Kitabı oku: «A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette», sayfa 30

CHAPTER LXVI
A LITTLE ARTIFICE

It did not occur to Lady Doris that in all probability Lord Vivianne would recognize Earle. He had seen him once, and once only – that was walking with her, near Brackenside. But his lordship had no eyes then to spare for the rustic lover. He had also known his name – Earle Moray – but he was proverbially careless, forgetful and indifferent. It was a question whether he had paid the least heed to it, not thinking it could even interest him.

On the day of the dinner party at Hyde House it had occurred to her that they would meet. They had both been at the Duchess of Eastham's ball, but in a crowded ball-room even friends often failed to recognize each other. How would it be when they met in the same room, dined at the same table? People would be sure to make some allusion to Earle's poems, some one would be sure to mention Downsbury Castle, then Earle would join in and she would be lost. She might, by her indifference, make him believe that he was mistaken: but if he once found out who Earle was, and that Earle was still her lover, she could blind him no longer. Had she met him only at rare intervals, she might have continued to mislead him. Had she met him casually in society, she could have carried on her deception until it was too late for him to injure her. But now that he was coming, as it were, into the very heart of her home, she had less chance.

If he found out about Earle, he would find out about her, too. Then – well, suppose it came, this discovery that she dreaded so terribly, what would he do if she refused to marry him? "Kill her," he had said; but that was not so easily done. She might compromise and secure her own safety by refusing to marry Earle, and marrying Lord Vivianne. He would keep her secret then. People would only say that she had changed her mind, and say that she was like all the Studleighs – faithless. But she loved Earle with all her power of loving, and she hated Lord Vivianne with an untold hatred.

She said to herself that if she had to save herself from the most terrible death by marrying him, she would not do it. She loathed him; she would have been pleased to hear that he was dead, or anything else dreadful had happened to him, for he had spoiled her life. Of what use was all her wealth, her luxury, her magnificence? Her life through him was spoiled – completely spoiled.

"I wish he were dead," she said to herself, over and over again. "The toils are spreading around me; I shall be caught at last."

She flung her arms above her head with a terrible cry. What was she to do? She must, first of all, prevent them from meeting that night. They must not dine together at her father's house; that was the evil to be immediately dreaded. She flung the masses of golden hair back from her white face.

"If I dare but tell Earle, and let him avenge me," she thought.

Then she wrote to him a coaxing little note, telling him that she had a particular reason for desiring him not to dine at Hyde House that evening – a reason that she would explain afterward, but that she herself desired to see him alone. Would he come later on in the evening and ask for her? She would arrange to receive him in Lady Linleigh's boudoir. Then she rung for a footman in hot haste.

"Take this note to Mr. Moray," she said. "Never mind how long you have to wait. Give it into his own hands, then bring me the answer."

"Oh, these lovers," sighed the servant. "What there is to do to please them!"

Still, he did his best. He waited until he saw Earle, put the note in his hand, and waited for the answer.

Earle only smiled as he read it. He was so completely accustomed to these pretty little caprices, he had ceased to attach any importance to them. He merely wrote in reply that he was entirely at her command.

"You remember the old song, my darling:

 
"'Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me;
Thou hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee.'
 

"I will come later on in the evening and see no one but you."

He laughed as he closed the note.

"I wonder what pretty caprice possesses my darling now," he said to himself.

The man who took the note back wondered at his young mistress, her face was quite white, her golden hair clung in rich disorder, the white hands, so eagerly extended to seize the letter, trembled and burned like fire.

"They must have had a quarrel," he said to himself, with a knowing nod, as he closed the door. "They have had a quarrel, and my lady wishes to make it all right again."

It was a reprieve. She kissed the little note with a passion of love that was real.

"My darling," she said, "if we could but go away together."

And as she sat there a sudden memory of the time when she had run away from him came to her. She saw the old-fashioned garden at Brackenside; she saw the great crimson roses, and the sheaves of white lilies; she saw the kindly face of Mattie, and heard Earle singing:

 
"Thou art my soul, my life – the very eyes of me."
 

Ah, peaceful, innocent days! Blind, mad fool that she had been ever to listen to Vivianne – to let him tempt her – to let him take her from the innocent, happy home! What had she gained? And – ah, Heaven! – what had she lost? If she could but have foreseen, have known, how differently she would have behaved.

"I am strong," she said, pushing away the golden hair with her white hands. "I am strong, but I could not live this life – it would kill me."

She sat for half an hour, thinking steadily, then her resolve was taken. She would tide over the dinner as well as she could, throwing him more and more off his guard. She would see Earle that evening, and tell him that she wanted their marriage hastened; that she was tired of so many lovers, and wanted to go away with him; that she was wearied of London life.

