Kitabı oku: «A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette», sayfa 37

CHAPTER LXXX
WHAT HAPPENED AFTER MIDNIGHT

"My demands are few, Lady Studleigh. You are to be married to-morrow to Earle Moray, according to your arrangement; according to mine, nothing of the sort will happen, but you will give your poet his dismissal, and marry me instead."

"I shall do nothing of the kind, my lord," she replied.

"Yes, you will. You will find that alternative, bad as it is, better than the fate that awaits you if you refuse. I grant that it is a thousand pities matters have gone so far; it is your own fault; you will find yourself in a great dilemma: you should have been more straightforward. To-morrow, instead of being married, you must tell the earl, your father, who indulges you so absurdly in everything, that you have altered your mind; that there will be no wedding, after all. He cannot possibly be surprised at any caprice of yours. It will cause no alteration in any one's plans, as no one has been told of the marriage."

"You have planned it all easily," she said, haughtily.

"Yes, when one sees such determined opposition to a settled plan, it is time to make arrangements. I must confess that, coming along, I planned it all, so as to give you the least trouble."

"You are, indeed, kind," she said, sarcastically.

"Ah, my lady, I do not mind your sneers; not the least in the world. You must send for the earl in the morning; tell him the wedding must be deferred, that you have been thinking matters over, and you have come to the conclusion that your happiness is at stake. If you do not like to stay here after such a grand expose, then ask him to take you abroad, or anywhere else. I will join you in a few weeks. Then my wooing can begin, and I will marry you."

She laughed a mocking, bitter, satirical laugh, that drove him half mad.

"I shall do nothing of the kind," she said. "Now for your alternative."

"If you refuse, I shall go away now. To-morrow I shall return, and, before the man who is to be your husband, before your parents and friends, I will tell what you were to me, and what my claim on you is."

"Very well," she replied, calmly; "I accept the alternative; tell them. I cannot answer for the earl and countess; what they will do is, of course, a mystery to me; but Earle will forgive me, I feel quite sure of it; he loves me so dearly, he will forgive me and make me his wife. You will have proved yourself a villain and coward for nothing."

"Earle will never marry you," he said; "no man in his senses would, when he knows what I can tell him."

"I will risk it," she replied. "Do you know that it is even a relief to me that the worst is come? I do not know what I have dreaded, but I am quite sure of one thing – you will do your worst, and you have told me what it is. Let the sword fall: it has hung over my head long enough. Earle loves me. Earle is just as noble and generous as you are the reverse. Earle is forgiving; he will be hurt and angry, but when I tell him how vain I was, and how you tempted me, he will forgive me."

"I do not think so, Lady Studleigh."

"Because you do not know him; you judge him by yourself. Even if he refuses to pardon me at first, if he thinks me beyond forgiveness. I will be patient and humble, and wait. He will love me again in time, and my sorrow will purify me from my sin."

A tender beautiful light came over her white face, a sweet smile played round her lips. She raised her eyes fearlessly to his.

"You see," she said, "how little you can do, after all. You might kill me, but you could not bend my pride; you could not incline my heart to one loving thought of you."

"So I perceive. Then you positively prefer open shame and disgrace, the scorn and mocking of the world?"

"Yes," she said; "I prefer it."

"You must hate me very much, Lady Studleigh."

Sudden passion flamed in her eyes.

"I do, indeed," she replied. "No woman ever hated man more."

"And yet I love you."

She turned from him with an air of haughtiest indignation. He followed her. Suddenly his eyes fell upon the white glittering bridal costume.

"What is that?" he cried, and his whole face worked with fury, indignation and anger.

Before she could interfere to stop him, he had taken the wreath and veil in his hands. He laughed as he held them in derision.

"Oh, fair, pure and spotless bride!" he cried; "well may they robe you in bridal white, hide your face with a bridal veil, crown you with orange blossoms! They will do well."

She made a step forward and would have taken the veil from his hands, but he would not release it.

"See," he cried, "how I serve your bridal veil! I would do the same to your heart, and his, if I could."

