CHAPTER LXXVI.
"I SHALL WAKE UP AND FIND IT A DREAM."
The eighth of August! When had any day so beautiful shone before? It was as though the birds had woke earlier to sing. How the sun was shining and the flowers blooming! Lady Doris opened her eyes to the fairest and loveliest day that had ever dawned.
"Earle is coming to-day!" was her first thought.
"Earle is coming!" sung the birds.
"Earle is coming!" whispered the wind, as it stirred the sweet green leaves. She had rested well; for it seemed to her now that her troubles were nearly ended. In two more days she would be his wife; then, who could touch her, what evil could come to her?
Earle was to be at Linleigh by noon. The hours would roll so swiftly, so sweetly by until then. Only two days! She sung to herself sweet little snatches of love songs. While she was dressing she looked at herself in wonder; could it be the same Doris who once thought nothing on earth of any value except money and grandeur? Could she have so mingled her love and life into another's as almost to have lost her own identity, and to think of nothing except Earle?
"I never thought that I should be so much in love," she said, to herself. "How strange it seems!"
She did not quite understand herself. It was not that she loved Earle so passionately; the capability of great love was not hers. It was not that; it was that Earle, the master-mind, had, by the force and nobility of his own character, completely influenced her, and had won a complete ascendency over her. She had not much power of loving; what she had was his. But Earle represented peace, happiness, and prosperity to her—Earle was her sure haven of rest, her shield against all evil, her refuge against her direst enemy and bitter foe, Lord Vivianne.
So, welcome, bright, sunny day!—welcome golden sun and sweet flowers!
The post brought her her daily love-letter; but it was brief. It said simply:
"I cannot write much to my darling. I shall see her to-day, and, in two days more, she will be mine until death parts us."
He thought of the words when he saw them again.
Every face wore its brightest look at the breakfast-table that day. The earl and countess were happy in their beautiful daughter's happiness; Mattie, because she entered so easily into the joy of others.
"Doris," said Mattie, "will you come out? We shall have just time for a stroll in the woods before Earle comes."
Lady Doris laughed.
"I really cannot, Mattie. The spirit of unrest is on me, I cannot go anywhere or do anything until I have seen Earle."
"Have you decided yet about your wedding-dress?" asked Mattie. "This strange caprice of silence makes me afraid to speak; but, silence or not, it is high time that it was seen about."
Lady Doris laughed.
"I am so amused at myself, Mattie," she said. "If any one had ever told me, some years, even some months since, that I should be quite indifferent over my wedding-dress, I would not have believed it."
"But why are you indifferent?" asked Mattie. "I cannot understand. Is it because you are not marrying a nobleman—is it because you are marrying Earle?"
"No," was the reply. "You can believe me or not, Mattie, just as you please, but I assure you I am more proud in marrying Earle than if I were marrying a king."
"So I should imagine. Earle is a king; then why this strange desire for secrecy?"
The beautiful eyes were raised wistfully to her face.
"I may tell you, perhaps, some day, Mattie, but not now, dear—not now. You will marry some good, kindly man, Mattie—some one like yourself, who never knew the fiery heat of temptation; who has always kept—as you have kept—his eyes on Heaven; then, some day, dear, when you are sitting with your little children around you, I shall come to you—world-worn and weary, perhaps, who knows!—longing to lay my head in the clover grass, and then I may tell you all—but not now."
"Then there is a secret?" said Mattie, gently.
"Yes," was the wary reply, "there is a secret."
The words seemed half forced from her.
"Does Earle know it?" asked Mattie.
"No, and never will. Do not talk to me, dear; you have been my sister many years, and I love you very much; if ever I seek a confidante it will be you. You need not be anxious over my wedding-dress, Mattie. Lady Linleigh has presented me with my trousseau, and she tells me that no royal princess ever had a more sumptuous one; she told me also that a box would come from Paris to-day, for you and for me; rely upon it, that will contain my wedding-dress."
"How kind Lady Linleigh is to you," said Mattie. "I do not think your own mother could love you better."
"I do not think she would love me half so much," was the laughing reply. Then, in the warm, sunlit air, they heard the sharp clang of the clock—eleven. "He will be here in an hour," said Doris.
"Shall you not go and change your dress?" asked the simple little foster-sister. "I thought great ladies always dressed very grandly to receive their lovers."
"My dear Mattie," was the coquettish reply, "could I look better?"
No, she could not. A white dress of Indian muslin showed every curve and line of that beautiful figure. It was open at the throat, and a lovely rose nestled against the white breast; it was relieved by dashes of blue, and the long, waving, golden hair was fastened by a single blue ribbon. No jewels, no court attire, no magnificence of dress ever became her as did this; she looked young, fresh, and fair as the dawn of a bright spring morning. No one looking at her could have guessed that the foul canker of sin had entered that young heart and soul.
"I am very happy here," she continued, languidly. "I am watching the butterflies and the flowers. Look at that one, Mattie, with the gorgeous purple wings; see, now he hovers round that tall, white lily, then he goes away to the clove carnations; he does not know which to choose. Oh, happy butterfly, to have such a choice! I wonder what it is like, Mattie, to feel quite free from care?"
They were seated under a group of white acacia trees on the lawn, and with every breath of wind the fragrant blossoms fell in a sweet shower over them; the sun shone on the rippling fountains, on the fair flowers, and on the faces of the two girls.
"Free from care!" repeated Mattie, with something like surprise. "Why, my darling, if you are not free from care, who is?"
"I was not speaking or even thinking of myself; I was merely thinking how happy all kinds of birds, and butterflies, and flowers must be to enjoy the dew, and the sunshine, and the sweet winds."
"Happy, but they have no soul, Doris."
She laughed a low, bitter laugh that pierced Mattie like the point of a sword.
"A soul!" she repeated. "I am not sure that a soul brings happiness; those who have souls have the responsibility of saving them."
"Doris, you do not deserve to be happy, for you are not good," cried Mattie; and three days afterward she remembered the words with the keenest pain.
But Lady Doris was unusually gentle; she bent down and kissed the kindly face.
"I am not good, but I am going to try to be better, dear; it seems to be part of my nature to say bad things. I am not quite sure if I always mean them. Hark, Mattie; I hear the sound of carriage wheels. Earle is coming!"
The beautiful face grew white in its intensity of feeling.
Mattie rose from her seat.
"He will like best," she said, "to meet you alone. I will tell him your are here."
It seemed to Doris that the sun shone more golden, the wind seemed to whisper more sweetly, when she heard the sound of footsteps and the voice she loved so well. The next moment strong loving arms were around her, passionate kisses fell on her face, lips and hands.
"My darling!" cried Earle. "My wife, so soon to be my wife."
It was one happy half-hour, stolen almost from paradise, for he loved her so dearly; he found heaven in her face; and she was at rest, at peace with him.
Then Lord Linleigh and Mattie came. The earl with happy smiles and merry jests; he was so glad in her joy.
"Love is very delightful," he said, "but, Doris, we must offer something substantial to a traveler; suppose we substitute cold chicken and Madeira. Then Lady Linleigh desired me to say that a most wonderful box had arrived from Paris, and she wanted you to unpack it."
Then he bent down and kissed the fair face so dear to them all.
"I can hardly believe that we are to lose you in two days, my darling," he said.
"Nor can I believe that I shall win her," said Earle. "I often have the impression that I shall wake up and find it a dream, and that Earle Moray will be in the cornfields at home."
"You are a poet," laughed the earl, "and poets are not accountable for anything."
Then they went together to lunch. Mattie knew that it was by Lady Linleigh's orders that the table was so gracefully ornamented with flowers and fruit; the pretty thought was like her. They spent perhaps one of the happiest hours of their lives together. Then Lady Linleigh said:
"Now for the Parisian box. Earle, you must be banished while that is unpacked."
The ladies went together up to Lady Linleigh's room.
"We will have no curious ladies' maids or servants," she said; "we will unpack this ourselves. The key came to me this morning by registered letter. Doris, my dear, the box and its contents are yours—you shall unpack them."
Lady Studleigh took the key and opened it. There were layers of fine white wadding and tissue paper. One by one Lady Doris raised the costly packets in her hands and laid them down. There was a bridesmaid's costume all complete, a marvel of pink and white silk, with everything to match; white silk shoes, with little pink rosettes; white bonnet, that looked as though a puff of wind would blow it away, and a costly pink plume; gloves, fan, jewels, all matched exactly, and Mattie's face grew radiant.
"All this for me! Oh, Lady Linleigh, how am I to thank you?"
"By looking your prettiest in them," laughed the countess, as she placed the fairy-like bonnet on the brown, shining hair. "I thought pink would suit you, Mattie; so it does. See how nice she looks, Doris."
Lady Studleigh kissed her foster-sister's face.
"Mattie always looks nice," she said, "just as she always looks happy and good."
Then came the bride's costume.
"You would not allow the earl and myself to show that we felt your wedding to be the happiest event of our lives," said Lady Linleigh; "but you could not prevent my intention of seeing you dressed as a bride."
Such a wedding-dress—one of Worth's most marvelous combinations of white satin and white lace—a dress fit for a queen; and it was trimmed so beautifully with wreaths of orange blossoms. There, in a pretty scented box, lay the bridal veil—such a wonder of lace, so exquisitely worked, large enough to cover a bride, yet so fine and delicate that it could be drawn through a wedding-ring. Then came the wreath of orange blossoms!
