A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

It was Lady Linleigh who threw back the veil, so that he might see the lovely, blushing face. Tears stood in the young lover's eyes, although he tried to control his emotion.

"Is it possible, Lady Linleigh?" he asked, "that this is my wife – that – well, I had better not say too much; you do not think I shall wake up and find it all a dream?"

"No, it is real enough."

Then he drew nearer to her.

"You will let me give you one kiss, Doris – Lady Linleigh will not be horrified. You will be Lady Moray soon. What is my poor name worth, that it should be so highly honored?"

He kissed her sweet lips.

"I must be careful," he said. "You look like a fairy. Perhaps you would vanish if a mere mortal touched you. Now, let me look at you, darling – at your dress, your veil, and your wreath. The picture is perfect. I wish that I could put it into words."

He did, afterward – into words over which all England wept. Then, for a few minutes, the three – Lady Linleigh, Mattie, and Earle – stood looking at her in silence, they hardly knew why. Then Earle said:

"When I see that pretty veil again, it will be on the head of my beloved wife."

Then they all three looked at the veil. Heaven help him! he little dreamed how and when he should see it again. If they could have had the faintest foreknowledge of that, the tragedy might have been averted.

Then Earle went away, and the bridal robes were taken to Lady Linleigh's boudoir.

"They will not be seen there," said the countess. "I will lock the door and keep the key; to-morrow it will not matter."

And Mattie helped her – poor, helpless child! – place them over a chair so that the shining robes might not be injured.

It was Earle who proposed a ramble to the woods; dinner was to be later than usual.

"Let us all three go," he said. "Mattie with us, Doris; it may be years before we meet all together so happy again."

So it was settled, and they spent the remainder of that sunny, happy day together.

They were sitting in a green, sunny dell, with the fall grass and wild flowers springing luxuriantly around them, the tall trees spreading overhead, the little birds filling the wood with song.

Lady Doris had never been so happy; she had almost forgotten the dark background of sorrow and care. Mattie was happy, for it was impossible to see them so young, so loving, with their graceful caresses and love, without rejoicing with them.

"This is like Brackenside," said Earle. "How often we have sat together in the woods there! And Mrs. Brace used to wonder how the farms would advance if they were left to us."

"And well she might wonder," said Mattie; "even when I believed Doris to be my own sister, I thought her the most beautiful, but the most useless of human beings!"

"Thank you," laughed Lady Studleigh.

"It is altogether like a fairy tale," said Earle; "if I had read such a story, I should say it was untrue; I should call such a story exaggerated; yet, here we are, the living, breathing actors in the drama."

"It is not such a very wonderful history, Earle," said Lady Studleigh; "there are many private marriages, many children brought up in ignorance of their real name and station; many a man like you – a gentleman and genius by birth – rises by the simple force of his own merit to be one of the magnates of the land."

Then she sighed to herself, and her brightness was for one moment overcast as she remembered that hers was the only part of the story that was improbable or extraordinary; no one would believe that she had been guilty as she had been.

How often, in after years, they went back to that bright, long day. Earle never saw a wild flower, or a green fern, that he did not turn from it with a sick, aching heart.

They dined together; the earl would not have any visitors; it was the last day but one of their darling, and they would have it all to themselves. There they sat in the gloaming, and Doris sang to them. Who knew the pain, the aching in one lonely heart? who knew the quiet heroism of the girl with the brown, kindly face and shining hair?

The lamps were lighted, and, Lord Linleigh, laughing to think how they had all been engrossed, drew a large parcel toward himself.

"This shows," he said, "that we have something unusual going on. This packet of periodicals has been in the library for several days, and no one has thought of opening it. It is the first time such a thing has happened."

He unfastened the string and looked through them casually. One, however, seemed to attract his attention. It was beautifully illustrated, and he laid it down with a smile.

"Read that, Doris," he said; "it contains a warning for you."

"What is the warning, papa? I would rather take it from you than from print."

"I have not read it. Look at the engraving. It is evidently the story of a bride who, on her wedding-eve, dresses herself in her bridal-robes – girlish vanity, I suppose – just to see how she looks. The wedding-dress catches fire, and she is burned to death. Moral: young ladies should never try on their wedding-dresses beforehand."

"What a tragical story!" said the countess.

"I can never see the use of such stories," said Mattie; "they make every one sad who reads them."

"Burned to death on her wedding-eve," said Earle, "and all because she wanted to see if she should be charming enough in the eyes of her lover! There is no poetic justice in that."

"What was the heroine's name, papa?" asked Doris.

"Miriam Dale. I always notice that if a heroine is to come to any pathetic end she is called Miriam."

"Did she love her lover very much?" asked Doris.

"Read the story, my dear," said the earl, indolently; "it is not much in my line. The engraving caught my attention – a beautiful, frantic girl, dressed in bridal robes and wreathed in flames. There is something terrible about it."

Doris rose from her seat and opened the book; then, after looking at the picture, she laid it down with a long, shuddering sigh.

"Stories often fail in poetic justice," she said. "If that girl was young and innocent, if she had done no wrong, why should she have been killed on her wedding-eve?"

"Stories are, after all, but sketches taken from life," said the earl, "and life often seems to us, short-seeing mortals, to fail in poetic justice, although, no doubt, everything is right and just in the sight of Heaven. Doris is growing serious over it."

"We tried her wedding-dress on this morning, but there was no fire near it, and no harm came of it."

"I am no believer in those stupid superstitions, although I have heard it is unlucky to try on a wedding-dress; still I do not believe it will make one iota of difference."

"How can it?" said Earle, calmly; and they all remembered that conversation a few hours afterward.

The ninth of August came, and Lord Linleigh, as they sat at breakfast, said laughingly:

"Now for a sensation! What will be said and thought by the different members of this establishment when it is known that there is to be a wedding to-morrow? It passes my comprehension. I promised to be patient, but it was almost cruel of you, Doris, to place me in such a predicament. I suppose I must call the principal servants together and tell them that Lady Studleigh is to be married to-morrow, without form or ceremony of any kind. There will be what the papers call a startling surprise!"

"We have plenty to do," said the countess; "there will be no time for rambles in the wood. Ulric, when you have made your announcement, will you go to the vicarage? You have arrangements to make there, and you must take Earle with you. I cannot spare Doris to him this morning."

So the gentlemen went away.

"It is a strange whim of Doris', this desire for secrecy," said the earl, as they rode along. "I must confess I do not understand it; do you?"