A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

"You look so beautiful, my darling," he said. "How am I to tear myself away?"

"Do not look at me," she replied, "then you will go easily enough."

"Do you want me to go?" he asked, bending a spray of syringa until it rested on her head. "Do you want me to go?"

No need to pain him yet. No need to wound with the point of a pin when she was preparing a sharp sword to stab him to the heart.

"Why should I want you to go?" Doris asked, with one of those sweet, subtle smiles which fire the hearts of men.

"I am so happy," he said, after a time, "here with you in the moonlight, my darling; it seems to me that earth and heaven have no higher bliss to give me. I wish you could see yourself, Doris. The moonlight just touches your hair, and makes it something like an aureole of glory round your head; it touches your face, and makes it like a lily leaf; it shines in your eyes, and they are brighter than the stars. Oh, my darling, all the words in the world could not tell how lovely you are!"

"There is something in having a poet for a lover after all," thought Doris.

"How am I to leave you? When I go away my heart clings to you; it is as though I were drawn by cords that I could not loosen; my eyes will not gaze in any other direction. Oh, Doris, if I could tell you how I love you, if but for once I could measure the height and depth of my own wild worship, if but for once I could tell you how dearly I love you, you would be compelled, in sheerest pity, to love me in return."

"Have I not said I love you Earle?" and her voice was sweet as the cooing ring-dove. "Whatever happens to either of us, be quite sure of one thing – whatever love I have to give is given to you."

He bent down and kissed her sweet, false lips, such unutterable happiness shining in his eyes that the great pity was he did not die there and then.

She lifted her face to his.

"It is not in me," she said, "to love as some people do; but, let what may happen, I do love you, and you have all my love."

He drew the lovely face to his own.

"I should like to take you in my arms and run away with you," he said; "to take you to some lonely island or solitary desert, where no one could ever try to take you from me."

She knew perfectly well that on the morrow she had to meet her lordly lover, yet, when Earle clasped her in his arms, and drew her head on his breast, she mutely accepted his caresses.

What she said was true – she might do what she would, she might love the prestige of Lord Vivianne's rank, she might love his wealth, and what it could bring her, but the whole affection of her heart – poor, mean, and false as it was – had been given to Earle.

As she listened to his low-whispered words, she thought to herself that it was most likely for the last time. The story of woman's falseness is never pleasant to write. When Earle thought that he had detained her as long as Mark Brace would wish her to be out, he said:

"I must go, Doris; it would be just as difficult to leave you in an hour's time as now. Good-bye, my love, good-bye."

Then she raised her golden head and fair, flower-like face. She clasped her soft, white arms around his neck, and said:

"Good-bye, Earle."

It was the first voluntary caress that she had ever offered him, and his heart beat with a perfect rapture of happiness.

She turned away; false, fickle, coquette as she was, the sight of his face touched her with no ordinary pain. How he trusted, how he loved her! Heaven help him! how his whole heart, soul, and life seemed wrapped up in her.

Doris went back into the sitting-room, where honest Mark Brace sat waiting for her, and Earle walked home. He hardly knew how he reached there, the glamour of his love was strong upon him, the moonlight was so fair, the whole earth so fragrant and so beautiful; he crushed the sweet blossoms under his feet as he walked along; he had gathered the spray of syringa, and he held it to his lips; shining among the stars he saw the fair face of his love, he heard her voice in the sweet whisper of the wind; he stood bare-headed under the night sky, while he said to himself, "Heaven bless her!" And when he entered his mother's house, the look of rest on his face, the light in his eyes struck her so, that she said:

"You look very well to-night, my son. Is it poetry or love?"

He laughed gayly.

"As though you could separate the two, mother. My love is all poetry, my poetry all love."

She laid her hand on the fair clustering brow.

"I am afraid that your love is your religion, too," she said.

"I am so happy, mother! What have I done that I should win the love of that pure, young heart? Do not say that I have no religion. I feel that I could kneel all night and thank Heaven for the treasure it has sent me. I shall be a thousand times better man for my love."

But Mrs. Moray was not to be convinced. She did not see Doris with the eyes of her son; she saw the girl's faults more plainly than her virtues – her coquetry, her vanity, her pride; whereas Earle saw only that she was exceedingly beautiful, and that he loved her better than he loved his life.

"It is a terrible thing," said Mrs. Moray, slowly, "for a man to give his whole heart into the hands of a creature as you have done, Earle. Why, what would become of you if you were to lose Doris, or anything happen to interfere with your love to separate you?"

She was startled at the expression of his face; he turned to her quickly.

"Do not say anything of that kind to me, mother; the bare idea of it drives me mad! What would the reality do?"

"It is not right, Earle, to love any one after such a fashion."

"But I cannot help it, mother," he replied, with a smile, "and that is where the whole of my excuse lies."

CHAPTER XXVII

HOW SHE WAS TEMPTED

The morrow came, but there was no hesitation on the part of Doris. Perhaps Lord Vivianne could not have done a better thing for himself than giving her that diamond ring; the light of it dazzled her; it reminded her, perpetually, of what might be hers; she might have felt some little remorse or sorrow but for that; when she looked at it she forgot everything except that she could have just as many as she liked of them.

It was in the morning when she went out to meet him; she had, adroitly, sent Earle to Quainton, under the pretext that she wanted some silk and wool; no one else would interfere with her. Mrs. Brace never attempted the least interference in her actions, so that she was perfectly safe. The loveliness of her face was not dimmed by one trace of sorrow or regret, yet she had quite decided upon betraying Earle, and leaving him to break his heart, or anything else that despair might urge him to do.

To have seen her walking through the sunlit fields and lanes, no one would have thought that she calmly and coolly contemplated the most cruel treachery of which woman could be guilty.

Across the long green grass fell the shadow of her lordly lover. He was standing by the stile, and on one side lay the dark woods, on the other rose the spire of the old church at Quainton. The whole scene was so fair and tranquil, it seemed almost wonderful that treachery and sin should exist. Doris trembled when Lord Vivianne came hastily to meet her.

"I began to think you would disappoint me," he said; "every minute that I have waited has seemed like an hour to me. What should I have done if you had not come?"

He took her hand as though it belonged to him.

"Shall we go to that shady spot in the woods?" he asked; "I can talk to you more easily there."

They walked on together, she listening to his honeyed compliments, his whispered words, hardly able to decide in her own mind, which was the braver wooer, the poet or the lord. Then they reached the pretty bank where the wild thyme grew. Lord Vivianne seated himself by her side in silence, then, after a few minutes, he said:

"I have so much to say to you I hardly know where to begin. I am not quite sure of my ground with you yet; I may offend you so seriously that you will, perhaps, order me from your presence, and never speak to me again."

She thought of the diamond ring.

"It is not very probable," she said.

"I am what is called a man of the world," continued Lord Vivianne. "I make no great pretensions to principle, but I can honestly say I have never deceived any one. I always start with a clear and straightforward understanding."

"I think it is the best, decidedly," she said. Then he took her hands in his, and with his eyes fixed on her face, he continued: