A FAIE MY8TEEY BY BERTHA M. CLAY AUTHOR OK " DORA TUORNE," " BEYOND PARDON," " LOVE WOKfcS WONDERS. " NEW YORK INTERNATIONAL BOOK COMPANY 17 AND 19 WAVRRLEY PLACE A FAIR MYSTERY. THE STORY OF A COQUETTE. BY CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME. CHAPTER I. A VOICE AXD A FACE IN THE NIGHT. " HUSH! For the love of mercy, hush, I cannot hoar it!" But that which called forth this protest was only thr lisping prayer of a little child at its mother's knee. Tatty Bran- lifted the \vhite-robed figure to her lap, and rested 'wn head on her bosom. 11 .Mark!'' she said, in mild remonstrance, looking at her hus- band. " I say I cannot boar it. You have her pray, ' God bless my .' It is too much." But why not ? On this wild, stormy night, when other little .:ay be out in tin- dashing rain and moaning wind, is it not right to pray. ' Clod bless our home':' " "But how long will we have a home, Patty? Think of to- morrow: oli. Heaven help me to-morrow! Ituine.l. di>;:: 11 the home where I was born, and fo-ced into . I cannot l>ear it. We shall never have a home B and our child will grow up homer " Dear Mark, you cannot go out disgraced when you have clone no wrong; and "homeless you will not IK, for home is where the he.irt is, and in any laud we three will be together, and !! all." I cannot feel as you do, Patty. I am not gentle and good as I blame myself that by goin^ >"<-urity for that smooth- whoiu may a curst- " "liu-h!" said 1'atty, with sudden authority. "Mark. shall r'riend, neighUir. nor -nemy. It i-< no! ure: it is wron^. If you eun>e any one how ran \ou look to have I ':" " l'i id Mark, bitterly. "I Ix-^in not to h.-lie'. ' r. orgoo'i 'iy such tiling. You have prayed, and that innocent little victim on your borfoiu has pr.iNe-i, in her 2135114 : 2 A FAIR MYSTERY. baby way, and has Heaven heard ? No! We lose our home, and I was born here!" Heavier grew the round brown head of the two-year-old child on Patty's breast, the little tanned hands fell apart with a sleepy grace, and the plump, sunburnt face took the moist flush of childhood'? deep rest. Patty looked at her husband. He leaned against the wooden mantel-shelf, the ruddy light of the fire leaped across his sor- rowful face, and the wife saw his bronzed cheek wet, with not unmanly tears. Beyond him, in the range of her vision, was the window look- ing toward the garden, and between the bushes or lilac and guelder-roses, Patty had a swift vision of a tali woman, robed in black, a thin white face, looking eagerly into the cheerful farm-kitchen. She leaped to her feet. But the vision had faded; only the wind swept the wet lilac boughs against the pane, only the guelder-roses looked like tall, dark, draped forms in the stormy night. " What is it?" said Mark, as she started. " Nothing," said the wife; "little Mattie sleeps; I must carry her up to bed." She chided herself for her fancies. " Nothing!" said Mark. '' I have become nervous and woman- ish with my misery. Do you know, Patty, even now I keep looking for some one or something to come and save me." " It is never too late," said Patty. " Heaven could save you now save you even by so frail a thing as this baby child." She passed to the upper room, and left Mark still in his misery hastily retracing his past, in gloomy thought. Patty returned a.id stood wistfully, her hand on his arm. " Don't despond, Mark. We are young, strong, loving. We will give honest work for honest bread." " It is not right for the innocent to perish with the guilty," cried Mark, vehemently; " for you and baby Matt ie to perish with me." " You are not perishing, and how have you been guilty." " I seem to have been guilty, somehow, "all along. My father left me this farm in fairly good order, the lease for my life and <>n after me. I could not rest content. I must improve the land, and improve the outbuildings, and improve the breed of my cattle and sheep, like a fool."" " No, like neither a knave nor a fool; like an enterprising farmer, wanting to improve his prqepecteand grow witli th< Did not the Duke of Downsbury say you were one of his l:cst tenants, and that you were a pattern of good farming and in- dustry ':" " And then," said Mark, intent on saying bitter things of him- self, " I had a thousand pounds, my father's savings, and instead of leaving it where he placed it, at safe, low interest, I must let the men of the great new Bank of Downsbury persuade me to give all to them for big interest; and that bubble burst, the bank collapsed, swindled every one, and left me nothing." A FMIt " No blame to you, and you wore loft your good name. Are you not known, in all the country, as Ho&esl Mark Bi " I must be a scoundrel some way, P;itty, to have such luck." " (!o on and tell your sins" said Patty. " You married a #irl without money, Patty Ixslir by name; you took care of TUT widowed mother till she died: and you were so foolish ;is toh.ivo a little girl-child, who can only eat and not earn." " Heaven bless her and you!" said Mark. " Marrying the best wife in the world was alxmt the only good deed I ever did "What do yon start that way for a^ain. Patty ':" " Hark! I heard such a strange noise n pitiful wail." 41 Not further <>IF than rny heart." said Mark. I hoard nothing. U;i<- married, Patty, think how har\est alter har- vest has been poor, and seasons bad, so I could not lay up a penny." Not your fault Mark, I know I hoar a cry." " No, no; my ears are keen; I hear nothing. It is the storm. Even the wind and rain are crying after the out-going of the Brace blood from the farm of Brackensido. Oh, Patty, why could I not let well enough alone, and not go and sign security for that villain. Am well':" " You did it out of pure heart-kindness. You thought him honest and in trouble; you helped him." " And he left me with a hundred pounds to pay. He n to do it all along. He robbed me, I robbed you; and to-morrow nm-t be sei/ed. The crops will be bid oil' as they island in the ^lound, and the farm t->ols and the b,, with them, for this terrible security. I have tried < to get help. I spent all to-day seeking for some one to 1 me. But since Farmer Dol.bs IK. Ids a m< i my live for the debt the burning of the bi^ barn I: into, I cannot -i t .my help. The lease must be sold lo lini-h p. up Dohb.s. 1 will not run oil" in debt like that well, and, with what i> : .. Patt \ . >h, how can I p>! I 1 ! ;, and every tr-'e. and . Mv mother and lather lie here in von churchyard, and'l had hoped to lie by them." Honest Mark Br.n-e em en-d his f.ice with his hands, and his strong, tall lii;ure sh(x>k with the storm of his sorrow. of this land, where, boy and man, he had sung at his :ind lived popular and respected A line, stalwart young ^iiman. inten.-ely a homo-lover, it Bi iiim imp<- that other skies could be so blue, other Patty, in mute sympat 1 her arms a : M-ck, ill joy. She, too, loved and SillFele.!. cheerful, hopeful, pious soul: she i-oul-1 Mark did. Mark had 1 ><. n loudly accii.sin^ liimself \\lni iw, with the inc. in la iv his own uprightness and, by implication, the inju >en. " Why has this come to me? Other worse men have kaj 4 A FAIR MYSTERY. fortune. Have I swindled men like the bankers, who carried off my all ? Have I lied like Ned Amwell ? Did I ever cheat in my men's wages? Have I sent the poor empty from my door? Have I failed to pay my tithes, or missed church on Sundays? Do I drink? Do I swear? Do I ever go to sleep in church? Why, then, have I such trouble ?" The wild imnglings of crimes, errors, and peccadilloes might have made a disinterested listener laugh. It did not make Patty laugh, nor did it call forth an answer. She turned an intent ear to the outer world and said, uneasily: " Mark, listen! Other souls are in pain. It is not the wind that I hear not the dashing i-ain. I have heard sobs, and moans, and crying in the night a child crying like a little baby soul that has lost its way and can find neither earth nor heaven." " Your fancies make me mad," cried Mark, angrily. " My troubles are real, and so will yours be to-morrow " Shrill and clear the cry quivered on the air. He, too, heard it. " It is little Mattie," he cried. " Run to her." And he followed Patty, fleet-footed, up the stairs. But little rosy Mattie slept tranquilly, and the two came slowly down. Patty opened the kitchen window, and the swirl- ing rain drenched her dark hair as she leaned into the darkness. "Come in; there will be nights enough to face storms," said Mark, hardly. " We are only both fanciful; or, as my old gran- nie used to tell me, since we are flitting from the hearth where we have kept warm so long, the souls of my ancestors are mourning for my sorrow. Poor old grannie! little she knew how I should leave the old roof -tree." Patty sprung to her feet, " Mark, come with me! It is no fancy no spirit. It is real; some human being out in this tempest. Let us search every- where, and give the homeless a shelter this last night that we have a home." She ran from the room, and Mark followed her into the stone- flagged entry. Her vehemence carried him away. He reached over her shoulder, and aided her trembling hands to undo the door-bolt. Starless the night; no balm on the summer air; the raw chill of autumn brooding under the beating rain; a murky heaven over land and sea; and once again that wild, only half-human wail, coming up now from their very feet! Patty sprung into the dark, vine-draped porch; the red light from the kitchen crept fitfully to the threshold, and close Ix-idc the door-sill, lay a oundle in the poor shelter of the latticed porch. From that bundle came ; shrill and piteous, that miserable cry. CHAPTER II. A FAIRY CIIANGELINO. " MARK! Mark! it is a child, a poor forsaken baby." said Patty, stooping down and gathering into her womanly arms the TAIR MYSTERY. I weeping waif-frag"* mit of the seething sea of human i strangely drifted to ,ier door. " A cliild! Dear !!;. %.:! .-lidi a very little child!'' She hurried into the kitchen a.id laid the bundle on the ta : .>le in the cirri. of lamplight, aiid with < areful, eager fingers, began to loosen the wrappi' " A child!" said Mark, amaw d and dull--" a child'" Then with sudden anger lie cried out: "A child, 1<> the homeless! A child to ns, who will not r>o able to care for our own a child for forced exiles! Why did they not carry it to the poor-house? There, at lea.-t, it might have stayed!" " Hush, dear!" said Patty. " flod only asks of us duty for to- day. To-night \\v have a home, and can take the stranger in. C!od will take can; of it to-morrow." Not that I grudge the poor little wretch," said Mark, looking over his wife's shoulder. Tatty unpinned the tartan shawl, and snugly wrapped within lava little babe: a delicate \eil covered the small 1'ace within the lace and satin cap. and Patty lifted in motherly hand- of the most singularly lovely infants that sun had evei 1. upon. Dimpled, snow-white, with exquisitely molded features, and neck and hand-,; soft rin.^s of golden, silken hair, a taint perfume of costly odors breathing from its garments. Patty's tender heart melted at the divine innocence, loveli- helplessnc.v. of tin- little one, and raising the rosebud face to her own. si:.- kissed it softly again and again. This motion caused the white cashmere cloak to fall hack, and Mark gave a cry at some dark thing broadly pinned again>t the quilted satin lining. his wife kissed the ha he, murmuring: ' Little, lovely ai Who sent you? Who could abandon y.