Kitabı oku: «A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette», sayfa 39

CHAPTER LXXXIV
A MOTHER'S ANGUISH

They wondered why Lord Linleigh allowed no one to take the fatal news to his wife but himself. The secret of her early ill-starred love and marriage had been so well kept all those years, it was useless to betray it now. He knew well what her anguish would be. He dreaded all scenes of sorrow, but he loved his wife, and no one must be with her in the first hour of her supreme trouble and bereavement.

He went to her room when the detectives left, and found Mattie still keeping watch over her. Before speaking one word to his wife, he turned to Mattie.

"Thank you, my dear," he said, gently; "you have carried out my wishes most faithfully. Will you go to Earle? Eugenie will take you where he is."

Then when she had quitted the room, Lady Estelle flung herself into his arms.

"Ulric," she cried, "tell me what is the matter? I know that something terrible has happened to Doris – what is it?"

"My darling wife," he said, "try to bear it. I have sad news for you – the saddest that I could bring you. Doris is dead!"

But even he, knowing how dearly the mother loved her child, was hardly prepared for the storm of anguish that broke over her.

"Dead!" she cried, "and never knew me as her mother! Dead! and never clasped her sweet arms round my neck! Dead! without one word! I cannot believe it, Ulric. How did it happen? Oh, my darling, my golden-haired child, come back to me, only just to call me mother! How did it happen, Ulric? Oh, I cannot believe it!"

He was obliged to tell her the pitiful story. Not one word did he say of the wedding costume destroyed, or the captain's suspicion – not one syllable; yet, strange to say, the same idea occurred to her. His wife had lain her head on his breast; she was weeping bitterly, and he clasped his arm round her. He said in a grave voice quite unlike his own:

"It must have been some beggar or tramp, who knew the secret of that spiral staircase, and had resolved upon breaking into the house by that means – some one who had learned, in all probability, that our daughter's jewels were kept in her chamber. Perhaps she carelessly left the outer door unlocked, and, while she was sitting dreaming, the burglar entered noiselessly; then, when she rose in her fright to give the alarm, he stabbed her."

She did not think just then of asking if the jewels were stolen or not; but, strange to say, she started up with a sudden cry.

"Oh, Ulric, Ulric! was it all right with her, do you think? I have always been afraid – just a little afraid – since I heard how she begged for secrecy over her wedding. Do you think she was frightened at any one? Perhaps some one else loved her, and was madly jealous of her."

He did not let her see how her words startled him – so like those used by Captain Ayrley. He tried to quiet her.

"No, my darling Estelle. Doris had many lovers – we knew them – men of high repute and fair renown; but there was not one among them who would have slain her because she loved Earle. Remember yet one thing more – no one know she was going to marry Earle; it had not even been whispered outside of our own house. It was a robbery, and nothing else, carefully planned by some one who knew the only weak spot in the house. I have no doubt of it."

Then she broke down again, and cried out with wild words and burning tears for her child – her only child, who had never known her as her mother.

They wondered again why the earl, with his own hand led Lady Linleigh to the silent death-chamber. He did not wish any one to be near, to see or to hear her.

He lived long after, but he never forgot that terrible scene; he never forgot how the mother flung herself by the side of that silent figure – how caressingly her hands lingered on the golden hair, on the sweet, dead face; he never forgot the passionate torrent of words – words that would have betrayed her secret over and over again a thousand times had any one been present to hear them. She laid her face on the pale lips.

"My darling," she cried, "come back to me, only for one hour: come back, while I tell you that I was your mother, darling – your own mother. My arms cradled you, my lips kissed you, my heart yearned over you. I am your own mother, darling. Come back and speak one word to me – only one word. Oh, Ulric, is it death? See, how beautiful she is! Her hair is like shining gold, and she is smiling! Oh, Heaven, she is smiling! She is not dead!"

But he drew her back, telling her it was only a sunbeam shining on the dead face – that she was dead, and would never smile again.

"Only touch one hand," he said; "there is nothing so cold as death."

She could only cry out, "her darling! her darling!" Oh, for the days that were gone – spent without her! How dearly she would love her if she would but come back again!

Lord Linleigh was always thankful that he had brought her there alone; and though he knew such indulgence in violent sorrow to be bad for her, he would not ask her to go away until it was almost exhausted; then he knelt down by her side.

"Estelle," he said, "you remember that it was for your father's sake we resolved to keep this secret – nay, we promised to do so. You must not break this promise now. You kept it while our darling lived; keep it still. Control your sorrow for your father's sake. Kiss the quiet lips, love, and tell our darling that you will keep our secret for all time."