Lady Studleigh was accustomed by this time to splendor—there was little in the way of dress that could ever give her the agreeable sensation of surprise; but she uttered a little cry of admiration as she saw the elegant costly presents the countess had arranged for her. Everything was complete and beautiful, even to the little bouquet-holder, made of pure white pearls. She took Lady Linleigh's hands and kissed them.
"Are you pleased, my darling?" she asked, gently.
"Oh, Lady Linleigh, you have left me without words—quite without words! I cannot thank you."
The countess bent her head.
"Could your own mother have pleased you more?" she asked.
"No—a thousand times no!" was the sincere reply.
Then Mattie said: "Lady Linleigh, let us dress Doris in her bridal robes, so that Earle may see her."
And the countess laughed as she gave consent.
CHAPTER LXXVII.
TRYING ON THE WEDDING-DRESS.
"What does she look like?" cried Mattie in a passion of admiration, as they placed the bridal veil on the golden head.
"It would require a poet to tell us," said the countess; "and as we have one close at hand, we will ask him. Mattie, go and bring Earle here. Close the door after you. I should not like every one to know what we have been doing."
And presently, Earle stood before a figure that seemed to him too beautiful to be real—a tall, graceful figure that seemed to rise from the waves of white satin and lace—as a graceful flower from its stem. Through the bridal veil he caught the sheen of the golden hair—the dainty color of the face—the deep color of the violet eyes. The sweet odor of orange blossoms floated to him.
"Doris," he said, in a low voice; "my beautiful love, let me see your face."
It was Lady Linleigh who threw back the veil, so that he might see the lovely, blushing face. Tears stood in the young lover's eyes, although he tried to control his emotion.
"Is it possible, Lady Linleigh?" he asked, "that this is my wife—that—well, I had better not say too much; you do not think I shall wake up and find it all a dream?"
"No, it is real enough."
Then he drew nearer to her.
"You will let me give you one kiss, Doris—Lady Linleigh will not be horrified. You will be Lady Moray soon. What is my poor name worth, that it should be so highly honored?"
He kissed her sweet lips.
"I must be careful," he said. "You look like a fairy. Perhaps you would vanish if a mere mortal touched you. Now, let me look at you, darling—at your dress, your veil, and your wreath. The picture is perfect. I wish that I could put it into words."
He did, afterward—into words over which all England wept. Then, for a few minutes, the three—Lady Linleigh, Mattie, and Earle—stood looking at her in silence, they hardly knew why. Then Earle said:
"When I see that pretty veil again, it will be on the head of my beloved wife."
Then they all three looked at the veil. Heaven help him! he little dreamed how and when he should see it again. If they could have had the faintest foreknowledge of that, the tragedy might have been averted.
Then Earle went away, and the bridal robes were taken to Lady Linleigh's boudoir.
"They will not be seen there," said the countess. "I will lock the door and keep the key; to-morrow it will not matter."
And Mattie helped her—poor, helpless child!—place them over a chair so that the shining robes might not be injured.
It was Earle who proposed a ramble to the woods; dinner was to be later than usual.
"Let us all three go," he said. "Mattie with us, Doris; it may be years before we meet all together so happy again."
So it was settled, and they spent the remainder of that sunny, happy day together.
They were sitting in a green, sunny dell, with the fall grass and wild flowers springing luxuriantly around them, the tall trees spreading overhead, the little birds filling the wood with song.
Lady Doris had never been so happy; she had almost forgotten the dark background of sorrow and care. Mattie was happy, for it was impossible to see them so young, so loving, with their graceful caresses and love, without rejoicing with them.
"This is like Brackenside," said Earle. "How often we have sat together in the woods there! And Mrs. Brace used to wonder how the farms would advance if they were left to us."
"And well she might wonder," said Mattie; "even when I believed Doris to be my own sister, I thought her the most beautiful, but the most useless of human beings!"
"Thank you," laughed Lady Studleigh.
"It is altogether like a fairy tale," said Earle; "if I had read such a story, I should say it was untrue; I should call such a story exaggerated; yet, here we are, the living, breathing actors in the drama."
"It is not such a very wonderful history, Earle," said Lady Studleigh; "there are many private marriages, many children brought up in ignorance of their real name and station; many a man like you—a gentleman and genius by birth—rises by the simple force of his own merit to be one of the magnates of the land."
Then she sighed to herself, and her brightness was for one moment overcast as she remembered that hers was the only part of the story that was improbable or extraordinary; no one would believe that she had been guilty as she had been.
How often, in after years, they went back to that bright, long day. Earle never saw a wild flower, or a green fern, that he did not turn from it with a sick, aching heart.
They dined together; the earl would not have any visitors; it was the last day but one of their darling, and they would have it all to themselves. There they sat in the gloaming, and Doris sang to them. Who knew the pain, the aching in one lonely heart? who knew the quiet heroism of the girl with the brown, kindly face and shining hair?
The lamps were lighted, and, Lord Linleigh, laughing to think how they had all been engrossed, drew a large parcel toward himself.
"This shows," he said, "that we have something unusual going on. This packet of periodicals has been in the library for several days, and no one has thought of opening it. It is the first time such a thing has happened."
He unfastened the string and looked through them casually. One, however, seemed to attract his attention. It was beautifully illustrated, and he laid it down with a smile.
"Read that, Doris," he said; "it contains a warning for you."
"What is the warning, papa? I would rather take it from you than from print."
"I have not read it. Look at the engraving. It is evidently the story of a bride who, on her wedding-eve, dresses herself in her bridal-robes—girlish vanity, I suppose—just to see how she looks. The wedding-dress catches fire, and she is burned to death. Moral: young ladies should never try on their wedding-dresses beforehand."
"What a tragical story!" said the countess.
"I can never see the use of such stories," said Mattie; "they make every one sad who reads them."
"Burned to death on her wedding-eve," said Earle, "and all because she wanted to see if she should be charming enough in the eyes of her lover! There is no poetic justice in that."
"What was the heroine's name, papa?" asked Doris.
"Miriam Dale. I always notice that if a heroine is to come to any pathetic end she is called Miriam."
"Did she love her lover very much?" asked Doris.
"Read the story, my dear," said the earl, indolently; "it is not much in my line. The engraving caught my attention—a beautiful, frantic girl, dressed in bridal robes and wreathed in flames. There is something terrible about it."
Doris rose from her seat and opened the book; then, after looking at the picture, she laid it down with a long, shuddering sigh.
"Stories often fail in poetic justice," she said. "If that girl was young and innocent, if she had done no wrong, why should she have been killed on her wedding-eve?"
"Stories are, after all, but sketches taken from life," said the earl, "and life often seems to us, short-seeing mortals, to fail in poetic justice, although, no doubt, everything is right and just in the sight of Heaven. Doris is growing serious over it."
"We tried her wedding-dress on this morning, but there was no fire near it, and no harm came of it."
"I am no believer in those stupid superstitions, although I have heard it is unlucky to try on a wedding-dress; still I do not believe it will make one iota of difference."
"How can it?" said Earle, calmly; and they all remembered that conversation a few hours afterward.
The ninth of August came, and Lord Linleigh, as they sat at breakfast, said laughingly:
"Now for a sensation! What will be said and thought by the different members of this establishment when it is known that there is to be a wedding to-morrow? It passes my comprehension. I promised to be patient, but it was almost cruel of you, Doris, to place me in such a predicament. I suppose I must call the principal servants together and tell them that Lady Studleigh is to be married to-morrow, without form or ceremony of any kind. There will be what the papers call a startling surprise!"
"We have plenty to do," said the countess; "there will be no time for rambles in the wood. Ulric, when you have made your announcement, will you go to the vicarage? You have arrangements to make there, and you must take Earle with you. I cannot spare Doris to him this morning."
So the gentlemen went away.
"It is a strange whim of Doris', this desire for secrecy," said the earl, as they rode along. "I must confess I do not understand it; do you?"
"Not in the least," replied Earle, "she seemed very intent upon it. I think, Lord Linleigh," he added, with a laugh, "that I shall learn one thing as I grow older."
"What will that be?" asked the earl.
"Not to try to fathom the caprice of ladies, but to yield gracefully to it."
"You are a wise man," said Lord Linleigh, with a look of sincere admiration; "that is the true secret of wedded content."
While Lord Linleigh and Earle were busy at the vicarage, where it required some time and some persuasion to induce the rector to believe what they had to say, the ladies were wonderfully busy. The news spread, and as Lord Linleigh had foreseen, caused a great sensation.
Lady Studleigh to be married to-morrow!—and such a marriage—no ceremony, no gayeties, nothing at all!
Lady Linleigh had, however, considerably changed the state of affairs, by saying that the arrangements for the wedding had been hurried so as to permit of Lady Doris going abroad in August, and, before going, she intended making a handsome present to each member of the household. Their opinion was, in consequence, considerably changed.
When the earl and his household met at dinner there were much laughter and amusement—much to tell; the rector's amazement, the astonishment of every one who heard the news. The earl was in high spirits, laughing and jesting all the more that he saw his wife's gentle face growing sad and sorrowful.
"You will be gone this time to-morrow," she said. "I shall fancy I hear your voice and see your face all day, and for many long days."
"Yes," said Doris, softly, "I shall be gone this time to-morrow."
"But you will not be so very far away," said Mattie.
"No further than London," said Earle. "I like crossing the Channel; do you, Doris?"
"No, I am not a good sailor," she replied.
"Ladies seldom are," said the earl. "Estelle, I have resolved Doris' last evening with us shall be the happiest she has spent at Linleigh. We will not have one sad word."
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?"
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!