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.
CHAPTER LXXXII.
HOW THE NEWS WAS TOLD.
Lord Linleigh rushed from the room like one mad—he was utterly lost. That his beautiful daughter, who was to have been married that day, lay there murdered and dead, was an idea too terrible to contemplate. He fled from the place, but he could not fly from reality. How, in Heaven's name, was he to confront the mother of this unhappy girl? How was he to tell her lover? What was he to do?
For once the courage of the Studleighs—oh, fatal boast!—failed him. He sank down on the last step of that fatal staircase, white, sick, trembling, and unmanned.
"What shall I do?" he moaned to himself. "Oh, Heaven, what shall I do?"
It must be told—there was no time to lose: even now he could hear a hurried murmur, as of expectation and fear.
When he rose to return his limbs trembled like those of a little child; he was compelled to clutch the iron rail and the boughs of the trees for support. It was not sorrow—he had not realized yet that it was his daughter, his only child who lay dead—he was simply stunned with horror. The dead face, the crimson-stained hair, the bare white breast with its terrible wound, the sun shining over the ghastly scene.
The hall-door was open as he had left it, and he saw the servants hurrying on their different affairs; no murmur of dread had reached them. There was to be a wedding, and, on the strength of it, they had each of them received a handsome present. Their faces were all smiles; but one or two, passing along, looked aghast as the master of that superb mansion, with his white face and horror-stricken eyes, came in.
The library was the nearest room at hand. He went in.
"Tell Miss Brace I want to see her directly," he said.
And in a few minutes Mattie stood trembling before him.
"There is something the matter," she said, in a low voice, "and, Lord Linleigh, you are afraid to tell me what it is."
He could only hold out his hands toward her with a trembling cry:
"Oh, great Heaven! how shall I tell her?"
She knelt down by his side, and held both his hands in hers. She felt that he was trembling—the strong figure was almost falling.
"Tell me!" she cried, calmly. "I am strong; you can trust me; I will help you all I can."
The good, kindly face grew almost beautiful in its look of high, patient resolve.
He raised his haggard eyes to her face.
"Mattie!" he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Doris is dead!"
She grew very pale, but no word passed her lips; she saw that so much would depend on her; she must not lose her self-control for one minute.
"Doris is dead!" he repeated; "and that is not all—she has been foully, terribly murdered! and she was to have been married to-day!"
She was quite silent for some minutes, trying to realize the meaning of his words; then her old prayer stole to her lips:
"We must try to spare Earle," she said. "Heaven save Earle!"
Lord Linleigh caught hold of her.
"Mattie," he said, in a low, gasping voice, quite unlike his own, "I have not realized yet that it is my child, Doris; I can only understand a murder has been done. Have I lost my reason?"
"No. You must be brave," she said. "Think of Lady Linleigh. Such a blow is enough to kill her."
His head fell on his hands, with a low moan.
"You do not know—you do not know all," he said.
Just at that moment they heard the voice of Lady Estelle in the hall. He started up, everything forgotten except the wife he loved so dearly, the mother whose child lay dead.
"Do one thing for me, Mattie," he gasped. "Go to her—on some pretext or other—take her to her own room; she must not see, she must not know. Keep her there; I must tell Earle."
Mattie hastened to obey him. Lady Estelle was speaking to one of the servants in the hall.
"Mattie," she said, "I do not understand this delay. If some one does not hurry matters a little, we shall have no wedding to-day."
Then the girl's anxious face and pale lips struck her.
"Surely," she said, "there is nothing wrong! Has Doris changed her mind?"
"No, dear Lady Linleigh: she is not quite well; and probably there will be no wedding to-day. I want you to come with me to your own room—I want to talk to you."
"I shall go to Doris," said the countess: "if she is not well, my place is with her."
But Mattie caught her hands, and the countess, always yielding, went with her.
"Is she really ill, Mattie? Is it some terrible fever—some terrible plague? Never mind—I will go and kiss it from her lips; I must be with her."
