Kitabı oku: «A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette», sayfa 29

CHAPTER LXIV
A TERRIBLE TRIAL

"Earle," said Lady Doris, "it seems so long since you left me."

She was standing in the ball-room with the countess. Her late partner, Lord Vivianne, had gone to fulfill his engagement elsewhere.

"It seems so long," she repeated.

And Earle, who knew every tone of her voice, detected something unusually sad in it. His face grew bright with happiness that she had missed him.

"I saw you dancing with the gentleman who admired you so greatly the other evening," he replied. "You seemed so interested in his conversation that I never dreamed you would miss me."

"He has tried me so, Earle," she said, gently. "Before I can enjoy myself again, I must go somewhere and rest for a few minutes. Where shall we go?"

Earle silently placed the little white hand on his arm, and led the way to a brilliantly-lighted conservatory, where the rippling of the fountain mingled with the songs of tamed birds. There was no one else in that spacious fragrant place. He drew a chair to one of the fountains and placed her in it. She drew a deep breath of unutterable relief, as one who had passed through mortal peril and escaped it. Looking at her, Earle saw that her beautiful face was ghastly white; the eyes she raised to him were dim and shadowed with horror.

"Earle," she said, with a faint attempt at a smile, "I do not look much like the belle of the ball now, do I?"

He was full of concern.

"Not much," he replied. "What is the matter, darling? – what has made you ill? I have thought so often lately that you looked ill and unlike yourself."

She tried to smile, but the expression on her face belied the smile.

"I never did faint in my life," she said – "it is an achievement quite beyond me – but I feel much inclined to do the deed now. Earle, fetch some brandy for me."

"Brandy!" he repeated. "Wine would be better, my darling; brandy is very strong."

"Wine tastes like water," she said. "I want something that is all fire – all fire! to make me strong. Be quick, Earle – be quick! I have to dance with Prince Poermal before supper. I would not be seen looking like this for all the wide world!"

"I do not like leaving you alone," said Earle.

"No one will come here," she said impatiently. "That is the 'Elisir d'Amor' waltz – no one will miss us. Go quickly, Earle."

He bent down and kissed the pale face, then he went quickly to the buffet, poured some brandy in a small glass and carried it to her. She sat just as he had left her – the white arms had fallen listlessly by her side, the white blossoms with the golden bells lay at her feet. Earle thought she looked like some one whose whole strength had been expended in a dire struggle.

"Doris," he said, gently, "drink this dear."

She raised her head and drank the brandy as though it had been so much water. He looked at her in wonder. Then the color slowly returned to her face.

"I understand, Earle," she said, "now, for the first time, why people take to drinking."

There was something so strange in her manner that Earle felt almost frightened.

"Do not talk in that fashion, my darling," he said. "I cannot endure to hear you. Sweet lips like yours should not utter such words."

She laughed; her lips were quite red now, and there was color in her face.

"I can understand it," she repeated, laughingly. "When you brought that to me I was almost dead – it seemed to me that all strength had left me, all the life in me was freezing; now I am warm, living, and well. The next time I feel ill I shall take brandy."

He did not know whether she were laughing or not, whether she meant the words seriously or not, but they impressed him most disagreeably.

"Doris," he said, gravely, "never do that. You are only jesting, I know, dear, and this unhealthy style of life will soon be over for you. You exhaust your strength by over-doses of gayety and excitement. Do not fly to stimulants to restore it; you could not do anything more fatal."

She laughed.

"Of course I am jesting. This is a rest to sit here with you. Lord Vivianne tired me so dreadfully." She shuddered as with cold, and laid her head back on the chair. "How is it, Earle, that some people are so disagreeable and others so nice?"

Earle laughed, so happy to think that she called him nice.

"Which is Lord Vivianne?" he asked.

"Oh, disagreeable, you may be sure of that. See how he has tired me."

"But the world in general considers him a very agreeable man," said Earle.

"I do not. We will not talk of him. Say something very loving and very pleasant to me, Earle, that will send all tiresome thoughts out of my mind."

"You have no right with tiresome thoughts. What are they? Tell me them," he said.

She laughed, but the laugh was a sigh.

"What tiresome thoughts can I have, Earle, except that I regret youth and pleasure are not immortal? I can have no other. Say something loving to me, Earle."

He bent over her and whispered words that brought a sweet, bright blush to her face; then she stood up.

"Now give me my flowers, Earle."

He did so, shaking the little golden bells.

"Do I look bright and brilliant again?" she asked – "like the belle of the ball?"

"Yes, bright as the morning star."

"Now for Prince Poermal and some sugared German compliments," she said.

And they returned to the ball-room.