>u?" Mark unpinned this object and held it near the light. Then lie gave such a cry that hie wife, clasping the babe closer, turned to him in alarm. In his -.baking hand he held a packet of bank-notes. He cried out: "Patty! Patty! Did (Jod send this? See! Just the amount of inydebt! Patty! Patty! ami safe? Is this ours?" " How much is there?" she demanded, breathlessly. " Twenty fives! A hundred pounds!" " Mark, just what we owe?" " .Iu-t that. Oh. Patty, we are saved!" He stautj'T'-d to a seat, white and weak, and then, ti reali/ed svlint his anguish of soul had been. The strong \ oung farmer shook like a reed; drops of perspiration rolled t ,\. " Hut is it ours?" demanded ''ing down also, ar : ginning to unfasten the baby'-, i/ap and cli-ak. if there is anything more -any im^-agc- any word- quick -oh, Patty, Patty. 1 am weak!" PattN rose up. stroked his check, kissed him. said: "Coui Mark! Heaven luw helped u^!" and then she t>ct to bearchn. child. 6 A FAIR MYSTERY. On the lace bosom of the little dress was sewed a letter. She unfastened it and held it to her husband. " You read it, Mark. I am so frightened, my eyes are dim. Pee, it is to us; it says on the outside ' To MARK AND PATTY BRACE.' " Mark restrained himself, and as Patty softly rocked the child to and fro on her breast, he read aloud: ' To you a most sorrowful mother sends this little child. You have never seen that mother, probably you never will: but she has heard of you of honest Mark Brace and Patty Brace, his kind, good wife. Oh, be tender to this little child, deprived of father and of mother. Be patient with it; think how its mother's heart ached at parting: think of your own little child. Let this baby be yours, and your child's sister. It is lovely and white as an angel. Will you try to keep its soul white and pure, and bring it up simply, like your own, just to be good? There is a little mark on the right shoulder a little red leaf. But I may never be able to claim my own again. Then let it be yours, and rear it, as you will answer for it to God. With the child the mother sends you a hundred pounds, and every year will send you the same. This is a child of noble blood and honest birth. Its mother prays you, for the sake of mercy and pity, to make no effort to find "her. Never show this letter, never try to learn the child's surname; her Christian name is DORIS. Will you say you have taken charge of the child for a lady \vlio lias gone abroad ? Say only that, and night and day a heart's best players will go up for you, who are good to little Doris." Mnrk and Patty looked at each other in silence. "Oh, Mark! you doubted doubted God and prayer!" " Did I? May God pardon me I was wild with misery!" " Whose child can this be?" said Patty. " Patty," said Mark, if we use this money, as we must and shall, it is part of a bargain, you know a bargain to keep the child tenderly and faithfully, and make no effort to discover who sends ii. We must keep faith." " It will be very easy to be loving and tender to such a lovely baby," said Patty. " Look, did you ever see anything so won- derful, so beautiful, in all your life?" " Fair as an angel," said Mark, gently kissing the wee white hand. 4> God bless the baby, the little angel baby that saved us." " A hundred a year! This is very much money, just for keep- ing mi'- little child," said Patty. " We must pay ourselves what is fair, and keep the rest to educate the child, or make her dower." " And we must keep her soul white and fair. The letter says, *e are to tram her like our own, Mark." Only, Patty, it is a child of noble blood, and if, some day, the mother claims her, she must not be ashamed of the child, Patty." " Oh, Mark:" cried Patty, in terror, " suppose the mother is in , FA i'; MYSTl : all this storm? Go, Mark ta^e a li-^ht ano look for her. Do "She cannot possibly IK. lingering here. Patty." "Oli, Mn r 'i, she is no doubt waitiii.:: to see what we will do. I a -.. sure I saw her looking in thj window !>efore I took Ilatne to bed." Mark took a lantern from its hook by the chimney-side, anil vvnt jut Kilo the storm. There was no trace of any one. The >'d, no foot-print marked the gravel walk; noth- it Mghing wind and plashing rain filled the darkness. 11. ned to the hoi; '* There is no one Whoever was here has done the errand and gone. I cannot believe it yet, Patty. My debt is paid! my home i-; saved! i shall live where my fathers lived, and die where they died; and all by means of MM little child. I feel as if I could never love it enough!'' Patty looked at the babe on her arm. She cri- " How could a mother give up such a lovely creature! I would rather die! Oh, poor mother! . Mark, a heart has brjokeii to-night in this storm." 1 wonder if the poor soul was married ':" said Mark. " She must have been! Look at the letter, Mark. It is the letter of a good woman. She wants the child's >oul kept white and pure. A wicked woman would think of the body, but not of the MHil!" The child opened its eyes eyes like spring violets, softly blue. rred unea-ily. Patty went I'm- milk to feed it. "There are no clothes with it, Mark. Whoever knew Ufl to write to us, l.new about little Mattie, and expected u> to let this wear li : ir own." i went f or a night-drett th:;' had been worn by Mattie a. year before, a; i . the infant's rich clothes, put on in- le gown. A IK nit the child's ; chain, with a locket; in the locket was a tress of curly ^ hair, and -k shining brown. ark," .-aid Patty, " 1-t us put the letter and t!ic locket and rich clot' -how k folded the ai nnd locked them in a S\ which for \ears had held t i the own. : de Farm. Never before had su-i ;es beiMi jilaci-,1 amcviiL,' t! lies. Patty, " I shall t ;ke this baby up and put her in ; - and laid it bv her own dau-hter. Mark I,. " T' 'liein," s.-! j she the t-A>i H-- that .^ like a child of the nobles, tln> oth '.ild of t!i :. and the 1. too," said Mark, sturdily. " I don't IK : -'3 would give such a baby away in tliis fashion. You note inT 8 A FAIR MYSTERY. words, wife; it is pride, rank pride, that has cast this child out among strangers/' Patty sighed, still looking at the children. Little Doris, a jewel child, pearly skin, golden hair and brows, and a little r;-d mouth like a thread of rubies; Mattie, brown, plump, sturdy, child of soil, wind, and sun. " I like my own best," said Mark, bravely, "if she is not half BO fan*. Our Mattie has what will last all her life a warm, true, honest little heart in her strong little body." " Of course you will like our own best," said Patty half offended. " It would be a fine story if the coming of this little beauty could crowd our girl out of the first place in our hearts." " I "wonder if they will love each other," said Mark. "Of course they will, as they are to be sisters," said Patty, with edifying faith in humanity. " And I wonder if she will love us?" "Surely, since we are to be her parents, and will be always kind and faithful to her." " I hope so," said Mark, shaking his head; " but there are some things, Patty, that do not mix well as, say, oil and water and belike blood will tell, and this little lady will not take to our homely ways. Besides, we shall always be considering how much is due her for that hundred pounds a year; and I, for one, will al ways bo remembering how she came like a little angel to save a home that is like my heart's blood to me." Then they went down-stairs, leaving the dark child and the fair child sleeping together. CHAPTER III. A DAUGHTER OF PATRICIANS. MARK and Patty Brace sat down again by their hearth-stone. They were too much excited to think of sleep. Mark made up the fire and trimmed the lamp, and ruddy glow and golden gleam seemed the joyful reflection of their strangely-brightened fortunes. Honest Mark, who seldom thought of even locking his door when lie went to bed. suddenly felt that thieves might break in to steal that blessed hundred pounds that saved him from ruin. He buttoned the notes up in his waistcoat, and longed for tho day-dawn when he might pay his debt and be free. Upon Patty's simple heart rested the shadow of a new care. It was to her upright spirit a terrible responsibility to rear a stranger's child. What disposition would this little one in- herit ? Could she obey that unknown mother's behest and keep this Boul white and pure? Suppose the child should be willful, i'ull of faults, proud, hard to govern, in all points the opposite to her own simple, gentle, gd little girlwould she be able by love- and kindness to govern and mold her into goodness? And sup- pose the child grew day by day into her heart, until it seemed like her very own, and then that unknown mocner came aud A FAIR MYS7! 9 took her away? Suppose, too. that after .-ill lior humble cares, when the mother came, she should !( d phia of the ru'le-i. s of the child's rearing? Put Putty need not have feared that: she had herself the best of good breeding, that which comes from a generous, thought- ful, unselfish spirit. Then she Ix.-gan to wonder who was the mother of this babe. She told over to herself all the ladies of the adjacent village of Brakelmry; not one had a hundred pounds a year to spare, thought of all the ladies she had met in the narrow limits of life. in which she had never been fifty miles from her home. There was not one whom it would not be the utmost absurdity to charge with the maternity of this charge. " I give it up," said Patty aloud, with a sigh. ' Give what up?" asked Mark, starting from a reverie. " Guessing who is the mother of this little Don "So you should give it up," said honest Mark, stoutly. "A bargain is a bargain. Patty, and you know all that money is not to pay for one baby's milk, 'tendance, and bits of clothes; nor is it to buy our faith, for faith cannot be bought: but it is given us as pledge of a secret kept with that child's mother, and to ; delt-nd that secret; and so we must. Questions, Patty, we must -k nor answer; if curiosity is troublesome, we'll even bear it till it dies out naturally; we are paid for the trouble of bearing our neighbor's curiosit y." " That is true," said Patty; " we will make silence our rule." So they sat by the fire, while the storm ceased, the winds fell, the rain-heavy grass and leaves lifted tliem-el ves. the c:\^t brightened with a new day, the birds broke forth into matin- ami then a broad bar of sunshine fell over the kitchen floor, through the very window where the black-veiled figure, had the night In-fore. " Mark," said Patty. " here is a new day." "And a very happy day." said Mark.' "I -hall go pay mv debt the first tiling; and then. Heaven helping me, \vheii this liars ; in. I c: : and man. After th.it. Pattv. ri! I HUT r go -erurity. In':: all one; it's r;-' .vn or your neighbors in any How happy felt Mark Bract- thai morning, as, with sprir step, and whistling like a ma\is. loud and clear, he str P.rakebury to pay his debt. His sinewy hai.d tn mbi.-d convul- ipt. " F'm a< thankful as you are, Mark," said his creditor; would h:. my heart to ruin you. I lay awake all night thin., t !ia\e th. r be sold out m and m\ wife is ill in U-d. and my "II nn.Tii.-r blind, ami u told to-da\ r the prosaic." I-ady K-teile. \vith a swift .-lane.-, assured herself that the duchess was at the most remote corner of the room. " All. yes. that has a flavor of romance," said the bishop. " Atid you say the child is healthy and pretty'.