The poor lady wrung her hands in a paroxysm of despair; her face quivered with grief. Mattie tried all that was possible to console her. What could she do? It was the heartbroken cry of a mother for a child; but she could not tell.
"We must be patient, dear lady," she said, "and wait until Lord Linleigh sends or comes."
She persuaded the countess to lie on the couch. She complied, trembling, weeping.
"You must be hiding something from me," she said. "She was to have been married this morning. Oh, Mattie, tell me what it is?"
Mattie Brace passed through many hours of sorrow and sadness, but none so dark as that which she spent shut up with Lady Linleigh. She could hear the sound of hurried footsteps. Once or twice she heard a cry of fear or dismay. She heard the rapid galloping of horses, and she knew that they were gone in search of the doer of the deed. Yet all that time she had to sit with assumed calm by the side of Lady Estelle. No one came near them. The silence of death seemed to reign over that part of the house; while from Mattie's heart, if not from her lips, went every minute the prayer:
"Heaven save Earle!"
What had passed was like a terrible dream to all those who shared in it. Lord Linleigh had gone in search of Earle. He found him busied in his preparations; happy and light of heart, as he was never to be again. He turned with a musical laugh to the earl.
"We have just ten minutes," he said. "I hope Doris is ready."
Then the smile died on his lips, for he caught one glimpse of the white face and terrified eyes. With one bound he had cleared the distance between them, and stood impatiently clutching Lord Linleigh's arm.
"What is that in your face?" he cried. "What is it? What is the matter?"
"Heaven help you, my poor boy!" said the earl, in a broken voice. "It would seem better to take away your life at once than to tell what I have to tell."
"Doris is ill. She—no—she cannot have changed her mind again—she cannot have gone away!"
"You will not be married to-day," said the earl, sadly. "My poor Earle."
"I cannot believe it," he cried. "Is Heaven so cruel; would God let that sun shine—those birds sing—those sweet flowers bloom? Yes, kill me, slay me, take my love away. I will not believe it."
"Hush," said the earl, laying his hand on the quivering lips; "hush, my poor Earle. Whatever happens, we must not rail against Heaven."
"It is not Heaven," he cried. "I tell you, God would not do it. He would not take my darling from me. You are afraid to say what has happened. I know she has gone away and left me, as she did before. Oh! my love, my love! you shall not cheat me! I will follow you over the wide world; I will find you, and love you, and make you my own! Oh! speak to me, for mercy's sake! Speak—has she gone?"
"My dear Earle, I do not know how to tell you, words seem to fail me. Try to bear it like a man, though it is hard to bear—Doris is dead!"
He saw the young lover's face grow gray as with the pallor of death.
"Dead?" he repeated, slowly—"dead!"
"Yes; but that is not all. She has been—you must bear it bravely, Earle—she has been cruelly murdered!"
He repeated the word with the air of one who did not thoroughly understand.
"Murdered! Doris! You cannot be speaking earnestly. Who could, who would murder her?"
Lord Linleigh saw that he must give him time to realize, to understand, and they both sat in silence for some minutes, that ghastly gray pallor deepening on the young lover's face. Suddenly the true meaning of the words occurred to him, and he buried his face in his hands with a cry that Lord Linleigh never forgot. So they remained for some time; then Lord Linleigh touched him gently.
"Earle," he said, "you have all your life to grieve in. We have two things to do now."
The white lips did not move, but the haggard eyes seemed to ask, "What?"
"We have to bury her and avenge her; we have to find out who murdered her while we slept so near."
The word murder seemed to come home to him then in its full significance; his face flushed, a flame of fire came into his eyes. He clutched the earl's hand as with an iron grasp.
"I was bewildered," he said. "I did not really understand. Do you mean that some one has killed Doris?"
"Yes; she lies in her own room there, with a knife in her white breast. Listen, Earle: I have my own theory, my own idea. I was always most uncomfortable about that staircase; the door opens right into her room. I have so often begged of her to be sure and keep it locked. I fancy that, by some oversight, the door was left open, and some one, intent on stealing her jewelry, perhaps, made his way to her room. She was no coward; she would try to save it; she would, perhaps, defy and exasperate the burglar, and he, in sudden fury, stabbed her; then, frightened at his own deed, he hastened away. There are signs of a struggle in the room, but I cannot say if there is anything missing."
"I must go to her," said Earle.
"Nay," replied Lord Linleigh, gently; "the sight will kill you."
"Then let me die—I have nothing to live for now! Oh, my darling! my dear lost love!"
He knelt down on the ground, sobbing like a child. Lord Linleigh stole away gently, leaving him there.
In another five minutes the whole household was aroused, and the dismay, the fear, the consternation could never be told in words.
The servants at first seemed inclined to lose themselves, to wander backward and forward without aim, weeping, wringing their hands, crying out to each other that their lady had been murdered while they slept; but Lord Linleigh pointed out forcibly that some one must have done the deed, and it behooved them to search before the murderer could make good his escape. No one was to enter the room until the detectives had arrived, and men were to mount the fleetest horses, to gallop over to Anderley, and bring the police officers back with them.
Then, when all directions were given, he went back to Earle. He was no coward, but he could not yet face the wife whose only child lay dead. Earle was waiting for him. Terrible as the moment was, he could not help noticing the awful change that had come over that young face: the youth and the brightness had all died from it; it was haggard and restless; he looked up as the earl entered the room.
"Lord Linleigh," he said, and every trace of music had died from his voice, "it was no fancy of mine last night—that sound I heard last night was from Doris: it was her smothered cry for help, perhaps her last sound. Oh, Heaven! if I had but flown when I heard it—flown to her aid! Yet I did go. I went to the very door of her room, and all was perfect silence. Let me go to her—do not be hard upon me—I must look upon the face of my love again."
"So you shall, but not yet."
Lord Linleigh shuddered.
"I would to Heaven that I had never seen the terrible sight," he said; "but you, Earle, believe me, you could not see it and live!"
CHAPTER LXXXIII.
THE CAPTAIN ASKS STRANGE QUESTIONS.
Two hours had passed; it was the full glowing noon now of the summer day. The sun shone so brightly and warmly it was difficult to bear its rays; the air was faint with the rich odor of countless flowers; it was musical with the song of a thousand birds; the bright-winged butterfly hovered round the roses. Then the sweet summer silence was broken by the gallop of horses and the tramp of men.
Captain Ayrley had arrived with two clever officers; the whole town of Anderley was astir: in the silence of the soft summer night, red-handed murder had been among them, and robbed them of the fairest girl the sun had ever shone on. Foul, sneaking, red-handed murder! The whole town was roused: some went to the church where the rector awaited the bride, and told him the beautiful girl who was to have been married that day had been found dead, with a knife in her heart.
Up the broad staircase leading to the grand corridor they went slowly, that little procession of strong men. Captain Ayrley would not use the spiral staircase, he wished to see the place just as it was.
"If the outer door is locked," he said, "we will soon force it."
The next sound heard in that lordly mansion was the violent breaking open of a door; then, the earl being with them, they entered, accompanied by the doctor.
He could do nothing but declare how many hours she had been dead.
"Since two in the morning," he believed, and the earl shivered as he listened.
That was the time when Earle had heard the stifled cry.
Captain Ayrley was shrewd and keen, a man of great penetration; nothing ever escaped him. He asked each person to stand quite still while he looked round the room.
"There has been no violent entrance," he said; "the murderer must have come up the spiral staircase gently enough, there is not a leaf of the foliage destroyed! he evidently entered no other room but this. Strange—if he came for the purpose of robbery; for there, in the sleeping chamber, I see costly jewels that would have repaid any mere burglar."
He looked around again.
"There are no less than three bells," he said. "Where do they sound?"
"One went to the maid's room, another to the servants' hall, the third to the housekeeper's room."
"It was a strange thing," said Captain Ayrley, "that the young lady, having these bells at hand, did not sound an alarm; she had plenty of time."
"How do you know," asked the earl, "that she had plenty of time?"
The officer pointed to the bridal costume, all lying in shreds upon the floor.
"It must have taken some time to destroy those," he said; "they could not have been so completely destroyed in one single instant. Look again; you will find that they have been done with clean hands—there is not a mark upon them. That was done before the murder; the proof is that the lady has fallen, as you perceive, on the debris."
"You are right," said Lord Linleigh.
Then, with the same skill and care, he examined every other detail. The earl told him about the knife.
"It is, you perceive," he said, "a pruning-knife. It was fetched from one of the hot-houses yesterday, to cut some branches Lady Studleigh said darkened her room. I saw it yesterday afternoon lying on that table, when I had come to speak to my daughter. Would to Heaven I had taken it away with me!"
Captain Ayrley looked very thoughtful.
"If that be the case, then it is quite evident the person did not come prepared to do murder! it must have been an afterthought."
"Perhaps my daughter made some resistance—tried to call for help, or something of that kind," said the earl.
Still the captain looked puzzled.
"Why not have called for help while these things were being destroyed?" he said. "I am sure there is a mystery in it, something that does not quite meet the eye at the first glance. Will you call Lady Studleigh's maid. Throw—throw a sheet over there first; that is not a fitting sight for any woman's eye."
Then came Eugenie, with many tears and wailing cries. She had nothing to tell, except that last evening her lady had, for the first time, spoken to her of her marriage, and had shown her the wedding costume.
"I took up the dress and looked at it," she said, "then I laid it over that chair. My lady wanted to see how large the veil was. I opened it, and we placed it on this chair: the wreath lay in a small scented box on the table. I remember seeing the knife there; it was left yesterday after the branches were cut. My lady told me to take it back, but I forgot it."
She knew no more, only that she had tried her hardest to open the door that morning, and had not succeeded. She was evidently ignorant and unconscious enough.
"Had your lady any enemy?" asked the earl.
"No," replied the maid; "I believe every one who saw her worshiped her.
"Was there any tramp or poacher to whom she had refused alms, or anything of that kind?" asked the captain.
"I should say not; my lady always had an open hand."
"She expressed no fear last evening, but seemed just as usual?" asked the earl.
"She was happier than usual, if anything, my lord," was the reply.
Then the medical details were taken down, and the body of the dead girl was raised from the ground. The doctor and the maid washed the stains from the golden hair. The housekeeper was summoned, and the two women, with bitter tears, laid the fair limbs to rest. She was so lovely, even in death! The cruel wound could not be seen. They would have arrayed her in her wedding-dress had it not been destroyed. They found a robe of plain white muslin, and put it on her: they brushed out the shining ripples of golden hair, and let it lie like a long veil around her; they crossed the perfect arms, and laid them over the quiet breast. Though she had died so terrible a death, there was no trace of pain on the beautiful face: it was calm and smiling, as though the last whisper from her lips had been anything rather than the terrible words.
"Oh, God! I am not fit to die!"—anything rather than that.
Eugenie went down into the garden and gathered fair white roses, she crowned the golden head with them; she laid them on the white breast, and over the silent figure, perfect in its pale loveliness as sculptured marble; so beautiful, so calm! Oh, cruel death, to have claimed her! Then the maid wept bitter tears over her, she could not tear herself from the room where the beautiful figure lay. Silently the earl entered, and bowed his head over the cold face, hot tears fell from his eyes upon it.
"I will avenge you, my darling," he said. "I will hunt your murderer down."
He went back to the room, where Captain Ayrley awaited him, with a strange expression on his face.
"I do not like to own myself defeated, Lord Linleigh," he said; "but I must own I am baffled here. I can see no motive for this most cruel murder."
"Robbery," said the earl, shortly.
"No: I cannot think so. The maid, who evidently understands her business, tells me that there is not so much as a ring, or an inch of lace missing; whatever the motive may have been, it was certainly not robbery; if so, when the victim lay helpless and dead, why not have carried off the plunder? There is jewelry enough here to have made a man's fortune; if any one risked murder for it, why not have taken it away?"
"Perhaps there was some noise, some interruption; the man grew frightened and ran away."
"I see no sign of it; there is nothing disturbed. Besides, my lord, there is another thing that puzzles me more than all. Why should a man, whose object was simply plunder, employ himself in tearing a wedding-dress and bridal-veil to pieces; why should he have delayed in order to crush her wedding-wreath in his hand, and trample it underneath his feet, especially when, as circumstantial evidence goes to prove, his victim must have been in his presence—must, if she had any fear, have had plenty of time to have rung for help. I do not understand it."
"It certainly seems very mysterious," said Lord Linleigh. "I do not at all understand the destruction of the wedding costume."
"Do not think me impertinent, my lord, if I ask whether there was any rival in the case? This is not a common murder—I would stake the whole of my professional skill on it. It is far more like a crime committed under the maddening influence of jealousy than anything else."
"I do not see that it is possible. My daughter, as was only natural for a beautiful girl in her position, had many admirers; but there was no one who would be likely to be jealous. Another thing is, by her own especial wish and desire, the fact of her marriage was to be kept a profound secret; no one knew one single word about it except ourselves."
"And that was by her own especial desire?" said Captain Ayrley.
"Yes, it was her whim—her caprice."
"She may have had a reason for it," said the captain, gravely. "I should imagine she had."
"And what would you imagine that reason to be?" asked the earl.
"I should say that, for some reason or other, she was afraid of its being known. There are many things hidden in lives that seem calm and tranquil; it seems to me that the unfortunate young lady was afraid of some one, and perhaps had reason for it."
The earl sat in silence for some minutes, trying to think over all his daughter's past life; he could not remember anything that seemed to give the least color to the officer's suspicions. He raised his eyes gravely to the shrewd, keen face.
"You may be right, Captain Ayrley," he said; "it is within the bounds of possibility. But, frankly, on the honor of a gentleman, I know of nothing in my daughter's life that bears out your suspicions; therefore I should wish you not to mention them to any one else; they can only give pain. For my part, not understanding the destruction of the wedding-dress, I firmly believe that it is a case of intended burglary, and that either while trying to defend herself or to give the alarm, she was cruelly murdered. I believe that, and nothing more. At the same time, if you like to follow out any clew, I will do all in my power to help you. For the present we will not add to horror and grief by assuming that such a crime can be the result of jealous or misspent love. Try by all means to catch the murderer—never mind who or what he is."
Captain Ayrley promised to obey. Yet, though they searched and searched well, there was not the least trace, no mark of footsteps, no broken boughs, no stains of red finger marks, nor could they find any trace, in the neighborhood, of tramps, vagrants, or burglars. It seemed to Captain Ayrley, that the Linleigh Court murder would be handed down as a mystery to all time.
Lord Linleigh did not enter the room, where lay the beautiful, silent dead, with Earle, he dreaded the sight of his grief, he could not bear the thought of his sorrow.
Earle went in alone, closing the door behind him, that none might hear or see when he bade his love farewell. Those who watched in the outer room heard a sound of weeping and wild words: they heard sobs so deep and bitter, that it was heartrending to remember it was a strong man weeping there in his agony. They did not disturb him: perhaps Heaven in its mercy sent him some comfort—none came from earth; nothing came to soften the madness of anguish when he remembered this was to have been his wedding day, and now his beautiful, golden-haired darling lay dead, cold, silent, smiling—dead! What could lessen such anguish as his?
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.
CHAPTER LXXXVI.
HAUNTED BY A DEAD FACE.