The prince, all smiles, all gallantry, all devotion, came up to claim her hand. Earle watched her as she danced with him; she was all smiles, all brightness, all light. She talked gayly, she laughed, and the prince appeared to be charmed with her.

Earle wondered more and more. Was it possible this brilliant, beautiful girl was the one he had seen so short a time before, white, cold, and silent, as though some terrible trouble lay over her. He saw what universal admiration she excited; how many admiring glances followed her; he saw that in that brilliant assembly there was no one to compare with her, and he wondered at his own good fortune in winning so peerless a creature. Yet he felt that there was something strange about her, something that he could not understand. Her spirits were strangely unequal; one minute she was all fire, animation, and excitement, the next dull and absent. He tried to account for it all by saying to himself the life was new to her – new and very strange – and it was only natural that she should feel strange in it.

Later on in the evening, when the brilliant ball was almost over, Lord Vivianne sought Lady Studleigh again.

"I am going to ask a great favor," he said; "it is that I may be permitted to call. I have had the pleasure of an introduction to the Earl of Linleigh."

"I shall be much pleased," she replied, indifferently – so indifferently that he could not possibly tell whether she were pleased or otherwise.

"Shall you remain much longer in town?" he asked, determined to keep up a conversation with her.

"I hope so," she replied. "I think London is incomparable; I cannot imagine any other life half so delightful."

"You should see Paris," he said, looking earnestly at her.

"Yes, I should like to see court life in Paris. I was there as a child, but, as a matter of course, I have no knowledge of French society. I was too young to know much about it."

"You must try to spend some time there; there is a brilliancy about French society that we do not find in England."

She looked as politely indifferent as possible, not sufficiently so to offend him, but enough to show him that she felt no great interest in the conversation. He could not find any excuse for delaying any longer, but he left her with the determination to see her again as soon as possible.

"The ball has been a brilliant success," said the earl. "Have you enjoyed it, Doris?"

"Yes," she replied, "I liked Prince Poermal, and I liked the Duke of Eastham, but I did not like all my partners."

Lord Linleigh laughed.

"That is hardly to be supposed," he said. "If it be not a rude question, which of them did your ladyship dislike?"

"Dislike is too strong a word, papa. I did not care about Lord Vivianne; he tired me very much. How can people admire him?"

"You do not like him?" said the earl. "I suppose it does not much matter, but I am rather sorry. He seemed to take a great fancy to me, and pressed me to try shooting with him. If you do not like him, I shall not."

She laughed.

"There is no need for that, papa: it does not quite follow that because he is not to my taste, he is not to yours, does it?"

"No; but he spoke of calling on us, and did his best to make me understand that he wished to be on visiting terms with us."

"Why not?" she asked, indolently.

"If you do not like him, Doris, I should never care to see him inside our doors."

"I do not like him as a partner, papa; perhaps as a visitor to the house I might like him very well indeed. He tired me with his incessant questions and compliments."

"Perhaps he was very much charmed with you," said the earl, laughingly. "I must say, no one ever showed a greater desire to be on intimate terms with me than he did. I asked him to dine on Thursday – the Bishop of Lingham is coming – and we shall see if he improves upon acquaintance."

"He seemed to me very polite and pleasing," said the countess, quietly.

And then they spoke no more of Lord Vivianne, but Lady Studleigh thought of him incessantly. She had made the greatest effort, which was talking to him, parrying his questions, assuming a part, and carrying it on for some time. She had said to herself that the danger was averted, that she had no more to fear, but she found that she was wrong. In his eyes she read a fixed determination to know her – a doubt that all her skill had not been able to solve, all her talent had not prevented. She felt this; she understood that although he had seemed to acquiesce in all she said, in his own mind suspicion still lingered.

CHAPTER LXV
"IF SHE REFUSES, LET HER BEWARE!"

Standing in the solitary splendor of her room, Doris looked round her with despairing eyes. Was it possible that this sin, of which she had thought so little, would be the means of dragging her down from the brilliant height on which she stood? What were those words haunting her? "Be sure your sin will find you out." Was it possible that her brilliant life, her triumphant career, her happiness, should all be ended by this secret coming to life? Would it be of any use throwing herself on his mercy, and asking him to keep the horrible story to himself? Bah! she hated him so that she would ask no favor from him – not to save twenty lives! The only thing for her to do was to go on baffling him – to treat him, not with unkindness, but with such calm indifference that he would find it impossible to break down the barrier – to avoid conversation with him, and to marry Earle as soon as possible. Once married, she could easily persuade her husband to take her abroad. She would keep out of England a year or two, and then Lord Vivianne would have forgotten his fancy.

"There is one thing I must do the next time I see him," said the unhappy girl to herself. "I must tell him, in some way or other, that my name is Doris. He is sure to find it out. I had better tell him."

