A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

"My dear Mattie," was the coquettish reply, "could I look better?"

No, she could not. A white dress of Indian muslin showed every curve and line of that beautiful figure. It was open at the throat, and a lovely rose nestled against the white breast; it was relieved by dashes of blue, and the long, waving, golden hair was fastened by a single blue ribbon. No jewels, no court attire, no magnificence of dress ever became her as did this; she looked young, fresh, and fair as the dawn of a bright spring morning. No one looking at her could have guessed that the foul canker of sin had entered that young heart and soul.

"I am very happy here," she continued, languidly. "I am watching the butterflies and the flowers. Look at that one, Mattie, with the gorgeous purple wings; see, now he hovers round that tall, white lily, then he goes away to the clove carnations; he does not know which to choose. Oh, happy butterfly, to have such a choice! I wonder what it is like, Mattie, to feel quite free from care?"

They were seated under a group of white acacia trees on the lawn, and with every breath of wind the fragrant blossoms fell in a sweet shower over them; the sun shone on the rippling fountains, on the fair flowers, and on the faces of the two girls.

"Free from care!" repeated Mattie, with something like surprise. "Why, my darling, if you are not free from care, who is?"

"I was not speaking or even thinking of myself; I was merely thinking how happy all kinds of birds, and butterflies, and flowers must be to enjoy the dew, and the sunshine, and the sweet winds."

"Happy, but they have no soul, Doris."

She laughed a low, bitter laugh that pierced Mattie like the point of a sword.

"A soul!" she repeated. "I am not sure that a soul brings happiness; those who have souls have the responsibility of saving them."

"Doris, you do not deserve to be happy, for you are not good," cried Mattie; and three days afterward she remembered the words with the keenest pain.

But Lady Doris was unusually gentle; she bent down and kissed the kindly face.

"I am not good, but I am going to try to be better, dear; it seems to be part of my nature to say bad things. I am not quite sure if I always mean them. Hark, Mattie; I hear the sound of carriage wheels. Earle is coming!"

The beautiful face grew white in its intensity of feeling.

Mattie rose from her seat.

"He will like best," she said, "to meet you alone. I will tell him your are here."

It seemed to Doris that the sun shone more golden, the wind seemed to whisper more sweetly, when she heard the sound of footsteps and the voice she loved so well. The next moment strong loving arms were around her, passionate kisses fell on her face, lips and hands.

"My darling!" cried Earle. "My wife, so soon to be my wife."

It was one happy half-hour, stolen almost from paradise, for he loved her so dearly; he found heaven in her face; and she was at rest, at peace with him.

Then Lord Linleigh and Mattie came. The earl with happy smiles and merry jests; he was so glad in her joy.

"Love is very delightful," he said, "but, Doris, we must offer something substantial to a traveler; suppose we substitute cold chicken and Madeira. Then Lady Linleigh desired me to say that a most wonderful box had arrived from Paris, and she wanted you to unpack it."

Then he bent down and kissed the fair face so dear to them all.

"I can hardly believe that we are to lose you in two days, my darling," he said.

"Nor can I believe that I shall win her," said Earle. "I often have the impression that I shall wake up and find it a dream, and that Earle Moray will be in the cornfields at home."

"You are a poet," laughed the earl, "and poets are not accountable for anything."

Then they went together to lunch. Mattie knew that it was by Lady Linleigh's orders that the table was so gracefully ornamented with flowers and fruit; the pretty thought was like her. They spent perhaps one of the happiest hours of their lives together. Then Lady Linleigh said:

"Now for the Parisian box. Earle, you must be banished while that is unpacked."

The ladies went together up to Lady Linleigh's room.

"We will have no curious ladies' maids or servants," she said; "we will unpack this ourselves. The key came to me this morning by registered letter. Doris, my dear, the box and its contents are yours – you shall unpack them."

Lady Studleigh took the key and opened it. There were layers of fine white wadding and tissue paper. One by one Lady Doris raised the costly packets in her hands and laid them down. There was a bridesmaid's costume all complete, a marvel of pink and white silk, with everything to match; white silk shoes, with little pink rosettes; white bonnet, that looked as though a puff of wind would blow it away, and a costly pink plume; gloves, fan, jewels, all matched exactly, and Mattie's face grew radiant.

"All this for me! Oh, Lady Linleigh, how am I to thank you?"

"By looking your prettiest in them," laughed the countess, as she placed the fairy-like bonnet on the brown, shining hair. "I thought pink would suit you, Mattie; so it does. See how nice she looks, Doris."

Lady Studleigh kissed her foster-sister's face.

"Mattie always looks nice," she said, "just as she always looks happy and good."

Then came the bride's costume.

"You would not allow the earl and myself to show that we felt your wedding to be the happiest event of our lives," said Lady Linleigh; "but you could not prevent my intention of seeing you dressed as a bride."

Such a wedding-dress – one of Worth's most marvelous combinations of white satin and white lace – a dress fit for a queen; and it was trimmed so beautifully with wreaths of orange blossoms. There, in a pretty scented box, lay the bridal veil – such a wonder of lace, so exquisitely worked, large enough to cover a bride, yet so fine and delicate that it could be drawn through a wedding-ring. Then came the wreath of orange blossoms!

Lady Studleigh was accustomed by this time to splendor – there was little in the way of dress that could ever give her the agreeable sensation of surprise; but she uttered a little cry of admiration as she saw the elegant costly presents the countess had arranged for her. Everything was complete and beautiful, even to the little bouquet-holder, made of pure white pearls. She took Lady Linleigh's hands and kissed them.

"Are you pleased, my darling?" she asked, gently.

"Oh, Lady Linleigh, you have left me without words – quite without words! I cannot thank you."

The countess bent her head.

"Could your own mother have pleased you more?" she asked.

"No – a thousand times no!" was the sincere reply.

Then Mattie said: "Lady Linleigh, let us dress Doris in her bridal robes, so that Earle may see her."

And the countess laughed as she gave consent.

CHAPTER LXXVII

TRYING ON THE WEDDING-DRESS

"What does she look like?" cried Mattie in a passion of admiration, as they placed the bridal veil on the golden head.

"It would require a poet to tell us," said the countess; "and as we have one close at hand, we will ask him. Mattie, go and bring Earle here. Close the door after you. I should not like every one to know what we have been doing."

And presently, Earle stood before a figure that seemed to him too beautiful to be real – a tall, graceful figure that seemed to rise from the waves of white satin and lace – as a graceful flower from its stem. Through the bridal veil he caught the sheen of the golden hair – the dainty color of the face – the deep color of the violet eyes. The sweet odor of orange blossoms floated to him.

"Doris," he said, in a low voice; "my beautiful love, let me see your face."