His face was transformed with rage, his eyes flashed fire, sudden fury leaped from his heart to his lips, sudden murder sprung like a flame of fire that seemed to scorch him.

He tore the beautiful veil into shreds, he trampled it under foot, he stamped on it in the violence of his rage and anger.

"So I would serve you!" he cried; "so I would serve him if I could!"

She drew back as his violence increased; not frightened – she was physically too brave for that; but wondering where it would lead him to, what he would do or say next.

"You are the falsest woman under heaven!" he cried. "You ought not to live; you are a mortal enemy of man!"

A weaker or more cowardly woman would have taken alarm and have cried out for help; but she did not know fear. If she had but given the least alarm, there were brave hearts near who would have shed their last drop of blood in her defense, who would have died over and over again for her; but she stood still, with a calm, sorrowful smile on her face.

"So much for your veil!" he cried, with a mocking sneer. "Now for the wreath!"

He took the pretty, scented flowers from the box, where loving hands had so gently laid them, and crushed them into a shapeless, dead heap.

"That will never lie on your golden hair, my Lady Studleigh," he said.

She made no effort to save the pretty wreath; his furious violence dismayed her and made her mute. She saw him stamp on the orange blossoms that should on the morrow have crowned her; she saw them lie crushed, torn, destroyed at his feet, and she looked on in a kind of trance. To her it was like a wild, weird, dark dream.

Then he took the costly wedding-dress, with its rich trimmings of white lace, and he laughed as he tore it asunder, flinging it under his feet; then pausing to look on his work of destruction with a smile.

"There will be no wedding to-morrow, fair lady," he said. "Ah, Dora, why have you driven me mad? why have you unmanned me? why have you made me ashamed of myself?"

There was a strange glitter in her eyes, and a strange expression on her face.

"I did not mean to be so violent; you have driven me to it. Not that I regret destroying your wedding-dress: I would do it over again a hundred times; but I am sorry to have frightened you."

"You could not frighten me," she replied.

And if ever calm scorn was expressed by any human voice, it was by hers.

There came a lull in the storm. He stood looking partly at the ruin he had caused, partly at her. She seemed, strange to say, almost to have forgotten him. She stood where the light of the lamp fell on her disheveled hair and flushed face.

The fragrant calm of the summer night reigned unbroken outside, a calm broken only by the musical rustle of the leaves. The moon shone bright as day; its beams fell on the sleeping flowers, and silvered the waving trees; they fell, too, on the beautiful face, with its look of restless scorn.

During that moment so strangely silent she thought of Earle – Earle, whom she was to marry to-morrow – Earle, whom she would marry, let the morrow bring what it might. No matter if her wedding-dress were torn into shreds – no matter if Lord Vivianne stood with a drawn sword in his hand to bar her progress to the altar – no matter if the whole world cried out, with its clanging, brazen voice, that she was lost, she would marry him!

She turned to her enemy, with a flush on her face, a scornful light in her eyes.

"You are but a coward after all," she said, "a paltry, miserable coward! You can do me no real harm, and you cannot take me from Earle."

"You did not always think me a coward, my Lady Dora. There was a time when you delighted to sun yourself in my eyes; you have not always held aloof from me as you do now. I have held you in my arms; I have kissed your lips; I have won you as no one else will ever win you. I like to look at you and remember it; I like to dwell on my recollections of those old days. Ah! your face flushes. Let me kiss you now."

He hastened toward her, trampling in his hot haste on the torn shreds of the wedding-dress.

"Do not touch me!" she cried. "Do not come near me!"

"I have kissed you before, and I will kiss you again," he said.

"I will kill you if you dare to touch me!"

She snatched up the first thing that came to her hand; it was the long, shining, sharp knife that had been used to prune the overhanging branches.

"I will kill you," she repeated, with flaming eyes, "if you come near me!"

He laughed, but the angry blood surged into his brain. He went nearer; he seized the white hand that held the knife. The beautiful face, the white, bare neck were close to him.

"I hate you!" she hissed.