-" " Both, 1 am told, to an unusual degree. It has the fatal gift of beauty." " Why fatal; . with listless polit* "Not fatal to those born to rank, j but fatal to the poor, the unprotected, the unknown. I cannot tie a more terrible gift to a friendless girl." 1 never thought of that." said Lady L-tel'e. and then her brief interest in the little eh "ito th^ ( indifference with \\hich she regarded all the For hour "f the fair foundling that had been left at Brackeuside Farm, and an un- 12 A FAIR MYSTERY. easy feeling came over her as she reflected upon tlie bishop's words: ' The child possesses the fatal gift of beauty. I cannot imagine a more terrible gift to a friendless girl." CHAPTER TV. THE MARBLE PSYCHE. MARK BRACE was the tenant of the Duke of Downsbury. as his fathers before him had for many generations been the ten- ants of the duke's ancestors; yet no two lines of life seemed to run farther apart than those of the duke and the farmer. The duke respected and appreciated his tenant, and the tenant sturdily held loyal faith in his duke, as the noblest duke in Eng- land. Yet, when Downsbury Castle was shut up, and all the family were abroad, seeking, year by year, health for the patrician daughter, that absence of the noble patron made no change in the current of life at the farm. Patty and Mark, when the duke came to their minds, hoped he would find for his only child the health besought. " How we should feel if our Mattie was delicate!" said Patty. " What a pity it is," said Mark, ' that the duke has no son. He has hoped and looped, but now he knows he will be the last Duke of Downsbury. ' " But Lady Estelle will get strong, perhaps, and marry, and he will have great comfort in his grandchildren," said Patty. Meanwhile, at Brackenside Farm, little Doris grew every day in beauty and brightness. Never was such a winsome wee thing. Patty felt sure the saucy blue eyes would count many victims when Doris bloomed into girlhood''s beauty. Patty was tender of her charge, as of some strange tropic bird that had flut- tered into her homely nest. Mattie, with her frank simplicity, aduivd, waited on, yielded to, her "little sister." Honest Mark fell a complete slave to the fascinations of her beauty: he could not .irive a severe look, nor a reproving word: the twining of those dimpled arms around his neck brought instant submission to any whim of Miss Doris. " Mark, Mark, you are like all the men you think the world and all of a pretty face," said Patty, laughing. " She's just a wonder, and I can't cross her," said Mark. " Not but I like Mattie best. You can rely on Mattie, somehow: she's worth twenty of this pretty Doris; but lean say 'no' to her, and I can try to train her up to be a good woman; but this little golden and pearly thing is just like a butterfly or a humming- bird to me. that's a fact. And then, Patty, we have had luck ever since she came; her hands brought us blessings." Was it any wonder that it came alxmt that when one child was to yield to the other, Mattie yielded to Doris? Mattie was older and stronger, and. truth to say. yielded more readily. If Patty called on a child to help her, to pick up toys, or a spool, or run to call Mark, was it not natural that Mattie. true, indus- trious child of the house, was the one called on, rather than the A FAIR MYSTERY. 13 child who ]nid a hundred pounds a year? Was it strange that, thinking ol' that lady-mother, wJio might any day come to claim her <>\vn. Pat'y protected the snowy beauty of her nurse-child with nankeen OlltS, and sleeves, and wide-brimmed hat? Did it heem lc>s than Holiest, when one considered that yearly hundred pounds, and the gentle liirtli, to give the child finer shoes and daintier garments than little Mattie had? Thus it came alnmt that pride, and vanity, and indolence, and imperious self-will, were nursed insensibly in this child, whoso soul Patty greatly desired to keep white and pure. Mark Brace, too, felt the duties that the yearly payment pressed upon him. When Doris was three years and a half old, lie said to his wife: " We must make her mannerly, lest her mother should not be satisfied. When she gets hig she must learn music and languages; now she must learn to sew and to read. We will let our .Mattie learn what she does. She is our only child; we can atTord it." " And you mean me to teach them ':" asked Patty. " Oh. no. wife. You "are too busy. We will send them every day to Mrakehury. to the Misses Ilopwell." The Misses Ilopwell were very genteel ladies; a surgeon's daughters, fallen into narrow circumstances, and keeping a lit- tle school, very genteel indeed, where they taught the making of Hampler>, the tables, reading, writing, the globes, etc., in prim, old-fashioned style. To this " ladies' school " went Mattie and Doris every day, in a little wicker cart, drawn by a donkey, beside which ran a bare- foot farm-boy as their charioteer. And so time went on, and Doris had been four years at the farm, and news now spread abroad that I-idy Kstelle Hereford was better at last, and the, duke was coming home. Back to England dually, and the castle was filled with guests. " I In-lieve." >aid the duchess to the duke, " that the U>st thing for our daughter would be a happy marriage. She i> twenty-two, li we could rouse her up to take any interest in any ont all she lacks is animation. She is a Psyche before the coming of Cupid. 1 heard a gentleman in Italy calling her ' the marble Psyche.' speaking to a friend." "I cannot understand it." said the duke. "During her first :i MK-iety >he .-M-emed animated and infere-ted. 1 \ ' e\eii once spoke sharply to her for dancing twice with Captain Kodney AInwick." You wi-re (|uit.- riu'ht." said the duchess. "I spoke to her !t about him. I ! \\ a- entirely ineligible in every particu- lar. But that all parsed by. 1 thought she liked him a little, and I wa- glad when he exchanged his regiment and went India. A ne'er-do-well family, if an old one." " We mil^t bring together the he-t iHirtis." said the duke, " and she may fancy souse one. 1 long to .,!, and to have grandchildren aUmt me." The guests came; and among them, calm, gracious, lovely, 14 A FAIR MYSTERY. went Lady Estelle, untouched by adoration, a goddess moving in a nimbus of her own impregnable repose. There was a dinner-party given for the Bishop of Lansdown, and, as usual, the bishop was full of stories, and told them ~wel\. "I remember," said Lady Estelle, "before we went abroad, you told me some story that interested nie something about a child " ' No doubt about the child left at Mark Brace's door." ' Perhaps that might be it. I suppose it has been claimed." ' Not at all. Mark has it yet, and shows himself a most honest man in his care of it." ' Ah ! In what way ?" ' He not only adores the child, but he rears it delicately, and he means to educate her." "Yes? And can one be educated at Brakebury?" said the soft, caressing, languid, scarcely interested voice. "The child is very young yet. She goes in a little donkey- carriage to a really nice little school, kept by two ladies in re- duced circumstances. When she gets, too old for that school, Mark means to find a better one for her." " Quite thoughtful of him; and the child is pretty?" " More pretty than I can tell you. I am sure she is nobly born. I saw her after service the day I held confirmation." " And her parents have never been found ?" asked the duchess. " No; and surely never will be. Great care has been taken to secure secrecy, and Mark feels bound to maintain it." " I do not know but it may be quite as well," said her grace; and then dinner was announced. CHAPTER V. " I WANT TO BE JUST LIKE YOU." " MY dear Estelle," said the Duchess of Downsbury, "I had hoped that with returning health you would have more earnest- ness and animation be more like your early self." "Possibly my early self was a great simpleton, mamma, and as for animation, most girls are overdoing that. Calmness, what you call indifference, may be my style. Don't you think people like it, mamma ?'' " Your style is simply perfection," said her grace, " and there are two or three elegible men here just now who plainly think so; if you could only give them a little encouragement." " I'm quite sick of eligible men. mamma. Is it ten or a dozen that I have 'declined with thanks?' I do not give them en- couragement because they offer themselves soon enough with- out it. They don't interest me." " And what will interest you?" asked the perplexed ducli< Lady Kstelle waved to and fro, in a meditative manner, her feather fan, as if considering what she could desire. " I believe, now I think of it, it would interest me to go and see that child the Bishop of Lansdown told us of." " My dear, that is not a nice story at all. rt is suspicious." A FAIR MYSTKKr. 15 " But the Braces are very proper people, ;ui ehild was l-e.-iul il'ul as oiirdreanis of ( . M e small hand i---ted on 1'atty's shoulder, the oilier IIUIIK in a-raceiul ; her lar^e, clear, sim! IM. t ln-r and unahashed. '1 he dn ';ked at the honest, healthy, pleasant face of little Mattie, her frank brown eyes, and simple, rustic manners, and said, sud- denly: " 1 like this child best. She promises better; she fits her place; she will make the world better for her being in it." Thank your grace," said the gratified Patty. "I hope so. But little Doris is very good, too, only we cannot help spoiling her; she has such curious ways." " Perhaps you \\ ish to set- im- dance," said Doris, who had been placed on the lloor. " Mattie can't dance; she won't learn the steps. I learn, and I make some steps; see me." Full of grace as a true fairy, she caught one side of her little white gown, and with a glance oi veiled coquetry at the duke, ;o dance. The duke clapped his hands in hearty admiration. The duchess, looking at her daughter, saw that she was deadly pale. " My dear: you are ill; you are over-fatigued!" " No, no, I am quite well." said Lady Kstelle. calm and proud; "I only want frc.sh air; the room is CMBe." They made haMy adieus, and Mark 1'ollowed them to the car- . .od little figure, framed in the d...,r- way. iJori-. danced like a bntterlly o\ i-r the turf near t lie gate. Mark, overcome bv bis great honors, returned to the parlor, and refreshed himself with a draught of cowslip wine. HI-IV'S an uncommon bit of civility. 1'atty," he said. "A duke is a duke, say what one may! And what a duke 01,: And what a rare gracious lady is the duchess! Hut the I-idy Kstelle oli, she is rather a proud piece. I fear. Hut (Jod hle.-s her, she's young, and doesn't know what life is yet. 1 she'll live to le a comfort and honor to them. Patty! \\liy don't you >] .1!;. my girl ? You are pule a.s the dead. This visit erdone you." iih, no; I'm only thinking very hard, Mark." Mark knew of old' that when Pat .-If to hard thinking she mi-lit as well I).- let alone. 90 h,. v,,'nt o|f to bis work ai ,rle\. Hut Tatty woi'ki-d that day with a burden Ol heart. " Well, well." saiil the duke, as they drove hack. " I did not tch a wonderfully beautiful child. Even l< than you \- ; .-. \\hen \ou \\eiv little." Was I pretty i-" asked the languid Kslel;. this child i^ pr-'lty, B io be rather bright." " The pretti.