She had exhausted herself by passionate weeping and passionate cries, she obeyed him, humbly and simply, as though she had been a child. She laid her quivering lips on the cold white ones, and said:

"I shall keep our secret, Doris."

Then he led her away.

That same day Lord Linleigh sent telegrams to the Duke and Duchess of Downsbury and to Brackenside. Before the noon of the next day the duke and duchess had reached Linleigh Court. The duke took an active part in all the preparations for the ceremony of interment. The duchess shut herself up in her daughter's room, and would not leave her. Later on in the day Mark and Mrs. Brace came: their grief was intense. Lord Linleigh little knew how near he was then to the solving of the mystery; but the same carefully prepared story was told to them as was told to every one else – a burglar had broken into her room, and, in the effort to give an alarm, Lady Doris Studleigh had been cruelly murdered. Nothing was said of the crushed bridal wreath or the torn wedding-dress.

Honest Mark never heard that there was any other mystery connected with the murder than the wonder of who had done it. Perhaps had he told the story of Lord Vivianne's visit to Brackenside, it would have furnished some clew; but the earl was deeply engrossed and troubled. Mark never even remembered the incident. Had he heard anything of the captain's suspicions, he might have done so. It did not seem to him improbable that the young girl had been slain in the effort to save her jewelry; and jewel robberies, he read, were common enough.

Though the summer's sun shone and the flowers bloomed, the darkest gloom hung over Linleigh Court. Who could have believed that so lately it had been gay with preparations for a wedding? Lady Doris lay white, still, and beautiful in her silent room. Earle had shut himself up in the solitude of his chamber, and refused to come out into the light of day. Lady Estelle was really ill, and the duchess never left her. The one source of all help and comfort, the universal consoler, was Mattie; in after times they wondered what they should have done without her.

The duke and Lord Linleigh were incessantly engaged.

For many long years nothing had made so great a sensation as this murder – all England rang with it. So young, so beautiful, so highly accomplished, heiress to great wealth, and on the point of marriage with the man she loved best in all the world. It was surely the most sad and pathetic affair within the memory of man. There was a suspicion of romance in it, too – murdered on the eve of her marriage.

Some of the best detective skill in England was employed to trace out the murderer; but it was all in vain. The duke offered an unprecedented reward, the earl another, and government another; but it was all in vain; there did not seem to be the slightest clew – no handkerchief with the murderer's name, no weapon bearing his initials, no trace of any kind could be discovered of one of the most horrible crimes in the whole annals of the country.

There had been an inquest. The maid Eugenie, Mattie Brace, Earle, and Lord Linleigh, all gave their evidence; but when it was sifted and arranged, there was absolutely nothing in it; so that the verdict given was, "Found murdered, by some person or persons unknown."

Nothing remained then but to bury her. The brief life was ended; there was no more joy, no more sorrow for her – it was all over; neither her youth, her beauty, nor her wealth could save her. Her sin had found her out, and the price of her sin was death. There could have been no keener, swifter punishment than hers, and sin always brings it.

It seems so easy; the temptation, like that of Doris, is so sudden, so swift, so sweet; the retribution seems so far off. But, sure as night follows day, surely as the golden wheat ripens under the summer sun, it comes at last.

Until the hour she was taken from the sight of men she never lost any of her marvelous loveliness; until the last she looked like a marble sculpture, the highest perfection of beauty. They wondered – those who loved her best, as they knelt by her side and kissed her for the last time – why such wondrous loveliness had been given to her; it had brought her no good – it had given her swift, terrible death. Rank, wealth, position, all have their perils, but it seemed to those who watched her that surely the greatest peril of all is the peril of beauty. She had been so vain of her fair face; it seemed to her that fair, fragile beauty was the chief thing in life. It had led her to vanity, and from vanity to sin of the deepest, deadliest dye. She had paid the price now – her life was the forfeit. The sheen of the golden hair, the light of the proud eyes, the beauty of the radiant face, the grace of the perfect figure, were all hidden away; that for which she had sinned and suffered – for which she had neglected her heart, mind, and soul – for which she had neglected Heaven – was already a thing of the past. Let poets and artists rave of beauty – let the dead girl answer, "What had beauty done for her?"