She knew that Earle would be on the alert to serve her, he would manage it all. She had faith in his great love. Then she would tell the earl that her health and strength were failing her; ask him to take her to Linleigh Court. Lord Vivianne would not dare to follow her there. It was like a haven of rest to her. When the summer came, she would marry Earle quietly and go abroad. Then she would be out of her enemy's power; he could no longer hurl her from her high estate, or compel her to marry him. She would be another man's wife then, and it would be his place to protect and avenge her.

The plan, rapidly conceived, rapidly sketched, was her only resource, her only safety. True, it would spoil her life, the triumphs that she now enjoyed would be hers no longer. She would cease to be the belle of the season, the queen of beauty and fashion. She must lose that part of her life which she valued most – the homage, the adulation, the brightness, and all through him. How her whole soul raged in burning fury against him!

If he had been lying there on the ground, her foot on his neck, she would not have spared him. She would have seen him die with pleasure. It did not lessen her anger and her rage that she had to talk to him, to smile, and charm him.

"If a look could kill him," she said to herself, "he should die."

She longed to be in Italy, where a bravo, for a comparatively small sum, would soon have ended his life. She was obliged to soothe her anger, to still the fierce tempest of rage, to calm her fears, to take an interest in her dress, to smile, to look sweet and winning, with the most vindictive hate in her heart.

Then she went into the little drawing-room. Lord Linleigh went up to her.

"What a pretty toilet, Doris," he said. "White lace and roses. Your taste is simply superb. But, ah, me! ah, me!"

"What is it, papa?" she asked, as he laughed, gently.

"Earle is not coming, my dear. I am afraid you will be disappointed. He has sent a hurried little note to say that it is impossible. He is busy about his election, you know."

A few minutes afterward and Lord Vivianne, with a smile on his face, entered the room. Her fingers clutched the flowers she carried so tightly; the thought passed through her mind that if he could but have fallen dead over the threshold it would have been well for her.

"I shall see him if he comes in later on," she said.

A few minutes afterward he was seated by her side, and they were talking in the most friendly manner. The dinner passed over better than she had hoped. Earle was not mentioned nor did any one allude to Downsbury Castle. Lord Vivianne had contrived to secure a place by Lady Studleigh's side, and he did his best to please her. She could not help remarking how courteous and gallant was his manner in society. She contrasted it with what she had seen of him in Florence. When dinner was over, and they had gone into the drawing-room, he bent over the back of her chair.

"Lady Studleigh, have you forgotten my terrible outburst of the other day?"

"Yes," she replied; "I have seen much that is amusing since then."

"It was not very amusing to me," he said. "When a man lays bare the core of his heart, he does not do it for amusement."

"Not for his own, perhaps," she said; "but if he does it in your tragic style, he cannot help other people being amused."

"I could call you Doris," he said, "when you look at me with that piquant smile."

"I hope you will not, Lord Vivianne. I should always fancy papa was talking to me."

"Did you think I was mad that day in the chestnut grove?"

Lady Doris laughed.

"My experience of the world is not very large at present," she said. "Whenever I see or hear anything unusual, I think it is the fashion of the times."

"Ah, Lady Studleigh, I wish I could persuade you to be serious – you are always laughing at me."

"Tendency to laughter is hereditary with me," she said. "I cannot help it. I am afraid that I have no talent for sentiment. The only matter I find for surprise is why you should have selected such a very unsuitable character as myself for your confidante. I cannot say what may be in store for me, but I do not remember that any love affair ever possessed the least interest for me yet."

"You should have a love affair, as you call it, Lady Studleigh, in Italy, where the air is poetry, and the wind music."

"Papa," said Lady Studleigh to the earl, who was just passing her chair, "do you hear Lord Vivianne's advice?"

"No, my dear; but I do not doubt that it is good."

"He tells me to go to Italy to learn a lesson in love. That is a sorry compliment to England and the English, is it not?"

CHAPTER LXVII
A QUIET WEDDING ADVOCATED

"What did that little note mean, Doris?" asked Earle, with a smile. "You see that I obeyed you implicitly."

Even as he spoke he stood still, lost in admiration of the beautiful picture before him.