Only God, who sees all things, knows what followed. Her words, may have angered him to murder heat; his passion of love and sense of wrong may have maddened him – only God knows.

There was a struggle for one half minute, followed by a low, gasping cry:

"Oh, Heaven! I am not fit to die!"

It may have been that in the struggle the point of the knife was turned accidentally against her; but the next moment she fell to the ground, with the blade buried deep in her white breast.

The crimson life-blood flowed – it stained his hands, still grasping her – it stained the torn wedding-dress, the bridal veil – it soon formed a pool on the carpeted floor. He stood over her for a minute, stunned, horrified.

"Dora!" he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Oh, Heaven! I did not mean to kill her."'

She opened her eyes, and her white lips framed one word, half sigh, half moan – "Earle!" – and then the soul of the unhappy girl went out to meet its Judge.

He made no attempt to raise her; he stood like a man lost.

The crimson stain crept onward until it touched his feet.

"Oh, Heaven!" he cried again; "I did not mean to kill her."

Then his whole soul seemed to shrink and wither away with fear. He had killed her; it was the pallor of death blanching the lovely face; and – oh, horror! – the crimson stain had reached the golden hair.

She was dead; he had slain her in his mad frenzy. He looked at the cruel knife buried in the white flesh – he dare not touch it. He looked at the face so rapidly growing cold in death – he dare not touch it. He would have given his life to have touched those cold, dead lips, but he dare not, because he had murdered her. He clinched his strong hands in an agony that knew no words.

"Oh, Heaven!" he cried again; "I have slain her!"

He gave one hurried glance around on a scene he was never to forget – the luxurious boudoir, its hangings, its lights and flowers; the bridal costume, all torn into shreds: the crimson stain, spreading so slowly, so horribly; the beautiful dead face upraised to the light; the white breast, with its terrible wound; the quiet figure, the golden hair – and, with a moan of unutterable remorse, he turned away.

It just occurred to him that his only safety lay in flight. The door was opened that led to the spiral staircase; the next moment he was creeping along under the shadow of the wall, and Lady Doris Studleigh lay dead and alone!

CHAPTER LXXXI
THE SILENT BRIDE

"Good-night, Earle," said Lord Linleigh; "now that is really the last time. You shall not draw me into another discussion. I will not say another word. Remember you are to be married to-morrow."

"I am not likely to forget it," said Earle, with a happy laugh.

"Let us have some rest," said Lord Linleigh. "I am positively afraid to look at my watch. I know it is late."

"It is not two o'clock," said Earle; "but I will be obedient. I will say no more."

Yet they talked all the time as they went slowly up the grand staircase.

"I hope Doris will cure you of liking to sit up late," said the earl, as he stood for one moment against the door of his room.

"Hark!" said Earle, suddenly bending his head in a listening attitude. "Hark!"

"What is it?" asked Lord Linleigh.

"I fancied I heard a cry," said Earle, and the two listened intently. All was silent.

"It must have been fancy," said the earl.

"It may have been, but it really sounded like a sudden, half-choked cry."

"Some of the servants are about still. It is nothing. For the last time, good-night, Earle."

Then they parted, each going to his room; but Earle could not forget that cry.

"How foolish I am," he thought; "but I shall not rest at all unless I know that Doris is all right."

He went down the broad corridor that led to her suit of rooms; he saw that the outer door was closed; he listened, all was hushed and silent; there was not a stir, not a movement, not a sound.

"Good-night, my love," said Earle; "fair dreams, sweet sleep. You will be mine to-morrow."

It was all right. He laughed at himself for the foolish fear, and went back to his own room. He never saw the white, despairing face and creeping figure of the wretched man who had done the atrocious deed.

He slept soundly for some few hours, then the kindly sun woke him, shining on his face – a warm, sweet greeting, and he thought Heaven was blessing his wedding-day. The birds were all singing in the trees, the flowers blooming, the whole world fair and smiling.

"My love will be mine to-day!" he thought. "Shine on, blessed sun! there is no day like this!"

