rest at all unless I know that Doris is all right."

He went down the broad corridor that led to her suit of rooms; he saw that the outer door was closed; he listened, all was hushed and silent; there was not a stir, not a movement, not a sound.