Although it was summer there was a bright little fire in the silver grate, the lamps were lighted, but lowered, so that the room was filled with a soft light; the hangings of rich rose silk were drawn, the long mirrors reflected the light, the flowers filled the air with perfume, and in the very heart of the rich crimson light sat the Lady Doris. She was half-buried in a nest of crimson velvet, the firelight had caught the gleam of her jewels, the sheen of the golden hair, the light in her eyes, the white dress: it seemed to shine above all on the white jeweled hands, that lay carelessly clasped on her knee. She had told the countess Earle would call, and that she wished to speak to him, so that she knew her tete-a-tete would be quite undisturbed.

Earle looked at her, thinking that there had never been so fair a picture in all the world; then he repeated his question. She looked up at him, and he was struck by the unusual expression in her eyes; he knelt down before her, and took one white hand in his.

"That cruel note," he said, "depriving me of a pleasure I cannot enjoy too often. What did it mean?"

She did what was very unusual with her; she clasped her arms round his neck.

"Oh, Earle! Earle! it is strange what rest I feel when you are near me. I will tell you what the note meant, but you will laugh at me."

"I do not think so, darling; I have laughed with you, but not at you."

"I knew that tiresome Lord Vivianne was coming, and he tries my temper so; he will admire me, and I do not want his admiration."

"Then why keep me away, darling; I might have saved you from it."

"No; I knew you could not. I was obliged to go down to dinner with him, and it would have tried my temper too severely if I had been compelled to sit by him and could not have been with you. You may think it a stupid, childish reason, Earle, but it is a true one. I was determined if I could not talk to you, I would not be annoyed by seeing any one else do so."

He looked slightly puzzled, but, as he said to himself, it was one of her caprices – why not be content?

"If my staying away pleased you," he said, "I am doubly pleased."

Yet it struck him as he spoke, that she had lost some of her animation and brightness.

"How beautiful you look in this light, Dora," he said. "Why, my darling, a king might envy me."

One of the white, jeweled hands rested caressingly on the noble head of the young poet. He had never seen Dora so gentle before.

"My darling!" he cried, his face glowing with its rapture of happiness. "My darling, you are beginning to love me so well at last."

"I do love you, Earle," she said, and for some minutes there was silence between them.

She had a certain object to win, and she was debating within herself how it was to be won.

"It is like a fairy tale," he said. "Why, my darling, looking at you I cannot believe my own good fortune; you are the fairest woman in England; you are noble, you are high in station; you have the wit, the grace, the noble bearing of a queen. I have nothing but the two titles you have given me, of gentleman and poet – yet I shall win you for my wife. It is so wonderful – this love that breaks all barriers; money could not have brought you to my side – a millionaire might love you, but you would not care for him; title could not win you – it is love that has made you all mine! All mine, until death!"

She listened to his impassioned words; she looked at the handsome, noble face, and a sensation of something like shame came to her that she should have to maneuver with a love so grand in its simplicity; still she must save herself. Her arms fell with a dreamy sigh; the firelight shining on her face showed it to be flushed and tremulous.

"Earle," she said, "do you remember how I used to long for a life like this? long for gayety, excitement, wealth, pleasure, and perpetual admiration?"

"I remember it well. I used to feel so puzzled to know how to get it for you."

"Now I have it – more than even my heart desired. You will not think me very fickle if I tell you something?"

"I shall never think you anything but most charming and lovable, Doris."

"Well, the truth is, I am rather tired of the life; but I do not like to say so. I cannot think why it is; sometimes I think it may only be fancy, that I am not strong as I used to be; perhaps the great change has been too much for me. Let it be what it may, I am tired of it, though I cannot say so to any one but you."

"The queen of the season tired of her honors?" said Earle, kissing the sweet lips and the white brow.

"I am really tired, Earle. Then, though admiration is always sweet to a woman, I have rather too much of it. That Prince Poermal is making love to me, the Marquis of Heather made me an offer yesterday, and Lord Vivianne teases me. Now, Earle, it is tiresome, it is indeed, dear. My mind, my heart – nay, I need not be ashamed to say it – are filled with you. I do not want the offers of other men – their love and admiration."

"Declaring our engagement would soon put an end to all that," he said, thoughtfully.

But that was not what the Lady Doris wanted; she wanted him to urge their marriage.

"Yes," she said, "we might make it known, but people would not believe it; it would not save me from the importunities of other men."

He looked wonderingly at her. After all, it was a new feature in her character – this dread of lovers.

"That is not all, Earle," she said, clasping her soft, warm fingers round his hands. "I tell you – no one but you – this life is a little too much for me. Before I had recovered from the great shock of the change, I was plunged into the very whirlpool of London life. Do not imagine I have joined the list of invalids, or that I have grown nervous, or any nonsense of that kind: it is not so; but at times I feel a great failure of strength, a deadly faintness or weakness that is hard to fight against – a horrible foreboding for which I cannot account."