CHAPTER LXXXV
A SURPRISE FOR LORD LINLEIGH

The funeral at Linleigh Court is still talked of in the county. There had not been for many generations such a scene. The whole country side were present; the rich and the noble to sympathize and assist, the poor to look on in wonder. They stood in groups under the trees discussing the event, they told each other that she had been beautiful as an angel, with hair that shone like the sun: that when she was younger and before she had come into possession of her fortune she had loved some one very much, a handsome, young poet; and after she came into her fortune, she had been true to him, and had refused some of the greatest men in England, to marry him.

Tears stood in the eyes of those simple men and women as they told each other the story – that the night before her wedding-day she had been so cruelly murdered by a burglar who wanted her jewelry. Was there ever a story so sad. They stood bare-headed as that mournful procession passed by, pointing out to each other the chief mourners. "There was the young poet," they said – but who would have recognized Earle? His face was quite changed; the youth, the beauty had died from it, it was white with the pallor of despair; the eyes were haggard and wild, the lips quivered piteously, as the lips of a grieving child. It was hard to believe that he had ever been handsome, gallant, and gay. Women wept as they looked at him, and men stood bare-headed, mute, silent, before a great sorrow that they could so well understand. There was the earl; he looked very sad, grieved, and anxious, but he was a Studleigh, and on that debonair race trouble always sat lightly; they had grand capabilities for throwing off sorrow. They showed each other the stately Duke of Downsbury, one of the noblest men in England, who was not ashamed to take his station by the side of Mark Brace, the honest farmer; then followed a long train of nobles, gentlemen, and friends.

The long procession wound its way through the park, the leaves fell, the flowers stirred idly in the summer wind, as though recognizing the fact that a fairer flower had been laid low; the birds sang joyously, as though death and sorrow were not passing through their midst, and the bright sun shone warm and golden as they carried the beautiful Lady Doris to her last home. Oh! sweet summer and fragrant flowers, singing birds and humming bees, no sadder sight than this ever passed through your midst!

The same minister who was to have married her read the funeral service over her. She was to be buried in the family vault of the Studleighs, but, at the last, Lady Estelle had clung to her, declaring that she could not endure her darling buried out of her sight, that she must sleep in the sunshine and flowers, where she could see her grave; and the duke begged Lord Linleigh to grant her prayer. So it was done; and in the pretty churchyard so green and silent, with its tall trees and flowers, she sleeps the long sleep that knows no waking.

The sparrows build their nests there, the gray church-tower is a home for the rooks, the wood-pigeons coo in the tall trees, the nightingale sings her sweetest songs, and the fairest blossoms grow over her grave. The white marble cross gleams through the trees and on it one may read the short, sad story of Lady Doris Studleigh.

That same summer day, guests and friends returned home, the duke and duchess alone remaining, with Mattie Brace. Mark and his wife took their leave.

"I shall never forget her," said honest Mark, as he wrung Earle's hand; "she was the most winsome lass I ever saw; I shall never look up at the skies without thinking I see her sweet face there."

Some months afterward – he did not attend to it just then – Lord Linleigh settled a handsome annuity on the farmer and his wife. They lived honored, esteemed, and respected to a good old age; but they never forgot the child who had come to them in the wind and the rain – the beautiful girl whose tragical end cast a shadow over their lives.

A deep, settled gloom fell over Linleigh. Many thought that Earle would never recover; the spring of his life seemed broken. It would have been hard for him if he had never found her in Florence; but having so found her, having won her love, her heart, her wild, graceful fancy, having made so sure that she would one day be his wife, it was harder still. Every resource, every energy, every hope, seemed crushed and dead.

He remained at Linleigh Court through the winter. Lord Linleigh would say to him at times:

"We must think about your future, Earle; it is time something was done."

His only answer was that he wanted no future; that the only mercy which could be shown to him now, was an early death and a speedy one.

They had great patience with him, knowing that youth is impatient with sorrow, with despair – knowing that time would lessen the terrible grief, and give back some of its lost brightness to life.

At the end of the autumn even his physical strength seemed to fail him, and the doctors, summoned by Lord Linleigh in alarm, said he must positively spend the winter in some warmer climate.

"Let me stay and die here," he said to the earl.

But Lord Linleigh had grown warmly attached to him. He was intent on saving him if possible. The duchess came to the rescue: she said, that after the terrible shock some change was needful for all. If Lady Estelle did not feel equal to going abroad, let her spend the winter at Downsbury Castle with them, while Lord Linleigh and Earle went abroad together. Though Lady Estelle demurred at being separated from her husband, she saw that the change of scene and travel would be most beneficial for him, so she consented.

She went to Downsbury Castle with the duchess, and Lord Linleigh took Earle to Spain.