-t, Jrightest child 1 ever saw," said the duke. " Hut such shocking i<: :ii; a cliild with such bad i' '." cried the di. , nough to see how she will end.'' 18 A FAIR 1TYSTERY. " How will she end, inamma ?" said Lady Estelle's slow, sweet voice. " Very badly, my dear. Slie loves luxury: she is willful; she is scornful. She will hate the plain ways of those good people, and they will be able to do nothing with her. Gifts and beauty dangerous dower for this young bird of paradise, in a wood- dove's nest." " They are bringing up their own child well, I fancy." " Yes, my dear; she is their own; they understand her; they are under no restraint concerning her." " Honest Mark worships that little beauty," said the duke; " his eyes followed her every movement. She will govern him, and so much the worse for her. Your protegee will have tragedy as well as comedy in her life, Estelle." " Why call her my protegee?" said Lady Estelle, indolently. " Surely I have sins and follies enough to answer for, papa, without assigning to my protection a child of whom my mother prophesies such evil." " I wish we could do something for her," said the duke. " What could we do ? She is admirably well kept; she goes to school. If that good Patty Brace could not succeed with her, could we, where life and fashion would fill her head with non- sense ? Perhaps I only speak so because I am constitutionally indolent." " You are quite right. She has too much flattery and indul- gence now," said the duchess. "Sometimes I think that simple, unworldly life is best for everybody," said Lady Estellc. "I get tired of society and dis- play, and fancy I should like to wear a print gown and lie all day under an apple-tree in bloom." "But apple-trees don't bloom all the year, and the ground is often outrageously damp." laughed the duke. " And these simple people cannot lie under trees all day, or much of the day: consider they must be making butter and cheese, and curing bacon," added her grace. "So?" drawled Lady Estelle. "Then no doubt I had better stay as I am." " My dear girl," said her father, seriously, " it is time to recon- sider that determination to stay as you are. Not long ago you refused the Marquis of Bourne. \ou said he was too old and too plain. Now I have a proposal from the Earl of Seaton for your hand. He is neither old nor plain; he is in every way eligible." " Now you are boring me again, papa," drawled Lady Estelle. " But, my dear, I approve of the earl. I really wish to see you married. What shall I say to him'?" " Tell him to go away and not trouble me, papa." " My daughter, lie deserves a better answer. You are my only child; I shall not live forever; I must consider your future. Marriage will contribute to your happiness." " I am happy enough, papa." " Then think of our happiness your mother's and mine. Oh, A FAIR MYSTERY. 19 '! when I saw that lovely little child, how I wished I had .ndrhild like that!" A ruddy Mti- ; h dyed Lady Estelle's face, and she was silent. "Daughter," said the due-he.-*, "do not wait and refuse all offers from some romantic fancy al*nit falling in love. That does not belong to your rank. Perhaps your nature is T love any man very pas>ionately: hut you will care for your hus- band when you are married, and you will love your ehildr Lady Ksielle drooped her eyelids until the long lashes rested on her swiftly paling cheek. " Mamma, I note the word marriage!" she said, with far more than her usual vehemence. \Ve will drop the question at present," said her mother, anx- iously. ' You are looking very pale and ill. This long ride has been too much. I wish 1 had not permitted it." the worse for her visit. She looked paler each day, and often when alone she whispered: " Faithless and debonair faithless and fair; faithless and debonair!" The duke soon concluded that he must In-gin h is wanderings again in search of health and strength for his idolized only child. The suitor- ':t sway, the castle \\,-is closed, and the family of Downsbury went far from Brackenside and little Doris. CHAPTER VI I. ALL, ALL IS VANITY. MEAVWHTLE. at the farm little Doris grew under the protec- 'f .Mark and Tatty, mid yearly, as the da :nd which lie anniversary of her arrival. Mark : pounds, in golden >oveivL'iis. r in 1'n >h. ne\v Hank of Kngland d Mark, in his sturdy honesty, and far mion i guardian. Plain man as he 1 at what a girl of good family or hi-h on should know, and preparing Doris fur that po>ition to \\hie, .v her unkr.o. ;ll lier, he re- -liould re. :npli>hni' Fortune t.-r.ored him. In l'r;ikehiiry lived a Frenchman, a ;l'n>an of high hm-'iits. Mo: .lil in great a - : !la^e; his courtly L the foreign t< i spoke, th- : lie drew, the ' hi< h he painted and sold in London. _' on various instruments all lifted him f;;r ai>. Monsieur went hon- M Mark, when Doris eight y- ars old, and o ; I. red him titty pounds a year to tutor the : the lirown and tin- fair. " You will t- ran i irn anything, and I you to teach her all you know." So Dori- ' . r tutor, as she had )>een to the school of the Misses Hopwell, and the old French courtier bowed down and worshiped her, as in all her life did all the men 20 A FAIR MYSTERY. who were brought into contact with her. To teach her was a labor of love. Her aptitude was marvelous. She learned to speak French and German fluently; she drew and painted with taste and skill; her little fingers, with some inherited grace, flew over the ivory keys, or touched the shining cords of harp and guitar. Manners the manners of courts the banished French- man taught her, and she learned them intuitively. . " Mon Dieu /" cried the old gentleman; "but this child is lovely! She surpasses Ninon D'Enclos. and Diana de Poitiers! She has spirit, wit, originality everything that is admirable! A queen might be proud to be her mother!" Doris swayed and enchanted her old preceptor. Mattie, quietly studying French, drawing, and English literature, was left far behind by her foster-sister, who was speedily learning all that the tutor could teach. "You should have been born a princess, ma belle!'" the old man would say, delighted with some flash of wit, some piquant performance. " What will you do with all your beauty here on a farm ?" " Am I very beautiful?" demanded Doris. " Mora beautiful than Helen, for whom thousands died; than Cleopatra, who had the world's conquerors at her feet! What will you do with so much beauty ?" " Make the most of it!" and the words jarred on the aristo- crat. All men said the same. Even the rector unwisely cried: " Little maid, you have beauty enough to turn your head. Do Jiot let it make you proud." " Who made me beautiful?" asked Doris. " God, my child." " Is it not right to be proud of God's work and gifts?" " You have beauty enough to be a snare," said the doctor. " God gave me my beauty, and God is good, and does not set snares," said Doris, quickly, making Mark and the doctor laugh at her ready wit. "A beautiful body is nothing without a beautiful soul," said Mark, mindful of the letter saying, " Keep her soul white and pure.'"' " I would rather have a beautiful body than a beautiful soul," said Doris, promptly. "Why, my dear?" demanded the good man, in amaze. " Because my body is where people can see it. Who can see my soul ?" said Doris, scornful of her best possession. Mark was shocked. "That comes from everyone praising you so foolishly; you will be ruined!" he exclaimed. " Mattie can have the beautiful soul, and I will have the beau- tiful body," retorted Doris. " Monsieur D'Anvers says wisdom is the best gift, the gift for kings. I say beauty is the best gift, the gift for queens; and queens have always ruled kings." Mark shook his head. It is hard labor to rear an eagle in a sparrow's nest. A FAIR MYSTERY. 21 " Mother," said Doris, one day, when she was twelve, "this shall not go <>n longer I'm sick of it." Kit. my (.hilil:' Of what are you sick?" "Of the village, of the farm, of our way of living. I hat<- it. If I am kept here longer I know I shall run away." !y dear, are we not good to you ':" " On, yes, you are good, of course; but it is not goodness I want; it is change; I want something new some more style." " But how and where, Doris?" " Send me to boarding-school. I want to know more of the way ladies do and live. We see no one here. It Mattie does not want to go, I ought not to lx> kept home. I have learned all Mon>ieur Ii'Anvers knows. I talk French and German as fast as he does we go over the same old tin "That is true, mother." said Mattie. " DwisiBagFeattcltolar. I cannot go away from home; I don't want to; I lovetostay and help you: but let Doris go." " Twill ask your father," said Patty, hesitatingly. " And he'll say to let the child have her own way," said Doris, with a laugh. Well. I must consult your father." "Consult my father!" said Doris, with wonderful scorn. She had a singular contempt for all about her. though no hint that - ier than the child of the Braces had b. her. She had her way: she went to a fashionable l>oarding-s'-hool. For her clothing and tuition honest Mark paid the entire hundred pounds each year. She elected to vi-it schoolmates at vacation, and for four years Urackenside Farm knew no more of the golden-haired mystery. At sixte'-n she 'Mine home again, beautiful as a fairy, ripe for lief, mad for display a tireless reader of French novels. ,itM)Ut that home of rustic goodness, and < scorn dwelt in the violet eyes and sat lightly on the chiseled lips: her parents were " SO plain," her >i>t.-r Mattie "a country sim- pleton." They on their part rose up to do her homage: they bowed down and worshiped at In autv's >hrine. And was -he not most beau- tiful : " Beauty was 1: r. surti as earth Dot!. : ..in 'ini:ily Karl.- Moray." 'Eh? A decent Bounding name, "Who js he " ' A poet and a gentlemen." cried Mattie. enthu.-iastieally. - Poet.- live. I understand, i: ' But Earle b -imply. know him rather well." Poor Mattie blushed crimson. 23 A FAIR MYSTERY. CHAPTER VIII. THE YOUNG COQUETTE. " For some had perished in her stern neglect Fell on the sword of their own hope and died; While she in triumph, scornfully erect, Swept o'er their ashes with the skirts of pride." BEFORE returning to Brackenside, Doris had demanded a room for herself, and for this foom certain furnishings. She did not know that Mark and Patty would say to each other: "It is only fair, since we have for her a hundred pounds a year;" but she did know that her will would be law to them. She brought with her. when she came back to the farm, many little adornments, purchases of her own, or gifts from her school friends; and these Mattie dutifully arranged for her, just as siie had polished the windows and nailed down the carpet, and ironed the curtains before Doris came. Doris never thought of helping her. She perched herself, Turk fashion, on the foot of the bed, and issued' her orders as a good-natured little mistress to her maid. There were knickknacks for the toilet-table, pict- ures for the wall, a little book-case of hanging shelves. " Your room w r ill be fit for a princess, Doris," said Mattie. " For a princess!" said Doris, with scorn, " If I were half a princess, or only rich, I would clear out the rubbishy things at once. You might have them, Mattie, since you like them. I would have gold-mounted furnishings for my dressing-table, silk hangings, velvet carpets, upholstery in plush and satin, gold, white, pale-blue. I would have exquisite marbles, and pictures that cost a fortune each." 4 But you never saw such things," said Mattie. ' No; only I have read of them, and find in myself a fitness for them. I would give anything for such luxury.." ' Do not pine, dear, for what you can never have." ' I may have it some day," said Doris, defiantly. ' But how would you get it ?" ' By my beauty. The world belongs to beauty.'' Mattie was shocked. She was putting the books on the shelves, and her honest face clouded. She said to Doris: " I fear your books are worse than none. How did you come to get such books? I have heard Monsieur D' An vere say some of these were vile trash; and 1 notice sentences in the others that are not lit reading for a young maid." 'They are French," said Doris. "That does not make them better. There are good books to be had in French; and you have Byron for your only poet. I have heard our rector say Byron is unfit reading for girls." " You. ridiculous, strait-laced creature!" "And 1 don't quite like your pictures, dear. The subjects are not pleasant to me. These French beauties were famous lor vice. La Pompadour, and Diana, and the rest. This Cleoj atra is too scantily attired to suit my taste, and this Trojan Helen is not a nice picture. I would have chosen Joan of Arc, and tender A FAIR m^STERY. 23 Margaret More, and sad Hecuba, and martyr Margaret. Picttires should elevate our souls. '' My goodness. Mattie! have you been taking lessons of that gentleman poet you mentioned ? Where does lie live !" "At Lindenholm his mother owns it, and caniv there two >. when she was left a widow. Her husband \ cm. " Then I don't believe your Earle Moray is very rich. Hois just a farmer, if he lias only Limlenln ,1m. I remember the . half villa, half farm-house, with great linden trees around it. 1 )oes he \\ rite hooks r" ' " He has written one small one 'Songs of the ( 'ountry-side.' I have it lien-. You can read it: it is like music." " Ta. ta ! 1 hate poetry. What docs the man look li ' " Why, he looks as lie is. a gentleman, a gtwwl man." "I foresee I shall have a surfeit of goodness here. If the man is neither rich nor handsome, he will hardly pay to flirt with, unless one is desperate." " To flirt with!" cried Mattie, aghast. " You would not flirt, ]>oris'r" " And why wouldn't I " " Why. it is wicked. It is cruel, it is deceitful.' 1 " Hear the girl talk P died ])<>ris, flinging herself back on the bed with peals of musical laughter. " Why, goosey, I B with e\er\ male creatur- -on at school." " Mut I thought they did not allow Mich thii. " All".- Y dismissed him. and x<>i a gorgon of a woman in green s|>cct.ic|,-s in his place. As tor the dancing-mast, jilayed the fool and erred exceedingly whenever 1 \\ as in .~ight; ho t! I it was better than any the;.'. 1 1. ri^. I am ashamed of you." ' What odds dyes that make, so long as I am not ashamed of 1 f ?" ,t you will not act in that way with F. Why won't 1 ,11 afraid of losing him':'" He do.-, n't U-lonjr to me." said Mattie. blushing. How soon am I likely to see him ':" demanded 1 >: To-morrow. F.veryday. His mother wants him to he a fanner. She n. iiidenholm now. and sends h farm i ,;her thin i .;irle. hrr," "A farmer! The game is not worth the candle. I wouldn't 24 A FAIR MYSTERY. be a farmer's wife for anything. I loathe being a fanner's daughter." " I don't," said Mattie, with spirit. " I'm proud of my home, my honest race, my good, sweet mother, my dear father." " How queer!" said Doris, meditatively. " Now, I couldn't see anything to be proud of in all that. I should be proud of a coach and grays, and men in livery of suits of jewels, of a French maid, of velvet, satin, lace, brocade dresses." " Doris," said Mattie, anxiously, " have you any soul ?" "Soul? If we cannot live without one, and soul makes the heart go, I suppose I have; otherwise, I don't feel aware of the property you mention." " I believe you are only jesting, to tease me. You were al- ways brighter than I am, and a real rogue. You have higher ideas and better intentions and wishes than you say." " No, really I haven't not one bit." " Why, then," said poor Mattie, deeply distressed, " it must be your moral nature that is lacking." " Moral nature? That's just it," said Doris, with infinite sat- isfaction. " Moral nature I haven't any. I think all the nat- ure I have must be immoral; I always side with the sinners in all stories." Mattie had finished arranging the pretty little room. Doris jumped from her place on the bed. " Really you have made it look very well, considering what you have to do it with. A sort of household fairy, you, Mattie; your name should be Brownie. Now we will play you are my maid. I am going to bed, and I like to have my hair brushed a long time. It is good for my nerves, and good for my hair. Will you be my maid?" " With great pleasure," said Mattie, letting down the golden flood of Doris' silken hair. " How beautiful it is!" ' I think I am beautiful every way," said Doris, calmly. ' You are, indeed," said Mattie, without the least envy. ' Your hair will not brush straight! It is all in wavy clus- ters." ' You will brush it every night, and then I shall like you." ' Surely I will brush it, when you wish. But I like you in all cases," said Mattie. " And I want you to be good, dear." " And not flirt with Earle Moray ? Or other men ? Til not promise that. Flirting is my nature. I will flirt with tnis Earle until he puts his heart in my hands, and I will crush it up .so" as I do this rosebud and drop it so.' You watch and see how it is done, Mattie." Tears rushed to Mattie's eyes. She hurriedly left the room. "In love with him! Jealous! Oh, delightful! Here is some- thing to amuse inc. I thought I must surely die of dullness here, but I can llirt with the ' gentleman and poet,' and drive this preaching little puritan mad with envy, and that may lill up a year for me. Then, if the prince has not come along to woo, I shall go out somewhere to seek my fortune. Anything but stagnation. I will go where no one of the name of Brace shall follow me.' 1 A FAIR MYSTERY. 25 Meanwhile, Mattie, in her own neat, snug room, sat in the moonlight, mourning over the pervereenefis of this beautiful be- loved sister, and trembling for Earle Moray, whom she called licr friend, and lield far dearer, without knowing it. How could any man help loving sueli a da/./ling creature as this Doris? And his manly, noble heart must then be crushed and Hung away like that ruined rose? She looked up to the moon-lit sky. There \vas her helper and her friend. She prayed: " < i'od keep poor Earle.'' Then, comforted, she sought her bed and slept the sleep of faith. Doris slept the sleep of youth and abounding health, until Mrs. Brace awoke her." "It is almost seven, dear. I let you sleep late this morning." "Tliis late? Now,- mother, you might as well know I made my own hours for rising, and 1 will never rise at seven!" Patty sighed, and left her; she knew Doris would always have her own way. CHAPTER IX. POET ANM) (1ENTLEMAN. " I Pat with Doris, beloved maiden, Ih-r lap was laden with wreathed flowers: I .-at an. I wooed In r. through sunlight wheeling, And shadows stealing, for hours and hours.'' ROSE the sun over an id\ Hie day: the white clouds floated softly over the summer blue; the poppies bla/ed in scarlet Bplendoi through the grass; the bean led barley stood in sheaves, and through the meadows of Brackenside, that prosperous farmer, Mark Brace, led his men to their work. Marie Moray, whose mot her looked on poesy as the macadam- i/.ing of the r<-.".d to ruin, and desired nothing better for her son than : late and healthful, honest lii'e of a farmer, had come to take a lesson in stacking corn. It is true that farm work was not e-pccially attractive to Earle the povt, hut pleasing bis mother \\as attr.-icti\e |.> |'.;irle the Bon; the friendship of honest Mark was attractive to Earle the man: and Earle had common sense to know that every man is r off for knowing hmv to win his bread from the tield. Therefore, came Earle to his leoii. *My sister has come!" said Mattie, meeting him with a boding heart. "She lias r,rown more lovely than ever in these four 'ii will write poems about her when you see her. Her is a po, in. her \oico ami laugh are poems!' 1 " And \\here is the plxenix <>t ' L,irls?" demanded Earle. " I (own there under tl . ,m, watching the reapers. I will introduce you to her." said Mattie, who thought this fatal introduction should lie \\ell over with, (lie sooner the better. 1'erhap:-, Doris was in a less imjiish IIKKM! to-day. 1'rank Mat- tie did not dream how I loris had meditated all the monn tlie new situation, and had dressed for con|iie>t. In ru-ii Foundings she would play the rural imei-n. Her .!: biiiij'le 1'i'int, a. white ground with littl> "f muideu- 26 A FAIR MYSTERY. hair traced on it. At her neck a knot of pale green, through which was carelessly drawn a flower; in her gleaming hair a cluster of hop blossoms; her wide straw hat at her 1'eet was trimmed with a wreath of hop-vine; over her shoulders fell her wonderful hair. She held a book in her lap; one white hand rested on the page, the other brushed back a truant curl: and she lifted her lovely eyes in innocent, pleased expectation, as Mattie and Earle drew near. The heart of Earle Moray stood still with svirprise, then it leaped as if it would break its bounds, and a flood of passionate admiration fired his whole being. Oh, how divine a thing she was, this naiad in the meadow-land; all poetry should wait as handmaid at her feet. Why was one born to sing, unless to sing. Those shining eyes, those dimpling smiles, that flush of dawn upon her cheeks, well becoming the young morning of her maiden life, Oh, daughter of the gods of Hellas! Oh, "being fit to startle and surprise," looking at her, this boy-poet, whose soul had until now only stirred in its sleep, and murmured in its dreams, awoke to full and perfect life. Mattie looked into his flushing face, his kindling eyes, and saw that words, if she had dared to utter them, would now be fruit- less to warn him of Doris. She could only in her secret soul hope that Doris was less cruel than she had said, and so send up in silence to the ear of Heaven, that prayer: " God save Earle Moray I" Earle looked at her. " Mattie! What is on your mind? Do you want to say some- thing to me ?" " No yes only that you must remember that my sister is only a child, and takes nothing seriously. You will not mind any nonsense that she sa3's. " " Surely she will speak as she looks, like an angel." They drew near the elm. With what consummate art were the violet eyes drawn down from contemplation of their native skies to comprehension of earth's lower things! With what a sudden start at the abandon of her own position on the grass did Doris greet Mattie and the "gentleman-poet!" She sa flush on his cheek, the ardent flame lighting his dark eyes. She said to herself: " I shall have no trouble here; he is at my feet already. Thank fortune the man is handsome; and what an air he has! I shall not waste time on him, as it would be wasted on a clod- hopper, lie will be good practice for better tin; A!i." she said, as Earie asked permission to sit on the grass at her feet, " I don't know that you belong there. Are you a worker or an idler? Mattie is a worker; if you are industrious and good, you must go witli her or my father. I am an idler; if you arc naughty and idle, you belong with me." " I am of still a third class I am a dreamer. Here let me sit and dream of heaven." Mattie turned away, fearful and sick of heart; the mischief was done. "Dreaming is even better than idling," said Doris. "And A FA Hi MYSTERY. 27 here is a real land of dreams. See how the poppies bend, sleepy with sunshine; the sunshine is a, llood of rt'lined gold; the bees fly slowly, drunk with perfume; the butterllios drift up and down like beautiful, happy, aimless thoughts. Let us dream, and live to be happy." " One could not do better," cried Earle. Here shall be our lotus-land, and you are a fit genius for the place. Miss l',r.. " Now, at tin? \vry beginning, I must make a treaty with you. ui (Dining here often ':" " I hope so." " Then, unless I am to hate you on the spot, you must not call me Miss Brace. I detest the name! If there is one name above another that 1 hate, it is that name Brace! It is so common, so mean a wretched monosyllable!" " But you would grace any name!" cried Karle. "I don't mean to grace that very long!" exclaimed Doris. Earle opened bis e\-s in uncontrollable amazement. " You don't know what it is to sutler from a wretched, short, commonplace name. Look at me, and consider that I am called, above all things, Doris Brace! Horrors! Now, your name is fairly good. Earle Moray. There is a savor of gentility, of blood, of breeding, about that. You can venture to rise with such a name. I can only rise by dropping mine, and that I i to do." Karle laughed. This was, after all, the pretty, captious non- i little child. 15m lion.-, i-- a sweet name. It lits this sweet, home-like landscape. Doris, the lovely shepherdess, has been sung and painted for centuries." " 1'ut 1 have no g.-niurt for woods or fields, and I am afraid of >. Howe I toi is is better than ">ppy -rowing in the grass, and the hook fell from her '. : le picked it up, and saw what it was. "Tlii laimed. in genuine consternation, Now. Doris absolutely lacked the mor.d MOM that would her a-hamed of the book, or revolt at anything she found In- had native wit, and she .-aw that she \\ the j ng caste with Karle Moray on amount of this literature. " KIT.' What kind is it ';" she said, with encliantingsimp! " I bought it on the train late \ e-terday, and since I can I lia\e be.-n too happy to read it. l.-n't it a nice Imui. -hould say not." .-aid Karle. " I low do \oii know, unless \ ou it Y' illn-r's [putation: and then, the title!" " Dear m.-! And so I must not read it'.- and my oiie-am' : ,.! Whene\er 1 try to me \v !| means keep up yourrrenel. ; idi -i Iteaiitifnl ! looked relieved. Here was an explanation of exquisite timplieity. There was no spot on this sweet, stainless lilv. ILattie came back. 28 A FAIR MYSTERY. " Doris, mother thinks you had better unpack your trunk. Your dresses will be rumpled lying in it so long." "Youunpack.it, like a dear! I shall ruin my things taking them out; and then, I can't go in, it is so lovely out-of-doors." " Did you not put the things in, to begin with ?" asked Mattie. " No, dear; one of the girls did. The girls loved to wait on me, Mattie!" This with sweet reproach. " But mother thinks you are keeping Earle from work." " Go away, Earle!" said Doris, giving him a dainty little push. " If you stay idle here, I am to be called in and set to work. After that stuffy old school this four years, I cannot stay indoors. Go, Mattie, and tell mother if she insists on my coming in, I shall appeal at once to my fairy godmother to turn me into a butterfly." Mattie walked slowly away. "That's all right," said Doris, with satisfaction. "They all end by letting me have my own way." " And how does that work ?" " Well. Don't you suppose it is always a very nice way ?" " It must be, indeed," said Earle, heartily. He thought to himself that so charming a form must shrine only the tenderest of hearts, the sweetest of souls, and her way must always be a good way. The girl was infinitely more lovely than one could look for in the child of Mark and Patty Brace, the sister of gentle Mattie; but being the child of Mark and Patty, and sister of Mattie, she must be a sharer in their goodness, that sterling honesty, that generous unselfishness, that made these three everywhere be- loved and respected, patterns of domestic and neighborly vir- tues. Thus thinking, Earle sunned himself in the radiance of her smiles. CHAPTER X. A WASTED WARNING. WHILE Earle Moray watched Doris, and lost himself in de- licious fancies of a soul fair as the body that shrined it. Doris, on her part, gazed on him with awakening interest. She had expected to see a young countryman, a rhymster who believed himself a poet, one with whom she could " flirt to pass away the time," and " to keep in practice " not this gentleman in air and dress, with the cultivated musical voice, the noble face, the truthful, earnest eye. Said Doris in her heart, " I did not know that little dairy-maid Mattie had such good taste;" and in proportion as the value of Mattie's love increased before her, so increased her joy in winning it away. Not that Doris had any malice toward Mattie person- ally; but she had a freakish love of triumphing in the discom- fiture of others. Slowly she yielded to the fascination of Earle's presence. She told herself that " the detestable country " could be endurable with him to play lover at her feet. To her, mentally arraigning " the detestable country," spoke Earle: A FAIR MYSTERY. 29 " I love this scene: fairer is hardly found in any book of nature. What is more lovely, more suggestive, than a wheat field with golden she;i "I am a true child of the cities," said Doris, "despite my country birth and rural name. I was just thinking how superior are the attractions of paved streets, filled with men and women, ami lined with glittering windows. But if you will tell me some of tin : the wheat Held, no doubt I shall learn from you to think differently." How charming was this docile frankness! "It suggests earth's millions tilled daily with bread. It sug- tliat gracious Providence, by long and lovely processes, ailing man's needs. It brings to mind the old-time stories of Joseph's dream of bowing sheaves, of Ruth gleaning in the field of Boa/." The stories of Ruth, Rebecca and Esther were the three Bible stories that Doris knew; the face of Doris lighted as she red: " Oh, I like that! I have imagined Boaz tall, grave, stately, dark; and Ruth young, and fair, and tender. I cannot quite fancy how Naomi looked like other old women with a sad hi.-tory. I vupp. ..- but the words are lovely." Whither thou goest [ w ill go; thy people shall be my peo- ple. and thy < rod my God.' " His voice t<><>k a deep, passionate tone, and his eyes filled with the li^ht of love. you are a poet!" cried Doris. " Are you ?" " I wi-h I i-ould say ' I am.' Time will prove me. I have the port's longing. Shall I ever reach the poet's utterai' " Why. 1 think you have it now." slid Doris, sweetly. " It is because you inspire me. perhaps. As I came toward you. 1 wondered whether you were Tennyson's ' Dora' or ' The >h. neither! I am very different! The\ :!eiit with and tlowers. and humble ways. Was it not I>ora who dwelt unmarried till her death '/' f shall not do that. I shall marry and fly from the country-side. I ran /<> among \ in the city." " What! .inn. .f you live the truest life when- wind, and rain. and water-fall, and birds make mu>ic? the flowers mark the n of seasons all is calm, and security, and inno- "Tell me," said Doris. Itending forw.-i : ) her sapphire her small hand thrilling him . his arm: " tell me. | ntent ? 1 >o >/"" not long for fame ? To sway your fellows, to t>e rich, to make mon, :i. money is the lowest of all objects. What is money to demaii'le.l Karlc. netal. may be a low object, but nion- Ling what we want most, is a huh objeet. Think of what it eau buy. Think of gor.reous pictures lighting your with Iteauty. of Bashing jewels and gleaming marM dany-fountained gardens, of homes (it to live in. not stuffy little 80 A FAIR MYSTERY. farm-houses, with windows under the eaves. Tell me. are you content? Will you live and die a farmer? Is not this money a thing worth winning to lay at the feet of love? Will you not spread the wings of your soul for a wider life ? Have you not ambition ?" Yes!'' cried Earle; " I have ambition." The dimpling smile showed the shining pearly line of little teeth; the soft fingers of the little hand touched his hand as she withdrew them; and, leaning back against her oak tree, she laughed joyously: " I have found a fellow-sinner." " Ambition can be noble, rather than evil, and to aspire is not to sin. Who could help being ambitious, with you as the apostle of ambition ? You enforce with your beauty each word that you utter!" "You think me beautiful?" said Circe, in sweetest wonder- ment, as if she had not studied dress, look, pose, gesture, minutely to enhance her wonderful and rich endowments of nature. " Words cannot tell how fair. A verse keeps singing through my brain; it is this: " ' And she, my Doris, whose lap incloses' Wild summer roses of sweet perfume, The while I sued her, smiled and hearkened, Till daylight darkened from glow to gloom.' " Ah, this was something like, thought Doris, to be wooed and nattered in poetry. She dropped her dainty lids, the rose pink deepened in her cheeks, and she gave a slow, sweet sigh. " Did yon make that poetry ?" " No: but would I could make immortal verses, for your sake," said Earle. " The world should hear of you." The world! Oh, rare delight! Had she not dreamed of driv- ing men mad. for love, of making poets sing, and artists paint her charms ? And these conquests were begun. She looked up archly. She knew when to check the tides of enthusiasm and adoration, that they might grow stronger for the repression. " Away with poetry, my singer, here comes prose." Over the field toward them strode honest Mark Brace, looking for his neophyte in rural toils. Mark's round i'ace was .riinsdii with heat and exertion, but a broad smile responded to the pretty picture these two young lovers made under the tree. He criid. heartily: " A deal you are learning this morning, Master Earlo. Will you put off your lessons in wheat-stacking till next year? Lin- denholm farm, at this rate, will be a model farm to the county when the madam turns it over to you." " I was not in working humor," said Earle. " Work won't wait for humors." quoth Mark. " And for you, my pretty miss, I don't doubt your sister is making butter and yo'ur mot her cooking dinner, w'hile you are playing shepherdess under a tree." " Do 1 look as if I could work ?" laughed Doris, springing to her feet and extending a wee rose-leaf hand " I am only for cr- A FAIR MYSTERY. 31 nament, not use. But I will leave Mr. Moray, for 'evil com- munications corrupt good mnniKTs.' ami I have made bin l-bye, poet. '1 ;cn as they take their flight; 1 t to look more and more charming as I depart home- ward." minx knew that she had done enough that day to turn ^^^Earlejflora y's head, and it would be well to let the effect noble and happy; in all the words of l>oris rang some !te undertone of irony and scorn, of wliat he most esteemed. fair, fair, indeed, but was it not selfish of her to let those whom r Mood, work, and she stay idle? Yes, there was the hundred jxnir.ds. and she was not really their blood, but of^ ri- danced otT home-, and framed her lovely countenance in tin- vii.es about the Kitchen window. " And what have I/OH been dojn 1'atty. reprovj- " Turning Karle Morav's hea'i. promptly. ie started and paled a Ir " He thinks I'm lovely!" cried I>ori-. with a laugh. you may be. but no thanks to you," said J'atty, " and if .ours. If to he.-id-tuniing. ma'rk my words, child, there will some terrible evil overtake you both." CHAPTER XI. Ti 1 : day I'oris, under trees, or wandering far into tlie gloaming with her in Brackenside garden. His heart poured itself out in Her- rick's graxid old song " To Anthea:" " Thon art my life, my soul, my heart, The very eyes of me Thou hast command of every part, To live and die for thee." His rich young voice rolled forth these words with deep feeling. Doris laughed at the song at first, but his earnestness in sing- ing it touched her a very little. " I shall always think of you when I hear that song," she said. " Think of me! Yes, but if it means that we are to l>e parted, and you think just to rememl>er Doris, I should die!'' He was fervid, handsome, romantic, brilliant in love's first golden glow, hard to resist. She smiled at him. " Let us fancy we will not be parted," she said sweetly. Karle came hurrying up one day after dinner. " Now for a long evening in the gaxdenr he cried. "I have brought a new drama: the poetry is exquisite. We will Bit in rl>or under the honeysuckle, and while the summer wind is full of the breath of flowers, I will read you the sweeter breath- ing of a poet's soul. Come, Doris come, Mattie let us off to rden." Maitie's face Hushed with joy: it was so sweet to find some pleasure she could share with him. Earle read: his voice was full of fire and mu< etry." said Mattie. "but not in its idea. I cannot love the heroine, though her face i-^ fair. Beauty should be united to goodness, and goodn t this cruel pride. To think of a woman who would let a brave man die, or risk death, to win a smile! I alv. ays hated the lady who threw the glove, and I think the knight served her well, to her when lie returned the; i,c had no idea of true " Beauty has a right to all triumph-." ris, " and men have alway> been ready to die lor beauty's smile." " .\ good man's Jife is worth more than any woman's smile," Baid Mattie. "The man's life, the woman's life, an t-i U- spent m doi:i,; good. We ha\ e in> ri^ht to throw them idly away, or demand their sucrilicu. I never liked these storiug 34 A FAIR MYSTERY. of wasted affection. They are too pitiful. To give all and get nothing is a cruel fate." " Oh, you little silly country girl," laughed Doris, " you do net think that beautiful women are queens, and hearts are f:eir rightful kingdom, and they can get as many as they like, and do what they please with them." " You talk to amuse yourself," said Earle, " that sweet smila and voice fit your cruel words as little as they would suit an ex- ecutioner's sword." " What is slaying by treachery in love better than murder?" asked Mattie, eagerly, " It is a very exciting, piquant, interesting form of murder," retorted her wicked little sister. " How can any one enjoy giving pain," cried Mattie. " I have read of such women, but to me they seem true demons, however fair. Think of destroying hope, life, genius, morals for what? For amusement, and yet these sons all had mothers." " You are in earnest, Mattie," said Earle, admiringly. "I feel in earnest," said Mattie, passionately. " Pshaw, there is much spider and fiV in men and women," laughed Doris. ' ' Women weave silvery nets in the sun, and the silly men walk straight in. Who's to blame ?" " You talk like a worn-out French cynic," cried Mattie. " Well, who ix to blame'/" persisted Boris; " pretty women for just amusing themselves according to their natures V or silly men for walking into danger, being warned':'" " It should not be a woman's nature to set traps for hearts or souls. You know better, Doris," urged Mattie. " If I could be rich and great, and go to London, and live in society, you'd see if I would do better," retorted Doris. " You two remind me of verses of a poem on two sisters," said Earle. " Their lives lay far apart. " ' One sought the gilded world, and there became A beins fit to startle and surprise, Till men moved to the echoes of her name, And bowed beneath the magic of her eyes.' " "Yes, that means me," said Doris, tranquilly. " ' But she, the other, with a happier choice. Dwelt 'mong the breezes of her native fields, Lauirhed with the brooks, and saw the llcnvers rejoice; Brimmed with all sweetness that the summer yields.' " " That, then, is Mattie." Mattie looked up in gratified surprise. " If you are complimenting Mattie, I won't stay and hear it: I reign alone!" cried Doris, half laughing, half petulant, and dart- ing away she sought her own room, and refused to return that night. It was often so. When she had sunned Earle with her smiles she withdrew her presence, or changed smiles to frowns; so he was never cloyed with too much sweetness. When Doris with- drew, in vain he sang under the window, or sent her love-full notes. The summer sun of his love had its settings, its shadows, its thunder-clouds, yet Earle loved and was happy. A FAIR MYSTERY. 35 CHAPTER XII. BEAUTY BK'-o.MKS IMMORTAL IT was the good custom of Mark Bract- to close the day with prayer; and sometimes a word or two of the psalms for the day :tted tlie sedulously deaf ears (it Doris. Nuch happened to be the case one August night, and set the ty thinking. She was perched on the sill of the dairy win- dow, next morning, watching Mattie make butter, hut her brow a perplexed frown, and a look of curiosity not provoked by I. utter-milking was in her blue What is the matter? What are you thinking of, Doris?" HI thinking that I am an example of Scripture truth." 'In what particular.-" asked Mattie. 'In the particular of tumbling into the pit, or catching in the net, duly set forth by me for other people." ' I dont quite understand you." ' Then you are even duller than usual, and, as I may no more speak in parables. I will expound myself clearly. I deliberately ende;.vor--d t<> entrap and entangle Earle Moray into '. for my Himmer ] a>time. I did not duly consider that I might fall in love with him myself." " Why not, if you desired him to love you?" "That was men ly part of beauty's dues, child. Y.T.y not 1 II" is not rich enough, or great enough; he cannot take me to London, and make me a society queen." . taiuly not. You did not expect that." " True. And I did not > fall in love with him." you have? Surely you have, he loves you HO much." " Lh? Do you want uie to love him ? I thought you wanted him." " I only want him to be happy," said Mattie, turning away, with " 1'erha him a little. I am not capable of loving much," Kiid D< ris. witli tion- '..Kin the pomps and vanities of thi.^ In., which I meed for me in my baptism." :ft be so wick- ."lit know that I co.dd say 'yes,' if Earle asked marry him. I might, and then repent, ai. her and mother, they would fearfully awkward about it." " You .-hail not talk so about them!" said Mr.ttie. indign; "I ! to them as \ ou do v Miily. I like you, Mattie: father; oken, homeh -thi-r much. M monplacf. like hioun bn ad. hi fact, you are all too rustic, and honnly.and pious, an-: al for wicked me. Are you done with that butter.' Why made "r I am sick of li!'- b'iry for I. is mother. It had" been up a ceutury. Come" with me to gut bL. fffl A FAIR MYSTERY. " I cannot. I have much dairy work to do yet," said Mattie. " I wish you u-ould go for blackberries for supper," said Patty Brace, coming in. "You don't seem disposed to do anything useful, Doris suppose you try that." " I take care of my room, and my clothes,'' pouted Doris, " and that nearly kills me. I wish I had a maid!" Patty laughed. " Well, child, the woods are cool and beautiful, and you are tired of doing nothing. Take this basket, and try and fill it with blackberries." Fearful of being asked to do some more practical duty if she rejected this, Doris picked up the basket, put on a pair of gloves, tied her sun hat down under her distracting little chin, and set forth toward the knoll, a place famous for blackberries. The grass was long and thick, the aftermath of clover loaded the air with fragrance, scarlet creepers ran along the hedges, and at the knoll, with purple stems and green and orange leaves, grew the blackberries in globules of polished jet. An inspiration of in- dustry seized Doris, and she filled her basket; the soft little tips of her fingers were dyed crimson with the fruit. She lingered over her task. Earle might return, and it would be pleasant under the trees, birds singing and grass rustling about them, while Earle talked poetry to her. But Earle did not come, and something in the silence of nature set this thoughtless creature to thinking. It was one of those solemn hours of life when our fate hangs in the balance. What of her future? What should she do with herself? Should she give up her frantic ambition, her intense desire after excitement, riches, and splendor, and, accepting an honest man, settle in a simple, comfortable home, and grace it as a good wife and mother all her days ? Could she do that ? Should she refuse Earle Moray, on whose lips an offer of him- self and his all was trembling? Should she send him away? She scarcely felt ready for that. She had grown to love him a little just a little but more than any one except herself. Should she fly this homely, quiet life, these good, uncongenial people, fly to the great city, and set out under a feigned name to make her own way in the world, as singer, actress any wild, ad- venturous path that might find her at least a lord for a husband? Should she? "Can I give him up? Can I leave him to Mattie? Will he ever be famous and rich enough to make it worth while to nourish my little bit of love for him into real love, if I can ever love? Oh, for some good fairy to rise up and tell me what to do!" She started in sudden fear, for surely a step was coming close to her. some one from the other side of the coppice, who had watched her unseen. Not a fairy. A gentleman. A very pre- ventable gentleman, who said: " 1 beg pardon. Do not let me alarm you." Then the two looked at each other. Doris saw a handsome, middle-aged man, palette on his thumb, box of paints under his arm, portable easel in his hand; A FAIR MYSTERY. Z" wide-awake hat, velveteen suit. She promptly summed him up " artist." He saw Doris; Doris, mold of beauty; naiad in grace: inno- cence in her startled eves: face of an angel; mien of ;i nymph. lit- began to believe in the gods of old. He said to himself, " Maid or spirit? .Mortal or vision?" " Forgive me tor startling you." h- said; "but I have been watching you as you stood under this tr> I hate to he watfhed." interrupted Doris. " As a man I war, guilty; as an artist, guiltless, for an artist, alx.vrall things, loves and serves his art, and considers all he, 9 Mihsei -vient to it. I came to Downsbury in quest of stud- ies in still life. For \ eai> 1 have had an ideal of a face that I wished to paint in my best mood: a face after which all should wonder. 1 have searched cities and country; I have wandered in my quest for that, face through other lands; and when 1 saw you under the tree, I was all the artist all lost in art for yours is the face I have hi en Decking for my can . " Why, do 3'ou mean 1 would make a picture a real picture ?" demanded Doris, with studied simplicity. "Yes; ten thousand times yes! Under this greenwood It. , your basket at your feet, your hat swinging in your hand, your lifted yes, a picture to be known and praised forever. Child, I will make your beauty immorUil." This was what she had dreamed. A poet was singing her praises, and would do so, whether she played him false or not; and here was an artist to paint her for i Id to admire. Id she who so inspired men tie herself to the narrow bounds of one humble, rustic hearth '.- " May I paint you?" demanded the artist. '' May I set you in canvas, in immortal youth and loveliness, to live years, perhaps ;ries hence, in deathless beauty? "The picture the face- will live! "Where, in those far off . shall / I i Doris, earnestly. thought the wop 1 and' mood strange. I | art of \ou is immortal," he said, gently. :id what would \<>u call my picture?" "'] : ' should be its name!" " But what in me .seems to you the image of ' /, Stranger question still. Hut he answe.ed as an art i.-.t : " You have an ideal brow, rounded at the temples as th linted their angels. Your even are lar^e. bright, clear, ing more of heaven than earth. ' Your lips hav, exquisite curve. The form of \oiir fa- '"ing. your hair, are all simplv pert. " You shall paint my picture!" cried Doris, jovou.