Two years after the birth of his son, the earl and countess went to London for the season. It so happened that the desire for a picture he had seen led him to the studio of Gregory Leslie. The artist was engaged for the moment, and asked Lord Linleigh to wait. While so waiting, he occupied himself in looking round at the pictures on the wall. He stopped before one as though spell-bound. If ever he had seen the face of his daughter at all, it was shining there on the canvas, beautiful as the radiant dawn of the morning, with the sunlight on her hair, and in her eyes a light that seemed to be from heaven. She was standing in the midst of flowers, and his own face grew pale as he looked at the radiant loveliness of hers.
"Doris," he said to himself; "but how comes she here?"
He saw the white hands that he remembered last as folded in death; he saw the white, graceful breast that had been disfigured by that terrible wound.
"My darling Doris," he said; "how came you here?"
He was standing there, with tears in his eyes, when Mr. Leslie entered the room.
"I should like to ask a few questions about that picture, Mr. Leslie," he said, courteously. "Is it for sale?"
"I can hardly say; I have had a very large bid for it. It was purchased some time since by one of our merchant princes, who has since failed, and I bought the picture at his sale; since then I have been offered a large sum for it."
"It is my daughter's portrait," said the earl, calmly. "I cannot see how it came into your possession."
"I painted it," said Mr. Leslie.
"You did! Where did you see my daughter?"
Then the artist told him the whole story of his going to Brackenside, and the earl told him the story of Lady Doris Studleigh's childhood.
"I never believed that she was Mark Brace's daughter," said Gregory Leslie; "she was so daintily beautiful—her grace was so complete, so high-bred, I could not fancy that she belonged to them. Was the mystery of her journey to Florence ever explained?"
"What mystery?" asked the earl, quickly; so quickly that Mr. Leslie thought that he had been wrong in naming it at all.
"There was some little confusion," he said. "Her face is very beautiful; it attracted great attention, and one of my fellow artists assured me that he had seen her in Florence, and that she was married."
"Nothing of the kind!" said the earl.
Then an uncomfortable conviction seized upon him. Could there be any truth in this? Could there be any truth in the idea—the suspicion that his wife entertained that all had not been well with Doris? Could there have been a mystery in that young life, so soon, oh, so soon ended?
The earl sighed deeply. It would be better, perhaps, to let it alone. If there had been anything wrong, it was too late to right it now. Let the dead past bury its dead. She was a Studleigh, and there were many of that race whose lives would not bear looking into. He dismissed the subject from his mind, and said to himself he would think of it no more.
"Who wants this picture?" he asked, abruptly. "I am sure that Lady Linleigh would like it."
"It is a strange coincidence that you should call this morning," said Mr. Leslie; "the gentleman who wishes so strongly for it appointed to meet me at two—it wants but ten minutes of the time. Will you wait and see him? Perhaps, under the circumstances, he might be willing for you to have the original, which I might copy."
Lord Linleigh was perfectly willing. He was rather surprised, however, when the door opened, to see—in the expected visitor—Lord Vivianne! Lord Vivianne—but so changed, so unlike himself, that it was with difficulty he recognized him. His hair was white as snow, his face furrowed with deep lines, haggard, careworn and miserable. He looked like a man bowed down with care, wretched beyond words.
When he saw Lord Linleigh he grew even more ghastly pale, and all sound died away on his lips.
The earl eagerly extended his hand.
"Lord Vivianne!" he cried, "what a stranger you are! I am heartily glad to meet you again."
He did not understand why that great, gasping sigh of relief came from the wretched lips.
"I have thought of you," continued the earl. "Of course you heard the story of my terrible trouble?"
More ghastly still grew the white face.
"Yes, I heard of it; who did not?"
"Poor child!" sighed the earl; "It was a terrible blow to us; the very night before her wedding-day, too."
Ah! the night before the wedding-day! He was not likely to forget that. He saw it all again—the beautiful, defiant face; the wedding costume; the long, sharp knife; the bare, white breast. Ah! merciful God, was he never to forget! He groaned aloud, then saw the earl looking at him in wonder.
