A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

He looked wonderfully relieved.

"Is that all? I will soon wake her."

He applied himself vigorously to the task with so much zeal that Mattie was half deafened.

"That will do," he said, laughingly. "Doris, you heard that, I am sure."

There was no reply. Mattie laid her hand on his arm.

"Lord Linleigh," she asked, "do you see the gleam of the lamplight under the door? The night lights are still burning."

Then he looked a little startled.

"Mattie," he said, hurriedly, "young ladies live so fast nowadays; do you think Doris takes opiates of any kind – anything to make her sleep?"

"I do not think so," she replied.

Then again, with all his force, the earl called to her, and again there was no response.

"This is horrible," he said, beating with his hands on the door. "Why, Mattie, Mattie, it is like the silence of death."

"Shall you break the door open?" she asked.

"No, my dear Mattie," he said, aghast; "is there any need? There cannot be anything really serious the matter; to break open the door would be to pre-suppose something terrible. How foolish I am! There is the staircase – I had forgotten that." He stopped abruptly and turned very pale. "Surely to Heaven," he cried, "nothing has happened through that staircase door being left open? I always felt nervous over it. Stay here, Mattie; say nothing. I will run round."

As he passed hurriedly along he saw Earle, who, looking at his face, cried:

"What is the matter, Lord Linleigh?"

"Nothing," was the hurried reply, and the earl hastened on.

He passed through the hall – through the broad terrace to the staircase leading to his daughter's suit of rooms.

The door was open – he saw that at one glance – open, so that in all probability she had risen and gone out in the grounds. His heart gave a great bound of relief; she was out of doors – there could be no doubt of it; gone, probably, to enjoy one last glimpse of her home.

There was a strange feeling of oppression, a strange heaviness at his heart. He raised his hand to his brow, and wondered to feel the great drops there.

"I will go to her room," he said to himself, "she will be there soon; she is dreaming her time away, I suppose."

Yet he went very slowly. Ah, dear Heaven! what is that?

A thin, crimson stain stealing gently along the floor; a horrible crimson stain!

Great Heaven! what did it mean?

The next moment he is standing, with a white, terrible face, looking at the ghastly sight, that he is never to forget again, let him live long as he may. The lurid light of the lamps contrasts with the sweet light of day. There on the floor lies the wedding-dress, the veil and wreath – torn, destroyed – out of all shape – stained with that fearful crimson; and lying on them, her golden hair all wet and stained, her white neck bare, her dead face calm and still, was Doris – his beautiful, beloved daughter.

He uttered no cry; he fell on his knees by the fair, dead girl, and looked at her.

Murdered! dead! lying there with her heart's blood flowing round her! Dead! murdered! while he had slept!

All the sudden shock and terror of his bereavement came over him in a sudden passion of despair.

He uttered one long, low cry, and fled from the room.

CHAPTER LXXXII

HOW THE NEWS WAS TOLD

Lord Linleigh rushed from the room like one mad – he was utterly lost. That his beautiful daughter, who was to have been married that day, lay there murdered and dead, was an idea too terrible to contemplate. He fled from the place, but he could not fly from reality. How, in Heaven's name, was he to confront the mother of this unhappy girl? How was he to tell her lover? What was he to do?

For once the courage of the Studleighs – oh, fatal boast! – failed him. He sank down on the last step of that fatal staircase, white, sick, trembling, and unmanned.

"What shall I do?" he moaned to himself. "Oh, Heaven, what shall I do?"

It must be told – there was no time to lose: even now he could hear a hurried murmur, as of expectation and fear.

When he rose to return his limbs trembled like those of a little child; he was compelled to clutch the iron rail and the boughs of the trees for support. It was not sorrow – he had not realized yet that it was his daughter, his only child who lay dead – he was simply stunned with horror. The dead face, the crimson-stained hair, the bare white breast with its terrible wound, the sun shining over the ghastly scene.

The hall-door was open as he had left it, and he saw the servants hurrying on their different affairs; no murmur of dread had reached them. There was to be a wedding, and, on the strength of it, they had each of them received a handsome present. Their faces were all smiles; but one or two, passing along, looked aghast as the master of that superb mansion, with his white face and horror-stricken eyes, came in.

The library was the nearest room at hand. He went in.

"Tell Miss Brace I want to see her directly," he said.

And in a few minutes Mattie stood trembling before him.

"There is something the matter," she said, in a low voice, "and, Lord Linleigh, you are afraid to tell me what it is."

He could only hold out his hands toward her with a trembling cry:

"Oh, great Heaven! how shall I tell her?"

She knelt down by his side, and held both his hands in hers. She felt that he was trembling – the strong figure was almost falling.

"Tell me!" she cried, calmly. "I am strong; you can trust me; I will help you all I can."

The good, kindly face grew almost beautiful in its look of high, patient resolve.

He raised his haggard eyes to her face.

"Mattie!" he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Doris is dead!"

She grew very pale, but no word passed her lips; she saw that so much would depend on her; she must not lose her self-control for one minute.

"Doris is dead!" he repeated; "and that is not all – she has been foully, terribly murdered! and she was to have been married to-day!"

She was quite silent for some minutes, trying to realize the meaning of his words; then her old prayer stole to her lips: