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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.

"Good-bye to the moonlight," said Earle, "to the tired flowers and shining stars, and the fair, sleeping world."

He parted with her at the foot of the broad staircase; she was going to her room.

"Good-night," said Earle, kissing the red lips; "good-night, and sweet dreams."

But when he had gone about two steps away, she called him back again. She raised her arms and clasped them round his neck; she raised her face that he might kiss it again.

"My darling Earle, my love Earle, my lover, my husband!" she said, with a passion of love in her face, "good-night."

He was half startled. He watched her as she went up the broad staircase, the white, shining silk, the gleaming opals, the golden hair, the fair, sweet face – watched her until she was out of sight; then, despite his happiness, he turned away with a sigh.

"She will be my own to-morrow, and I shall not need to feel anxious over her," he said to himself; and then he went in to smoke his cigar with the earl.

Doris called in Mattie's room and said:

"Good-night. Have you any nice book lying about here, Mattie?" she asked. "I know quite well that I shall not sleep; I do not feel the least tired."

She chose one of the volumes Mattie brought to her.

"I should like to read that story papa was telling us of," she said; "but it is in the library, and he is smoking there with Earle."

"I would not read it; a gloomy, melancholy story like that is not fit for your wedding-eve."

Doris stood with the waxen taper in her hand.

"Even," she said, "if a girl has not been quite good, even if she has been what good people call wicked, it would be cruel to kill her on her wedding-eve, would it not?"

"What a strange idea, Doris! – and how strange you look! Put that book away and go to sleep, so that Earle may see bright eyes to-morrow."

They parted, and Doris passed into her own room. According to her usual custom, she locked the door and took out the key.

The first room was her sleeping-room. She did not wait there; it was empty. She had told Eugenie, her maid, not to wait for her on that evening, as she might be late. Then came the bath and dressing-room; they also were empty, although both were brilliantly lighted. She reached the boudoir, fitted for her with such taste and luxury. The lamps were lighted, and there, on the chair where Mattie and she had so carefully placed it, lay the beautiful wedding costume. There could be no mistaking it; the veil was thrown over the dress, and the wreath of orange blossoms lay on the veil. She looked at them for some minutes in silence, thinking of the Miriam who was burned on the night of her wedding-day.

Then she opened the book and began to read. How useless it was – the letters swam before her eyes. It was her wedding-day to-morrow; after to-morrow all her cares and troubles would be over; after to-morrow all would be peace.

She lay down upon the little couch, with a long, low sigh. It was wonderful how tired and wearied she felt. She had suffered such a fever, such a torture of suspense, that the reaction of feeling that she was in perfect safety at last was too much for her. There came a fever of unrest upon her, her heart beat with terrible rapidity, her hands were like fire, her eyes and lips seemed to burn as though they had been touched by flame; she had not known until now how much she had suffered. Then she pictured Lord Vivianne coming on the twentieth and finding her married – married and gone far out of his reach! How he would rage! It would serve him right. He might tell his story then. Who would believe him? They would all think it the bitter exaggeration of a disappointed man.

Then the room seemed to grow warm, the perfume of the flowers overpowering.

"I wish," she thought, "that I had not let Eugenie go; I feel nervous and lonely to-night."

She half-debated within herself whether she should go back to Mattie or not. The sense of being thought cowardly deterred her.

There lay the moonlight, so calm, so still, so bright, streaming through the open window.

"I will go down into the grounds," she said to herself; "a walk there will refresh me, and I shall be able to rest."

She took out her watch and looked at it; it was nearly midnight.

"There will be a pale bride to-morrow," she said, "if I am not to sleep all night."

She unfastened the door that divided the room from the spiral staircase leading to the grounds. The staircase itself was almost hidden by dense green foliage and flowers; because it was so nearly hidden no one thought it dangerous; no stranger would have observed it. She went down to the grounds, it was so cool, so bright, still, and beautiful; the dew was shining on the grass, the moon and stars were shining in the sky; there was a rich odor of rare flowers; the night wind seemed to cool her heated brain; her lips grew pale and cool; the burning heat left her hands; it refreshed her.

"I will walk here for half an hour," she said, "then I shall be sleepy enough."

It struck her that she would go round to the library window, where Earle was with her father. She hoped they would not see her; but if they did, she should tell them she could not rest. Then she remembered that the earl had cautioned her never to use the spiral staircase at night lest it should be dangerous. She walked round to the side of the house. Ah! there was the light from the library-window; they were still there.

Then – her heart almost stood still – she saw the figure of a man advancing across the carriage-drive toward the great hall-door.

At midnight. Who could it be?

The moon shone full upon him; and as he drew nearer, she saw the face of her mortal enemy, her hated foe – Lord Vivianne!