"You did not know, Lord Linleigh," he said, "that I loved your daughter. If I had gone to Linleigh again in August, it would have been to ask her to be my wife."
The earl held out his hand in silent sympathy.
"It was a terrible blow," he said.
Then he thought to himself that it was because he had loved his daughter that Lord Vivianne wished for the picture.
"I fancied once or twice," he said, "that you admired her. I did not know you loved her."
"I did. If any one had told me it was in my power to love any woman, or to mourn for any woman as I have done for her, I should have laughed at the notion. My life is blighted."
They sat then in silence for some time; then the earl said:
"I am glad that I have met you. Lady Linleigh and I have often spoken of you. Will you pay us a visit at Linleigh Court?"
"No," replied the wretched man, with a shudder. "You are very kind. I thank you, but my visiting days are over. I am nothing but a curse to myself and to others."
"You will get better in time," said the earl.
It was a new idea to him to play the part of comforter to a man of the world, and he did it awkwardly.
"I grow worse; not better," was the desponding reply. "I suppose, Lord Linleigh, nothing more was heard of that dreadful occurrence—the crime was never traced?"
"No; it was one of those mysteries that baffle solution," he replied. "The rewards offered have been enormous, and we have employed the best detectives in England, without success."
"It is very strange," said Lord Vivianne, musingly.
"Yes, it is strange. I am quite certain of one thing," said the earl, with energy; "it will come to light—murder always does—it will come to light."
The white face grew even whiter.
"You believe that?" said Lord Vivianne, in a low, hoarse voice.
"Yes," said the earl. "Although I am not what the world would call a religious man, I am quite sure that a just God will never allow such a crime to go unpunished. Now, about the picture. Lord Vivianne, if you loved my dear, dead daughter, I can well understand that you want this."
Then they finally agreed that Lord Linleigh should have the original, and Mr. Leslie should paint a copy for Lord Vivianne. Lord Linleigh at the same time ordered a copy for Earle. Then, looking at the picture, he saw the name. He looked at the artist with a smile.
"'Innocence,'" he said. "Why did you call that picture 'Innocence?'"
"Because the face was so fair, so fresh, so bright. I could think of no other name. There is in it the very innocence and beauty that angels wear. Look at the clear, sweet eyes, the perfect lips, the ideal brow."
"'Innocence!'" said Lord Vivianne, in a strange voice; "It was well named."
They both looked at him quickly, but he was on his guard again. He shook hands with the earl. They never met again. He said adieu to Leslie, and begged that the portrait might be sent home as soon as possible. Then he went away. The earl and the artist looked after him.
"That is a dying man," said Gregory Leslie, slowly.
"If he dies," said the earl, "it will be love for my daughter that has killed him."
The earl was never any nearer to the solution of the mystery. That Lord Vivianne, who spoke so openly of having loved her, had any hand in her death, he never even faintly surmised. He took the picture home, and it hangs now in Linleigh Court, where the earl's children pause sometimes in their play to ask about their elder sister, Doris, whose name the picture says was "Innocence."
It was not long afterward that the fashionable world was startled from its serenity by the sad intelligence of the suicide of Lord Vivianne. Then they heard a strange story, although no one could solve it. His servants told how dreadfully he had suffered. Let those who laugh at the retribution that follows sin believe. Slowly, and in terrible torture, had that wretched life ended. He had rushed from the scene of his crime, mad with baffled love, with fiercest passion, with regret and remorse. Mad with the wild fury of his own passions—above all, with the terrible knowledge of her death—for many days and nights he neither slept, rested, ate, nor drank. He went away to Paris. It was not exactly that he feared pursuit—he knew that it was not likely that any suspicion should attach itself to him. But, wherever he went, he saw that dead face, that golden web with the crimson stain.
In Paris he plunged into the wildest dissipation. He tried drink—all possible resources—in vain. Where the sun shone brightest, where the gaslight flared, where painted faces smiled—he saw the same sight—a white face looking up, still and cold in death.