She went to rest in her luxurious chamber, perhaps one of the most luxurious in London, and in the whole of that vast city there was not a heart more restless or more sad than hers.

Lady Doris met Lord Vivianne next at a flower-show at Chiswick. It pleased the fair ladies of fashion to congregate there. The Duchess of Downsbury, the Countess of Linleigh, and Lady Doris, had driven together. It was a brilliant fete; the sky overhead was blue and cloudless, the golden sun was shining, the air was filled with the songs of countless birds, and each laden with the fragrant odor of a thousand flowers. The charm of sweetest music was not wanting; from under the shade of the trees came the clear, bright sounds. It was like fairyland.

The earl had ridden down: Earle was prevented from going.

It was there that, for the second time, she met the man who was fast becoming her mortal foe. There was a long, shady avenue of trees, with beautiful chestnuts in full bloom; the air seemed alive and warm with their fragrance. The duchess and her daughter had gone to look at some exquisite specimens of white heath; Lady Studleigh walked slowly down the chestnut grove. She heard footsteps behind her, and thinking it was the duchess, she did not turn. Then the voice that she hated most in the world sounded in her ears.

"Good-morning, Lady Studleigh; I esteem myself very fortunate in meeting you here."

Again he looked narrowly into her face, to see if there was the faintest trace of confusion or fear. It was calm and bright as the morning itself; her eyes shone like two stars, her lips were all smiles.

"Good-morning," she replied, laughingly; "I shall have my ideal of fairyland after this, Lord Vivianne."

"What will it be?" he asked.

"A flower-show. It is really very beautiful; I cannot tell you how much I enjoy it."

"Perhaps novelty adds to the charm," he said. "The most beautiful flowers I have ever seen are at Downsbury Castle. You have been to Downsbury Castle, Lady Studleigh?"

"Yes," she replied, with the frankest unconcern, "I was there last year. I thought the flowers very beautiful."

"I once saw a flower," he said, "that I would defy all creation to equal."

"Did you? For my part, I think them all beautiful alike. Have you seen the japonicas here?"

"No, I have only just arrived."

To himself he added, despairingly:

"I must be wrong. She could not be so frankly unconcerned. Besides, how could the girl I took to Florence with me be Lord Studleigh's daughter?"

"Did you like Downsbury Castle?" he asked, again.

"Yes, but I cannot say that I was ecstatically happy there."

"Why not?" he asked. "You ought to be happy everywhere."

She laughed a low, musical laugh.

"I do not think," she said, "that I was a great favorite with her grace."

"With the duchess – why not?"

"For many reasons. She did not like the color of my hair, because it is brighter than Lady Linleigh's. She did not like my name; she said it had the flavor of common poetry about it."

"Your name? If I am not presumptuous, what is it?"

"Doris," she replied, and she raised her eyes to his with a look of most angelic innocence. He was bewildered.

"Doris," he repeated. "I knew a Doris once – the one so like you."

"Doris – how strange." Again the low, sweet laugh that maddened him. "I assure you," she continued, "that I am like the duchess – I dislike the name exceedingly."

He was looking at her in a maze of perplexity. She was so like; it must be his Dora. The name, too; it could not be a coincidence. Yet, if she were the girl he had betrayed, it was not natural that she could refrain from showing some little emotion, some fear, some surprise. She did not appear to notice that there was anything strange in his silence or his fixed regard.

"I have a theory of my own about names," she continued, "and I think it the most cruel thing in the world to give a child either an ungainly or an unusual one. If I had had a sensible name, I should not have been full of caprice, as I am now."

He laughed, still wondering. Could it be his Dora, the girl he had learned to love with such a fierce, mad love – the girl to recover whom he would have cheerfully laid down his wealth? He would not have believed it possible, if any other man had told him such a story; he would have said it could not be, that it must be clear at once whether she were the girl or not; yet he was puzzled. If a kingdom had been offered to him at that moment to say whether this was the girl he had loved or not, he could not have told. Still, he would try her, and try her until some incautious word, some half-uttered exclamation, some sudden look of fear would betray her. If none of these things happened, he would take further steps – go down to Brackenside, where he had first met her, and see what he could find out there.

Then, as he listened to her, his faith was shaken again. Surely, if she dreaded recognition, she would be less natural, she would seek in some measure to disguise her voice, her laugh; but no one could be more frank or natural. Then a new idea came to him. If she were really Dora, as sooner or later he must discover, then he would compel her to marry him by threats; if she were not, he would win her love and marry her.

Looking at the exquisite face, the proud eyes, all the mad, fierce love that he had felt for his lost Dora came over him. Then he was startled to find the laughing eyes looking at him with some curiosity.