CHAPTER LXXIX
WHY HE SUSPECTED

Lord Vivianne! – there was no mistake. The moon shone full in his face; she knew the impatient walk; she knew every line of his figure, and for one moment her heart almost stopped beating.

What, in the name of the most high Heaven, did he want there?

She saw him going quickly up the broad flight of steps; the moon, shining on them, made them white as snow; the light from the library window shone softly on the ground.

He had stretched out his hand to ring the bell, when, with a sudden impulse, a sudden cry, she called out:

"Stop!"

Another half-minute and she had almost flown across the lawn and stood by his side.

"Stop!" she cried again, and laying her hand on his arm; then she looked at him. "You!" she said – "is it you?"

"Yes, Lady Studleigh; there is little cause for wonder – it is the man you were about so cleverly to deceive."

"In Heaven's name," she cried, impetuously, "what has brought you here? Do not ring the bell! What has brought you to my father's house? You were not to come until the twentieth."

In her fear and agitation she lost something of her usual dignity.

"That was nicely managed," he replied, with a sneer; "you were to be married on the tenth, and I was to come on the twentieth. It was dramatically arranged, Lady Studleigh; it is very sad it should have failed."

For one moment her face grew white as with the ghastly pallor of death, her eyes grew dim, her arms fell nervously by her side. So she stood for a few minutes; then she said, in a low, hoarse voice:

"Do not ring the bell; do not arouse them; I will talk to you now. Come this way."

Side by side they walked down the broad path together; in the bewilderment of her thoughts she had but one idea – it was to keep him away from the library window.

"Now," she said, breathlessly, "let us talk here."

The moon was bright – so pitifully bright, it traced their shadows along the white stone; it seemed to rejoice in the warm night.

"What have you to say?" he asked, curtly. "I can tell you why I am here. I have come for your answer ten days before the time, because I have heard that you are going to play me false: I am here to tell Lord Linleigh by what right I claim you as my wife; I am here to tell all whom it may concern what you have been to me."

Suddenly she remembered that the room Earle occupied looked over the terrace. What if, tempted by the beauty of the night, he should come to the window, and look out? What if the earl should hear voices or see shadows? Oh, what was she to do?

Her alarm heightened by seeing a light at one of the windows opposite: whether it was one of the servants or not, she could not tell; but it alarmed her.

All at once she remembered that she had free access to the house, she had but to go back to her rooms by the spiral staircase. Again she laid her hand on Lord Vivianne's arm.

"I dare not remain here," she said. "Do you see that light? We shall be seen."

"What if we are?" he replied; "it will not matter if one or two find out to-night what the world must know to-morrow."

"Hush!" she cried, in an agony of alarm. "How cruel, how merciless you are! Great Heaven, what shall I do?"

"You can do nothing now, my lady; your time is come; you should have kept faith with me."

"Will you come to my rooms?" she cried, in an agony of terror.

It seemed to her that his voice sounded so loudly and so clearly in the summer air, all the world must hear it.

"To your rooms? Yes, I will go there."

"Follow me," she said.

She led the way up the spiral staircase into the boudoir, wishing at every step he took he might fall dead.

She had forgotten the bridal veil and dress lying there.

The lamps were lighted in the boudoir. She carefully closed the door lest any sound should reach their ears; then she came back to him.

He stood on the top of the staircase, half uncertain whether to enter or not.

She went to him. By the light of the lamps he saw how marvelously pale she had grown; and how terrible was the fear that shone in her eyes.

He looked carelessly round the room. He did not see at first what was the glittering heap of white raiment; nor had he noticed the orange wreath. But he saw, lying on the stand amid the flowers, a large, sharp knife. It had been left there by some careless servant who had been cutting the thick branches that wreathed the windows. His eyes lingered on it for one half-minute; if he had known what was to happen, he would most surely have flung it far from him.

She looked up into his face with cold, determined eyes.

"Now," she said, "do your worst; say your worst. I defy you!"

"Women are the greatest simpletons in creation," he said; "they imagine it so easy to break faith with a man. You have to find out how difficult it is."

She made no reply.

"By right of what has passed between us," he continued, "I claim you for my wife. You told me you would consider the claim, and that you would give me your decision on a certain date."

No answer. All the defiance that pride could suggest was in her white face.

"You promised me, also, that you would not attempt in any way to evade that claim."

"I did, and I was quite wrong in making you that promise."

"That is quite beside the mark; it has nothing whatever to do with the matter. Having made the promise, you were bound to keep it. I relied implicitly on your good faith. I left you, intending to return and hear your decision. What do I find out? That you have simply been deceiving me, duping me – most cleverly as you thought, most foolishly as you will see. You imagined that on the twentieth I should come to see you, and find you married and gone. You have doubtless laughed to think how you should befool me."

