A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

"We must try to spare Earle," she said. "Heaven save Earle!"

Lord Linleigh caught hold of her.

"Mattie," he said, in a low, gasping voice, quite unlike his own, "I have not realized yet that it is my child, Doris; I can only understand a murder has been done. Have I lost my reason?"

"No. You must be brave," she said. "Think of Lady Linleigh. Such a blow is enough to kill her."

His head fell on his hands, with a low moan.

"You do not know – you do not know all," he said.

Just at that moment they heard the voice of Lady Estelle in the hall. He started up, everything forgotten except the wife he loved so dearly, the mother whose child lay dead.

"Do one thing for me, Mattie," he gasped. "Go to her – on some pretext or other – take her to her own room; she must not see, she must not know. Keep her there; I must tell Earle."

Mattie hastened to obey him. Lady Estelle was speaking to one of the servants in the hall.

"Mattie," she said, "I do not understand this delay. If some one does not hurry matters a little, we shall have no wedding to-day."

Then the girl's anxious face and pale lips struck her.

"Surely," she said, "there is nothing wrong! Has Doris changed her mind?"

"No, dear Lady Linleigh: she is not quite well; and probably there will be no wedding to-day. I want you to come with me to your own room – I want to talk to you."

"I shall go to Doris," said the countess: "if she is not well, my place is with her."

But Mattie caught her hands, and the countess, always yielding, went with her.

"Is she really ill, Mattie? Is it some terrible fever – some terrible plague? Never mind – I will go and kiss it from her lips; I must be with her."

The poor lady wrung her hands in a paroxysm of despair; her face quivered with grief. Mattie tried all that was possible to console her. What could she do? It was the heartbroken cry of a mother for a child; but she could not tell.

"We must be patient, dear lady," she said, "and wait until Lord Linleigh sends or comes."

She persuaded the countess to lie on the couch. She complied, trembling, weeping.

"You must be hiding something from me," she said. "She was to have been married this morning. Oh, Mattie, tell me what it is?"

Mattie Brace passed through many hours of sorrow and sadness, but none so dark as that which she spent shut up with Lady Linleigh. She could hear the sound of hurried footsteps. Once or twice she heard a cry of fear or dismay. She heard the rapid galloping of horses, and she knew that they were gone in search of the doer of the deed. Yet all that time she had to sit with assumed calm by the side of Lady Estelle. No one came near them. The silence of death seemed to reign over that part of the house; while from Mattie's heart, if not from her lips, went every minute the prayer:

"Heaven save Earle!"

What had passed was like a terrible dream to all those who shared in it. Lord Linleigh had gone in search of Earle. He found him busied in his preparations; happy and light of heart, as he was never to be again. He turned with a musical laugh to the earl.

"We have just ten minutes," he said. "I hope Doris is ready."

Then the smile died on his lips, for he caught one glimpse of the white face and terrified eyes. With one bound he had cleared the distance between them, and stood impatiently clutching Lord Linleigh's arm.

"What is that in your face?" he cried. "What is it? What is the matter?"

"Heaven help you, my poor boy!" said the earl, in a broken voice. "It would seem better to take away your life at once than to tell what I have to tell."

"Doris is ill. She – no – she cannot have changed her mind again – she cannot have gone away!"

"You will not be married to-day," said the earl, sadly. "My poor Earle."

"I cannot believe it," he cried. "Is Heaven so cruel; would God let that sun shine – those birds sing – those sweet flowers bloom? Yes, kill me, slay me, take my love away. I will not believe it."

"Hush," said the earl, laying his hand on the quivering lips; "hush, my poor Earle. Whatever happens, we must not rail against Heaven."

"It is not Heaven," he cried. "I tell you, God would not do it. He would not take my darling from me. You are afraid to say what has happened. I know she has gone away and left me, as she did before. Oh! my love, my love! you shall not cheat me! I will follow you over the wide world; I will find you, and love you, and make you my own! Oh! speak to me, for mercy's sake! Speak – has she gone?"

"My dear Earle, I do not know how to tell you, words seem to fail me. Try to bear it like a man, though it is hard to bear – Doris is dead!"

He saw the young lover's face grow gray as with the pallor of death.

"Dead?" he repeated, slowly – "dead!"

"Yes; but that is not all. She has been – you must bear it bravely, Earle – she has been cruelly murdered!"

He repeated the word with the air of one who did not thoroughly understand.

"Murdered! Doris! You cannot be speaking earnestly. Who could, who would murder her?"

Lord Linleigh saw that he must give him time to realize, to understand, and they both sat in silence for some minutes, that ghastly gray pallor deepening on the young lover's face. Suddenly the true meaning of the words occurred to him, and he buried his face in his hands with a cry that Lord Linleigh never forgot. So they remained for some time; then Lord Linleigh touched him gently.

"Earle," he said, "you have all your life to grieve in. We have two things to do now."

The white lips did not move, but the haggard eyes seemed to ask, "What?"

"We have to bury her and avenge her; we have to find out who murdered her while we slept so near."

The word murder seemed to come home to him then in its full significance; his face flushed, a flame of fire came into his eyes. He clutched the earl's hand as with an iron grasp.

"I was bewildered," he said. "I did not really understand. Do you mean that some one has killed Doris?"

"Yes; she lies in her own room there, with a knife in her white breast. Listen, Earle: I have my own theory, my own idea. I was always most uncomfortable about that staircase; the door opens right into her room. I have so often begged of her to be sure and keep it locked. I fancy that, by some oversight, the door was left open, and some one, intent on stealing her jewelry, perhaps, made his way to her room. She was no coward; she would try to save it; she would, perhaps, defy and exasperate the burglar, and he, in sudden fury, stabbed her; then, frightened at his own deed, he hastened away. There are signs of a struggle in the room, but I cannot say if there is anything missing."

"I must go to her," said Earle.

"Nay," replied Lord Linleigh, gently; "the sight will kill you."

"Then let me die – I have nothing to live for now! Oh, my darling! my dear lost love!"

He knelt down on the ground, sobbing like a child. Lord Linleigh stole away gently, leaving him there.

In another five minutes the whole household was aroused, and the dismay, the fear, the consternation could never be told in words.