Her face grew pale, and her eyes seemed to lose their light as she spoke.

"I am sure," she continued, "that it is from over-fatigue. Do you not think so, Earle?"

"Yes," he replied; "now, what is the remedy?"

"I know the remedy. It would be to give all up for a time, and take a long rest – a long rest," her voice seemed to die away like the softest murmur of a sighing wind.

Earle felt almost alarmed; this was so completely novel, this view of Doris, who had always been bright, piquant, and gay.

"You shall go away, darling," he said, tenderly.

"But, Earle," she said, "my father and Lady Linleigh are enjoying the season so much, they have so many engagements, I cannot bear to say anything about going."

"Then I will say it for you. I shall tell Lord Linleigh, to-morrow, that you have exhausted yourself, and that you must have a few weeks of quiet at Linleigh Court."

"What will he say, Earle?"

"If I judge him rightly, darling, he will say little, but he will act at once; before this time next week you will be at Linleigh."

"Do you really think so? I am so glad," yet she shivered again as she spoke. "I long to go to Linleigh, Earle, yet I have such a strange feeling about it, a strange presentiment, a foreboding; surely no evil, no danger awaits me at Linleigh. Do you know, I could fancy death standing at the threshold waiting with outstretched arms to catch me." Again her voice died away with a half-hysterical sob.

Earle bent over her and kissed her.

"My darling, you are fanciful, you are tired. I am so glad you have trusted me; it is high time you were attended to. These nervous fancies are enough to drive you mad; the evil has gone further than I thought. Doris, my love, my sweet, it is only the reaction from over-fatigue that gives you these ideas, nothing else; what awaits you but a future bright as your own beauty? What shall I live for except to love and to serve and to shield you?"

"Earle," she cried suddenly, "do you know what I wish?"

A long shining tress of golden hair had fallen over her shoulders, and she sat twining it round her white fingers.

"Do you know what I wish?" she repeated.

"No; if I did I should do it, you may be quite sure, Doris."

"I wish that we – you and I – were married; that I was your wife, and that we had gone far away from here, away where no one knows us, where we could be quite happy, alone and together."

"Do you really wish that, Doris?" he asked.

Her face flushed slightly, but her voice did not tremble.

"I do really wish it," she replied. "If papa were willing we would be married this summer, and we could go away, Earle, to some far-off land; then – when we had been happy for some time – we could come home again. I should have grown quite strong by then, and I should have found health, strength, and peace, all with you."

There was a strange mingling of doubt and rapturous happiness on his face.

"Do you really mean this, Doris?" he asked. "Would you – the queen of the season, the fairest object of man's worship – would you give up all your triumphs, all your gayeties, and prefer to live in quiet and solitude with me?"

There was a slight hesitation for one half moment; he was so noble, so true. It was pitiful to use his great love for the obtaining of her own ends; but she must save herself – she must do that.

"You may believe me, Earle," she replied, gently; "if it could be, I would far rather it were so."

"Then, darling, it shall be – my head grows dizzy with the thought of it – you, my peerless, my beautiful Doris, will be my own wife when the summer comes. Why, Doris, listen! oh, listen, love! Do you know that I never fully realized that I was to make you my wife, though I have loved you so passionately and so well? You have always seemed of late far above me, like a bright shining star to be worshiped, hardly to be won. When I said to myself, that at some time or other you should be my wife, it has been like a dream – a bright, sweet, unreal dream. I do not know that I ever fancied you, sweet, with bridal veil and orange-blossoms; yet now, you say, you will marry me in the summer!"

"That I will, Earle," she replied.

"Heaven bless you, my own darling! Heaven speed the happy summer. Why, Doris, I can see the gold on the laburnums, I can hear the ring-doves cooing, I can see the smile of summer all over the land! Mine in the summer, dear; Heaven, make me worthy!"

"There is but one thing, Earle," she said; "I – you will think I have changed, but I cannot help that – I want a quiet marriage. It would please me best if nothing were said, even about our engagement, but if we could go quietly to Linleigh and keep the secret of our marriage to ourselves; that is what I should really like, Earle."

"Then it shall be so, my darling! Now, do not give yourself one moment's anxiety. Shut those beautiful eyes and sleep all night, dreaming only of summer roses and your lover, Earle. I shall see your father to-morrow, and I shall tell him; he will be quite willing, I am sure."

"You are very good to me, Earle," she said, gratefully. "How foolish I was ever to think that I did not care for you, and to run away from you, was I not?"

"That is all forgotten, love," he said, and she felt that she would have given the whole world if it had never happened.