"I do not deny it," she said, contemptuously.

A strange light flashed in his eyes.

"I would have you beware," he said. "I told you long ago that my overweening love for you was driving me mad. Be careful how you anger me."

"I have the same amount of contempt for your anger as for your love," she said.

"Take care! I have told you before, desperate men do desperate deeds. Take care! I have found out your pretty plot, and am here to spoil it."

"What have you discovered?" she asked.

"For the first thing, that while you have been so cleverly deceiving all London, you were engaged the whole time to Earle Moray, the lover you so kindly left for me."

"After that?" she asked.

His face grew dark in its fury as he replied:

"That you – love him!"

"I do!" she cried, with sudden passion, "my whole heart loves him, my whole soul calls him conqueror!"

He raised his hands menacingly, his fury knew no bounds.

"You would strike me!" she said, sneeringly. "If you killed me, I should say the same over and over again; I love him and I hate you. What else have you discovered?"

"That you intend to marry him on the tenth. That is the extent of my knowledge; I know no more. But whether you are going to run away with him, or whether Lord Linleigh intends to countenance a ceremony that will be a lie, I cannot tell. Running away is more in your line, certainly."

"Would you mind telling me," she asked, "how you know this?"

He laughed.

"I will tell you, with pleasure," he replied; "the more so as I think it reflects great credit on my powers of penetration. I was in London the day before yesterday, in New Bond Street, and, while walking leisurely along, I met your poet and gentleman, Earle Moray."

"I wish that I could strike you dead for using his name," she said.

"I am sure you do, and I do not blame you. Under the circumstances, it is the most natural wish in the world. As I was saying, I met your cavalier; he was walking along, with a smile on his face – evidently wrapped in most pleasant thoughts. He started when he saw me, and looked slightly confused."

"My poor Earle!" she murmured; "my poor Earle!"

"The very fact of his looking confused aroused my suspicion. Why should he be confused, just because he had met me? I spoke to him, and he seemed disinclined to talk to me. Another thing struck me – he seemed to wish to get rid of me. He is very transparent, poor fellow. I was quite determined that he should not lose me. Walking on, we passed Horton & Sons, the great jewelers, and, in some vague way, Lady Studleigh, I had a presentiment that I was at one end of a mystery."

"You are a clever fiend," she said.

"Praise from such lips is praise, indeed! As we passed the door of Horton & Sons, from the very confused way in which he looked at it, I felt sure that he had been inclined to enter – in fact, that he intended to enter, but would not because I was there. I instantly resolved that I would baffle him; so we walked together up and down the street. Each time he passed the door I saw him look longingly at it. I began to think that I had missed my vocation; I ought to have been a detective. At last, to his utter relief, I am sure, I said adieu.

"I watched him. No sooner had I gone away, than he hastened to the shop. I said to myself, what could he possibly want there? what could he want to buy that he would not let me see? Then I went into the shop after him. It is a large place, and I stood where I could both hear and see him without being seen or heard. Innocently enough – I laugh when I think of it – he asked for a case of wedding-rings; he wanted the best, of solid gold. That was to hold you, my lady. It would require a strong ring to make you all his, would it not? He asked for the best – poor, deluded fool!"

Her white face and glittering eyes might have warned him; but they did not.

"He chose the ring, evidently having the size by heart. Then he asked to see some pearl lockets. He selected one, and asked for a certain motto to be engraved on it. But he asked again when it could be done. They told him in two days. This did not suit him; he must have it in a few hours; he was leaving town to-morrow. They asked if he would leave it and they would try. He replied, 'No; that he wanted both ring and locket on the tenth.' And then he left the shop. I need not tell you how that startled me. Why should he want a wedding-ring on the tenth. Then – I can hardly tell you how it was – a certain suspicion entered my mind that the wedding-ring and locket were for you!"

"My poor Earle!" she said, with a long, low sigh.

"I secured the services of some one whom I knew to be clever, trustworthy, and keen. We watched your friend, and found that he was making preparations for a long absence, and that he was going abroad. Still, I must confess, I was not prepared to hear that he had started yesterday, and had taken a first-class ticket to Anderley. It did not require a genius, you know, to put all these strange coincidences together. I guessed in one moment that you were playing me false. I should have been here before, but that an imperative engagement kept me in town. I started at noon to-day, and, owing to some mistake in the trains, did not reach Anderley until too late to take a fly, a cab, or horse, or anything else. I was compelled to walk here, and that accounts for my delay, for my late visit. Now I am here."

She looked steadily at him.

"Yes," she said, "you are here. What do you want?"