It would have gladdened his mother's heart had she been there to have seen him bend his head so reverently, and pray Heaven to shower down all blessings on Doris.

They had arranged, in deference to her wishes, that no great difference should be made between this and other mornings. She would not go down to meet them at the early breakfast; she would not see Earle until they reached the church, but Lord Linleigh and the countess, Mattie and Earle, had agreed to breakfast together.

It was about the usual hour when Earle entered the breakfast-room. Lady Estelle was there alone. She looked up with a charming smile on her gentle face.

"Either we are very early, or the others are very late," she said. She went up to him. "I am glad to see you for one moment alone on this happy day, Earle – to thank you for keeping my secret – and pray Heaven to bless you and my darling, that you may lead the happiest of all lives together."

Then she bent down and kissed him. Her fair hair drooped over him; it seemed to Earle as though a soft, fragrant cloud had suddenly enwrapped him. Then Mattie came in, and a message was brought from Lord Linleigh, praying them to wait five minutes for him. It seemed quite natural for Mattie and Earle to pass through the long, open glass doors, and spend the five minutes among the flowers.

"You have a glorious day for your wedding, Earle," said Mattie. "I think the sun knows all about it; it never shone so brightly before. The best wish that I can offer is that your life may be as bright as the sunshine."

It seemed only natural for him to turn to her and say:

"Have you seen Doris this morning?"

"No," she replied. She had been to the door of her room, but it was so silent she did not like to arouse her.

Then Earle went to a moss-rose tree and gathered a beautiful bud, all shrouded in its green leaves.

"Mattie," he said, "will you take this to her, with my love?"

"What this love is!" laughed Mattie, as she went on her errand.

While she was gone the earl came in, and they sat down to breakfast. It was some little surprise to Earle when Mattie came back with the rose in her hand.

"Doris is not awake yet, and her maid did not seem willing to call her. She was up late last night, I think."

He said nothing, but he thought to himself it was strange Doris should sleep so soundly on this most eventful morning of her life.

They took a hurried breakfast; then Mattie said:

"Now it is growing late – our beautiful bride must be roused."

Lady Estelle looked up hurriedly.

"Is Doris still in her room?" she asked. "How strange that she sleeps so soundly!"

In the long corridor Mattie met the pretty Parisienne, Lady Doris' maid, Eugenie.

"You must rouse Lady Studleigh; she will be quite late if you do not."

"My lady sleeps well," said the girl, with a smile, as she tripped away. It was some short time before she returned; she looked pale and scared, half-bewildered.

"I cannot understand it, Miss Brace," she said. "I have been rapping, making a great noise at my lady's door, but she does not hear, she does not answer!"

Mattie looked perplexed. The maid continued:

"It is very strange, but it seems to me the lights are all burning – there is a streak of light from under the door."

"Then Lady Doris must have sat up very late, and has forgotten to extinguish them; that is why she is sleeping so soundly this morning. I will go with you and we will try again."

Mattie and the maid went together. Just as Eugenie had said, the door was fastened inside, and underneath it was seen a broad clear stream of lamplight. Mattie knocked.

"Doris," she said, "you must wake up, dear. Earle is waiting. It will be time to start for church soon!"

But the words never reached the dead ears; the cold lips made no answer.

"Doris!" cried the foster-sister again; and again that strange silence was the only response.

"Let me try, Miss Brace," said Eugenie, and she rapped loud enough to have aroused the seven sleepers. Still there came no reply.

The two faces looked pale and startled, one at another.

"I am afraid, Miss Brace," said the maid, "that there is something wrong!"

"What can be wrong? Has Lady Studleigh gone out, do you think, and taken the key of the room with her? If so, why should she leave the lamps burning? Oh, my lady! – Lady Studleigh! do you not hear us?"

Then Mattie began to fear! What had happened? She waited some time longer, but the same dead silence reigned.

"What shall we do, Miss Brace?" asked Eugenie. Her face grew very pale as she spoke. "I am quite sure that there is really something the matter. Lady Studleigh must be ill. Shall I fetch the countess?"