They were absent nearly five months, but time and travel did much for them. Earle recovered his lost strength and much of his lost energy; once more his genius reasserted itself; once more grand, beautiful, noble ideas shaped themselves before him; once more the strong manly desire to be first and foremost in the battle of life came over him. Together they planned great deeds. Earle was to take his place in Parliament again; he was to be Lord Linleigh's right hand.

"You will always be like an elder son to me," said Lord Linleigh one day. "I shall have no one to study but you."

Then Earle was doubly fortunate; the duke had an excellent civil appointment in his power; when it became vacant, he offered it to Earle, who gratefully accepted it.

"Now," said Lord Linleigh to him, "your position is secure – your fortune is made."

And Earle sighed deeply, remembering how happy this might have made him once.

They were to return to England in April; and then a grand surprise awaited the earl. He received a letter to say that Lady Estelle, having grown tired of Downsbury Castle, had gone to a pretty estate of his in Wales – Gymglas – and that, on his return, he was to join her there.

"What a strange whim," said Lord Linleigh to Earle. "Gone to Gymglas. I have not been in Wales for some time. It will be quite pleasant – quite a treat to me."

When he returned to England, they went at once to Gymglas.

They reached the hall one fine day in April, when the world was all fair with the coming spring. Lord Linleigh thought he had never seen his wife looking so young or so fair. He had left her pale, with a quiet, languid sadness that seemed almost like despair: now her face was flushed with a dainty color, her eyes were bright; she was animated, joyous, and happy. It was a strange, subtle change, that he hardly understood.

"My darling Estelle," he said, "how happy I am to see you looking so bright! Has anything happened while I have been away?"

"Am I looking so well?" she asked, in a voice so full of heart's music he hardly recognized it. "Do you love me better than ever, Ulric?"

"Yes, a thousand times, if it be possible," he replied.

"Come with me," she said.

He half hesitated. He was tired, hungry, and longing for rest and refreshment.

She laughed in a gay, saucy fashion, quite unlike her own.

"I know," she said, "you think a glass of sherry would be far better than any little sentimental surprise I could give you. Wait and see; follow me."

She looked so charming and irresistible, he forgot all that he wanted and went after her. He expected to see a new conservatory or some pretty improvement in the old hall; but, rather to his surprise, she led the way up-stairs. He had almost forgotten the house; it was so large and old-fashioned. The beautiful countess stood quite still as they reached a large door, and placed her finger mysteriously on her lips.

"I am quite sure that you will be more pleased than ever you have been in your life before," she said.

She opened the door, and he followed her into a large, lofty, beautifully furnished room. In the midst of it stood a cozy and costly cradle. His wife took his hand and led him to it. She drew the silken curtain aside, and there lay the loveliest babe the sun ever shone on – a little, golden head, shining with curls – a face like a rosebud, with sweet little lips. One pretty hand lay outside on the silken coverlet. Lord Linleigh looked on in wonder too great for words.

"What is this?" he said, at last.

His wife laughed a sweet, low, happy laugh, such as he had not heard from her lips since the days of her happy girlhood.

"I will introduce you," she said. "Lord Linleigh, this is your son and heir, Lawrence Lord Studleigh, called in nursery parlance 'Laurie the beautiful!'"

The earl looked at his wife in a bewildered manner.

"You do not mean to tell me that this is my – our son, Estelle?"

"I do, indeed, Ulric. I did not tell you before, because I was afraid. I thought I should die. I never even had the hope of living – that made me go home with my mother. Are you pleased?"

"Why, my darling! how can I tell you? what am I to say to you? Pleased is not the word. I am lost in delight. So I really have a little son. Raise him – he looks like a beautiful bird in a nest. Place him in my arms, and let me kiss him. My own little son! Talk of a surprise! this is one! Call Earle, darling! let Earle see him."

And when Earle came, just as though he knew he was to be admired and worshiped, the baby opened a pair of beautiful eyes, and looked so good and sweet that they were charmed.

Lord Linleigh could not recover himself to think that he who had no hope of succession should suddenly find this pretty little son. To the end of his life he persisted in teasing his wife by always calling his eldest son "The Surprise."

So that was, indeed, a happy coming home.

Earle went to London then to begin his life's work. The earl and the countess returned to Linleigh, where, in the smiles of her children, Lady Estelle grew young again. Fair-faced daughters and sturdy, noble boys made the walls of the Court ring again. The earl was happy beyond measure, but neither he nor his wife ever forgot the hapless, beautiful girl whom they had lost.