A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

"Not in the least," replied Earle, "she seemed very intent upon it. I think, Lord Linleigh," he added, with a laugh, "that I shall learn one thing as I grow older."

"What will that be?" asked the earl.

"Not to try to fathom the caprice of ladies, but to yield gracefully to it."

"You are a wise man," said Lord Linleigh, with a look of sincere admiration; "that is the true secret of wedded content."

While Lord Linleigh and Earle were busy at the vicarage, where it required some time and some persuasion to induce the rector to believe what they had to say, the ladies were wonderfully busy. The news spread, and as Lord Linleigh had foreseen, caused a great sensation.

Lady Studleigh to be married to-morrow! – and such a marriage – no ceremony, no gayeties, nothing at all!

Lady Linleigh had, however, considerably changed the state of affairs, by saying that the arrangements for the wedding had been hurried so as to permit of Lady Doris going abroad in August, and, before going, she intended making a handsome present to each member of the household. Their opinion was, in consequence, considerably changed.

When the earl and his household met at dinner there were much laughter and amusement – much to tell; the rector's amazement, the astonishment of every one who heard the news. The earl was in high spirits, laughing and jesting all the more that he saw his wife's gentle face growing sad and sorrowful.

"You will be gone this time to-morrow," she said. "I shall fancy I hear your voice and see your face all day, and for many long days."

"Yes," said Doris, softly, "I shall be gone this time to-morrow."

"But you will not be so very far away," said Mattie.

"No further than London," said Earle. "I like crossing the Channel; do you, Doris?"

"No, I am not a good sailor," she replied.

"Ladies seldom are," said the earl. "Estelle, I have resolved Doris' last evening with us shall be the happiest she has spent at Linleigh. We will not have one sad word."

CHAPTER LXXVIII

A MIDNIGHT VISITOR

The evening was over at last, and to Doris it had been the happiest day, perhaps, of her life. Lord Linleigh had sent to his cellars for some of his choicest wines – wines that only saw daylight when the daughters of the house were married or its heirs christened – wine that was like the nectar of the gods, golden in hue, fragrant of perfume, and exhilarating as the water of life old traditions sing of. He had ordered the dessert to be placed outside in the rose-garden.

"We will imitate the ancients," he said; "we will drink our wine to the odor of sweet flowers."

So they sat and watched the golden sun set in the west. It seemed to them it had never set in such glorious majesty before. The sky was crimson, and gold, and purple, then pale violet, and pearly gleams shone out; a soft veil seemed to shroud the western skies, and then the sun had set.

Lady Doris had sat for some time watching the sun set in silence. Suddenly she said:

"I shall never forget my last sunset."

"Your last sunset?" repeated Earle. "Do you mean that you will never see it set again?"

"No; I mean my last sunset at Linleigh. Earle, if all those strange stories of heaven are true, it must be a beautiful place; and this fair sky, with its gleaming colors, is only the wrong side after all."

The faint light died in the west, the flowers closed their tired eyes, the lovely twilight reigned soft and fragrant, the air grew almost faint with perfume from lily, from rose, from carnation; then some bird, evidently of erratic habits, began a beautiful vesper hymn, and they sat as though spell-bound.

"A night never to be forgotten," said the earl. "Doris, that little bird is singing your wedding-song."

If they could but have heard what the little bird was telling – a warning and a requiem both in one.

Doris arose and went to the tree in whose branches the bird was hidden; she raised her face to see if she could see it in the thick green leaves. As she stood there, in the light of the dying day, the earl said:

"You will have a beautiful wife, Earle."

They all looked at her as she stood there in a beautiful dress of shining white silk, with a set of opals for ornaments; her fair white arms and white neck were half shrouded in lace, her golden hair was fastened negligently with a diamond arrow and hung in shining ripples over her shoulders; the faint light showed her face, fair and beautiful as a bright star.

"You will have a beautiful wife," he repeated, thoughtfully.

And as they all saw her then, they saw her until memory reproduced no more pictures for them.

"We have a fine moonlight night," said Earle. "Doris, this time to-morrow evening we shall be leaning over the steamboat side, watching the light in the water, and the track of the huge wheels; then you will be my wife."

Lady Linleigh rose and drew her shawl round her shapely shoulders.

"We must not forget to-morrow in the happiness of to-night," she said; "it will not do to have a pale bride. I am going in."

But first she went up to the tree where Doris was standing.

"It is rather a hopeless task, Doris, to look for a bird in the growing darkness," she said; "and, my darling, I have come to wish you good-night."

Doris turned to her, and bending her graceful head, laid it on her mother's shoulder.

"It is not only good-night, but good-bye," she said; "I shall hardly see you to-morrow."

She clasped her warm, soft arms round the countess' neck.

"Good-bye, dearest Lady Linleigh," she said; "you have been very good to me; you have made home very happy for me; you have been like the dearest mother to me. Good-night; may Heaven bless you!"

Such unusual, such solemn words for her to use! The two fair faces touched each other. There was a warm, close embrace, then Lady Linleigh went away. When did she forget that parting, or the last look on that face?

"I am jealous," said Lord Linleigh, parting the branches and looking at his daughter. "I wanted the kindest good-night. What has my daughter to say to me? It is my farewell, also. To-morrow you will be Lady Moray, and I shall be forgotten."

Her heart was strangely touched and softened.

"Not forgotten by me, papa," she said; "next to Earle, I shall always love you better than any one in the world."

"Next to Earle. Well, I must be content. That is enough. Good-night, my dear and only child; may Heaven send you a happy life."

He, too, took away with him the memory of the sweet face and tender eyes; a memory never to die. He nodded to Earle.

"I must be lenient," he said, "and give you young lovers ten minutes longer. I shall be in the library, Earle. Come and smoke a cigar with me. I have something to say to you."

Mattie had gone to her room; Doris had promised to meet her there. The little bird, startled by the voices perhaps, had ceased to sing; and the lovers stood under the spreading tree alone.

"Ten minutes out here with you, my darling," said Earle; "it is like two years in paradise. How kind they are to us, Doris; how happy we shall be!"

But he had not many words. He laid the golden head on his breast, where he could see and kiss the fair face; he held the white hands in his; he could only say, over and over again, how happy they should be to-morrow. His wife to-morrow! Surely the moon had never shone upon a fairer picture or a lighter heart. The ten minutes were soon over.