A vision of the fair, gentle face of Lady Estelle, with its sweet lips and tender eyes, seemed to rise before her.

"No," she replied; "if you really think there is anything wrong, you had better find the earl. But what can it be? Doris, my darling sister, do you not hear? Will you not unfasten the door!"

"I will go at once," said Eugenie.

Mattie begged that she would say nothing to the countess.

The maid hastened away and Mattie kept her lonely watch by the room door. She listened intently, but there was no sound, no faint rustle of a dress, no murmur of a voice; nothing but the glare of lamplight came from underneath. In spite of herself the dead silence frightened her. What could have happened? Even if Doris were ill she could have rung her bell and opened the door. There was little likelihood of her being ill: it was not many hours since they had parted, and then she was in the best of health and spirits.

The earl came quickly down the corridor.

"What is the matter, Mattie?" he asked, in a loud, cheery voice. "Eugenie is telling me some wonderful story about not being able to wake my daughter. What does it mean? Doris ought to be dressed and ready."

He started when his eyes fell on Mattie's bewildered face.

"You do not mean to say that there is anything wrong?" he cried.

"I hope not, Lord Linleigh, but we have been here nearly half an hour, doing all that is possible to wake Doris, and we cannot even make her hear."

He looked wonderfully relieved.

"Is that all? I will soon wake her."

He applied himself vigorously to the task with so much zeal that Mattie was half deafened.

"That will do," he said, laughingly. "Doris, you heard that, I am sure."

There was no reply. Mattie laid her hand on his arm.

"Lord Linleigh," she asked, "do you see the gleam of the lamplight under the door? The night lights are still burning."

Then he looked a little startled.

"Mattie," he said, hurriedly, "young ladies live so fast nowadays; do you think Doris takes opiates of any kind – anything to make her sleep?"

"I do not think so," she replied.

Then again, with all his force, the earl called to her, and again there was no response.

"This is horrible," he said, beating with his hands on the door. "Why, Mattie, Mattie, it is like the silence of death."

"Shall you break the door open?" she asked.

"No, my dear Mattie," he said, aghast; "is there any need? There cannot be anything really serious the matter; to break open the door would be to pre-suppose something terrible. How foolish I am! There is the staircase – I had forgotten that." He stopped abruptly and turned very pale. "Surely to Heaven," he cried, "nothing has happened through that staircase door being left open? I always felt nervous over it. Stay here, Mattie; say nothing. I will run round."

As he passed hurriedly along he saw Earle, who, looking at his face, cried:

"What is the matter, Lord Linleigh?"

"Nothing," was the hurried reply, and the earl hastened on.

He passed through the hall – through the broad terrace to the staircase leading to his daughter's suit of rooms.

The door was open – he saw that at one glance – open, so that in all probability she had risen and gone out in the grounds. His heart gave a great bound of relief; she was out of doors – there could be no doubt of it; gone, probably, to enjoy one last glimpse of her home.

There was a strange feeling of oppression, a strange heaviness at his heart. He raised his hand to his brow, and wondered to feel the great drops there.

"I will go to her room," he said to himself, "she will be there soon; she is dreaming her time away, I suppose."

Yet he went very slowly. Ah, dear Heaven! what is that?

A thin, crimson stain stealing gently along the floor; a horrible crimson stain!

Great Heaven! what did it mean?

The next moment he is standing, with a white, terrible face, looking at the ghastly sight, that he is never to forget again, let him live long as he may. The lurid light of the lamps contrasts with the sweet light of day. There on the floor lies the wedding-dress, the veil and wreath – torn, destroyed – out of all shape – stained with that fearful crimson; and lying on them, her golden hair all wet and stained, her white neck bare, her dead face calm and still, was Doris – his beautiful, beloved daughter.

He uttered no cry; he fell on his knees by the fair, dead girl, and looked at her.

Murdered! dead! lying there with her heart's blood flowing round her! Dead! murdered! while he had slept!

All the sudden shock and terror of his bereavement came over him in a sudden passion of despair.

He uttered one long, low cry, and fled from the room.