"I have heard of day dreams, Lord Vivianne," she said, "now I have seen a day dreamer. We have been through this chestnut grove twice, and you have not spoken; you have been building castles in the air."

"I have been building castles of which I have dared to make you the queen," he replied.

"I should like to be the queen of something more substantial than an air castle," she replied laughingly.

"You do not know," he said, "that being with you, Lady Studleigh, is at once the highest happiness and the greatest misery."

"I ought to be flattered at producing such a variety of emotion," she replied, with a laugh.

"You would be serious – you would pity me if you knew all," he said.

"Shall I pity you without knowing anything?" she replied.

"No; but, Lady Studleigh, you are so pretty, so exactly like some one I – I loved and lost; you are the very counterpart of her – her true likeness. I have never seen anything so marvelous!"

"How did you lose her?" she asked. "Did she die?"

"No. To me it was almost worse than that. She, this lovely girl whom I so dearly loved, was beneath me in station, yet I worshiped her. She affected to love me – whether she did or not, Heaven only knows. But just as I had made up my mind to marry her, because I loved her so dearly I could not live without her, she disappeared – went away out of my life, and I have not seen her since."

"What a strange story," she replied, indifferently, "and how strange that you should tell it to me, Lord Vivianne."

"Because," he cried, with sudden passion, "you are so much like her – do you not see? You are so much like her that I could look in your face and cry out – 'Dora, Dora, have you forgotten me?'"

She laughed again.

"Could you? How strange! I should feel very much surprised if you did."

"You are so like her. When I look at you my heart seems to leave me."

Her violet eyes, with their proud light, looked into his calmly.

"I did not think the men of the present day knew much about love," she said; "but you seem to have loved her."

"Loved her! – but I forget myself, Lady Studleigh; you might as well try to imagine what the heat and thunder of battle are like, from seeing them painted on canvas, as guess how I loved her from hearing me use the word love."

"You should find her and tell her all this," she said.

And from the half-tired expression that for one moment crossed the beautiful face, he knew she was growing politely wearied of the theme.

"I am searching for her," he said, his lips growing white and hot as he spoke. "I am looking for her. There are times when I believe that I have found her."

"That is well," she replied.

"No, it is hardly well. When I am sure that I have discovered her, I shall ask her to marry me; and if she refuses, let her beware! let her beware!"

The words came from him with a hiss. Her sunny laughter smote him like the edge of a sharp sword.

"How dramatic, Lord Vivianne! I shall begin to think you are rehearsing for a tragedy."

He looked confused.

"If she be not Dora," he thought, "what will she think of me?"

Then he continued:

"I ought to apologize, Lady Studleigh. I cannot help it, you are so much like her. I loved her so dearly that, do you see, I would lose my life rather than my hope of winning her for my wife."

"But how can you make her your wife, Lord Vivianne?" she asked, wonderingly. "If she had loved you, and had been willing to marry you, she would not have run away, would she?"

"I have never understood it; there was a mystery in her disappearance that I never fathomed. But I will fathom it, I will find her, and make her my wife."

"Did she run away from all her friends, too?" she asked.

He turned to look at her, and they glanced for one half minute steadily at each other.

"If I have asked an intrusive question," she said, with a smile, "it was your fault for telling me. Remember, I did not ask your confidence – you gave it to me."

"As I would give you the whole world, if I had it," he replied, passionately.

"Because I am so much like some one else?" she replied smilingly. "I ought to be grateful to you."

"If ever harm or evil comes to me," said Lord Vivianne, "it will be through her. I am not master of myself; when I think of her it maddens me. I believe if I met her – found her, and she refused to be my wife, I should – "

"Should what?" she asked, as he hesitated.

"I should kill her!" he said, fiercely.

"How dreadful! You are quite a tragedy hero, Lord Vivianne." She laughed as she spoke, and shrugged her shoulders. "Suppose this lady of whom you speak should be like you, and say the same thing – that she would rather kill you than marry you. What then?"

"Why, then we should fight it out to the bitter end."

"Here is the duchess," said Lady Studleigh, calmly. "Mind, Lord Vivianne, I do not think you have done the wisest thing in trusting a stranger, like myself, with your secrets; however, your confidence in me shall not be misplaced, I will keep them."

Then the duchess and Lady Linleigh joined them. He remained with them, affecting to talk to them, but secretly engaged in watching Lady Doris. But it was all in vain. There was no trace of thought or care on her face. She talked and laughed gayly, as though he had not spoken a word; the only thing was, that in her manner to him he detected a gentle pity that she had not shown before.

"I must be mistaken," he said to himself. "Eyesight, hearing, memory, all must be wrong – all must have failed me; but – she could not possibly be playing a part – she cannot be my lost Dora. No woman could be so utterly indifferent. I must be mistaken, but I will find it out!"