--.ly, changing Ler mood. " You need ask no content but mi:: 38 A FAIR MYSTERY. CHAPTER XHT. "FAITHLESS AND DEBONAIR." " DORIS, you must not do it. I cannot bear it!" " I don't see what difference it makes to you, Earle. and you have no right to interfere, and do it I surely shall." Thus Doris and Earlo on the theme of portrait painting. Gregory Leslie was too astute a man, too experienced, to take his wandering naiad at her word, and paint her picture, asking no consent but her own. Never had a girl so puzzled him. Her rare beauty, found in so remote and rural a district: her delicate hands, soft, cultured tones, exquisite, high-bred grace, in contrast with her very common, simple, if tasteful, dress: and then her words, so odd either purest innocence and sim- plicity, or curious art in wickedness. Who and what was th.e young enchantress? Then, too, her smile, the turn of her neck, her way evoked constantly some shadowy reminiscence, some picture set far back and grown dim in the gallery of his memory, but surely there. Again and again he strove to catch the fleeing likeness, but at once, with the effort, it was gone. " If you want to paint me, begin!" said Doris, child-like. "Pardon. It would inconvenience you to stand here; the sketch even would take time. It must be a work of care, I shall do better if I have your permission to accompany you home. Also I must ask your parents consent." " Tliey don't mind!" cried Doris, petulantly, after some little hesitation. " I am only a farmer's daughter." She flushed with bitter vexation at the thought, but seeing the artist immovable in his purpose, added: " I live at Brackenside, it is not far; you can easily come there." " If you will permit," said Gregory, with courtesy. " You can come. I have no objection," said Doris, with the air of a princess. She picked up her basket, and moved away with the grace, the proud bearing of " the daughter of a hundred earls." Gregory Leslie marveled more and more. As an artist, lie was enraptured: as a man, he was puzzled by this new Daphne. Doris, seemingly forgetting her new cavalier, yet taking a rapid side look at him, considered that he was very handsome, if getting a little gray; also, that his air was that of a man of the world, a dash of the picturesque added to the culture of cities. She wished Earle would meet them, and go into a spasm of jealousy. But Earle was spared that experience, and only Mark, Patty, and Mattie Brace were at the farm-house, to be dazzled with the beauty's conquest. Arrived at the gate, Doris turned with proud humility to her escort. " This is my home. I do not like it. Most people think the place pretty." " It IK a paradise!" said Leslie, enthusiastically. . " Then it must have a serpent in it," quoth Doris. A FAIR MYSTERY. 3-3 " I hope not," said Leslie. " It has. I have felt it bite !" Mark Brace, with natural courtesy, came from the door to meet them. This is an artist that I met at the knoll, ''said Doris, calmly. " He is looking for subjects for pictures. I think lie mentioned his name was .Mr. Leslie, and he wishes to paint me." " Wants a picture of you, my darling!" said honest Mark, his face lighting with a smile. "Then he shows his good taste. "Walk in. sir; walk in. Let us ask my wife." 1 le led t In- way into the cool, neat, quaint kitchen-room, hated of Doris' soul, but to the artist a study most excellent. Then did the artist look at the Bnu-e family in deepest wonder, Mark had called the. wood-nymph " my darling." and asserted a father's right; and yet not one line or trace of Mark was in this dainty maid. lie turned to study Patty, who had made her courtesy and taken the basket of berries dark, strong, plump, tidy, intelli- gent, kindly, plain. Not a. particle of Patty in this aristocratic young beauty, who called her "mother "in a slighting tone. Then, in despair, he fixed his eyes on Mattie Brace brown, earnest, honest, dark, sad eyes, irood, calm just as little like the pearl-and-gold bfatity as the others. M-'anwhile Mark and Paity eyed each other. " I want to speak to you a minute. Mark," said Patty; and the pair retired to the dairy. Doris flushed angrily, and drummed on the window-sill. Behold a m v Leslie to himself. " Mark." said Patty, in the sate retirement of the milk-i " this needs Considering. Doris is not our own. To have her picture painted and exhibited in London to all the e-n-at folk, may be the la-t thing her mother would desire; and her mother is yet living, as the money comes alwaj B the >ame way." " 1 di-<-lare. I'.itty. 1 lle\ er thought of that." And yet. if ' art on it, she'll have it done you see," added Patty. "True." said Mark. " And people will hardly think . " middle-a^ed people in a sort of fuii' Better let it be done under our e\e, Patty." " I supj ce M.. ,-ince \\ ,. cannot hinder its doing." They returned to the kit'-heii. " We have no objection, if v.m \vi-h to make the picture Kiid Murk. " I should think not. 1 had settled //' " In return for your kindness." said the artiM to Tatty, " I will all portrait of her for your parlor." BO One sitting was given then and there, and others were ar- ranged for. When Karle c.-mie that evening he heard all the story, and then, with Doris in th" garden, they fell out over it, beginning ai . t h in the , if this eh:' " I cannot and will not have am t at you, study- ing your every look, carrying your fact- in his .soul." 40 A FAIR MYSTERY. " If you are to begin by being jealous," said Doris, delighted, " I might as we.' 1 know. I enjoy jealousy as a proof of love, and as amusing me, but I like admiration, and I mean to have it all my life. If ever I go to London, I expect to have London at my feet. Besides, if you mean to sing me, for all the world, why cannot Mr. Leslie paint me. You say Poetry and Art should wait at the feet of Beauty. Now they shall!" It ended by truce, and Doris agreed that Earle should be pres- ent at every sitting. This calmed Earle, and rejoiced her. She thought it would by charming to pit poet and artist one against the other. But the sittings did not thus fall out. Earle grew much inter- ested, and he and Gregory took a hearty liking for each other. Gregory admired Doris as a beauty, but his experienced eye detected the lacking loveliness of her soul. Besides, he had no love but art, and his heart shrined one sacred pervading memory. Daily, as he painted, that haunting reminiscence of some long- ago-seen face, or painted portrait, grew upon him. He looked at Doris and searched the past. One day he cried out, as he painted: " I have it!" " What have you?" demanded Doris, curiously. " A face, a name, that you constantly brought to mind in a shadowy way that you resembled." Man or woman?" demanded Doris, eagerly. " A man." She was disappointed. She had hoped to hear of some reign- ing belle of society. " Was he handsome?" she asked, less interested. " Remarkably so. How else, if your face was like his?" ' But how can it be like a stranger I never heard of?" " A coincidence a freak of nature," said Leslie, slowly. " And what was he like?" demanded Doris. "Faithless and debonair! False, false and fair, like all his line. It was a fatal race; he no worse than the rest." CHAPTER XV. " I WILL BE TRUE FOREVER." DESPITE all the love eagerly made by Earle, and readily ac- cepted by Doris, there was no formal engagement. A hundred times the decisive words trembled on the lips of the poet-lover, and he chided himself that they were not uttered. But then, if she said "no," what lot would be his? As for Doris not being prepared to say " yes." she deferred decision, and checked Earle on the verge of a finality, for she was not ready to dismiss her suitor. If he fled from Brackenside, what pleasure would be left in life ? She l>aatiently." k new value in this ambitious pirl's e;. Meanwhile, warned by the experience with I^slie. which mipht have turned out so diiferently. had Leslie played . and offered London-life to Doris, Earle resolved t >uit. and urpe early marriage. He must have .-.nine way of holding iiictte. To him the marriage tie was invu. liis wife, lie fanci' "iild be ever true. OltOe betrothed, he lx-lieve.1 that she wmild hv ti h* So 3 -ptember morning, when Leslie's picture wa> nearly finished, Earle came up to the farm, resolved to be silent no longer. He met Mattie first. He took her hand. " Mattie, dear sister- friend, to-day I mean to ask Doris to be my wife. Wi>h me sue- Mattie'-; heart dit-d within her, but the true eyes did not quail, I hope she will consent, for I know you love her. H vou all P' not take me, my life will be spoiled!" cried Earle, 'iiately. " Hush." -a, 1 Mattie. " No man has a right to say such a \ o should ever throw away ail Kood that Heaven has give** -e of one goo.l withheld." x'.s she 1- I'el! me!" " I do not know. There id uoris, answer inc. Say ;. " Yes." said Doris, placidly. (Earl caught her in his arms, and kissed her fervently. ) " Is that the way you mean to act ';" laughed Doris, sweet and low. Why did you tell me to say 'yes^and get my hair rumpled, and my dress all crushed up that way?)' "You are mine, my ov n Doris! Tell ine, no one else shall ma-ke love to you, or kiss you you will never be an- other's?" " Of course not," said Doris, with delicious assurance. " You will lie true to me forever." "Yes; I will be true forever." said Doris. If she played at love-making, she would play her part perfectly, let come what would afterward. " And you will marry me? When will you marry me?" urged this impetuous young lover. " How can 1 tell ? This is all very pleasant, being lovers; and then you must ask the people at the farm." She 8jx>ke with reluctance. It always irritated her to call the honest Brace family " parents, sister.'' " I can't be married till they say so. And there's your mother." 41 They will all agree to what will make us happy." " And will you agree to what will make me haj ' Yes, my darling, with all my heart and soul!"' " Then > on must build up fame, and get money, and go to London to live, for I do not love this country life. Only think, to live in Ijondon among the literati und the "noted people! We will surely do that Karle ?" CHAPTER XVI. A BETROTHAL DAY. GREOORYLF.SLIF, seated before hi ,wtho young couple returning to the hoiiM-. No need to tell him what had i The triumphant lover was in every line of Karle's face. (Gregory sighed. Karle had won thenio-t heaii if ill girl i for his wife; but the arti>t was a deep student of human n and he read in Doris a di-po^tion intensely worldly a: an ambition that nothing could satisfy, a j that would break a promise a.s easily us Sauison l/roke the seven withes. D-ris ran away from Earle into the garden, and left him to enter the hou>e alone, (iregory wan the lirst one he saw. " Wish mi- joy!" In dtantly. " With all my heart. What you have won. " I have no fear," baid i 1 >vesuio." 44 A FAIR MYSTERY. " You have the original; I the picture, This picture w ill wake the curiosity of the world," said Gregory, looking at his work. " But you will not tell who or where is the original ? I do not wish my Doris to be pursued by a crowd of idle, curious people." " On honor, no," said Gregory, holding out his hand. Then Earle went on to find Mark and Patty. Patty heard the news with a bewildered shake of her head. " There's no counting on Doris," she said. " I thought she was playing with you. We shall see how it will turn out. I hope you will be happy." " I am sure they will," spoke up Mattie, and left the room. " There's your mother to be consulted," said Mark. " She will be ready for anything that makes me happy." " And Doris is too young, She cannot be married for a year yet," said Mark, decidedly. " She must have time to know her mind and to settle herself. If it were Mattie now, I'd feel differ- ent. Mattie is two years older, and she has a steadier nature." " But it's not Mattie, thank fortune, for Mattie is my right hand," spoke up Patty, sharply; for she had read a little of her own child's cherished secret. Earle was so overj yed to get the promise of Doris, that he counted the year of probation a day, and saw nothing of Greg- ory Leslie's incredulity, of Patty's hesitation, of the anxiety of Mark, or of Mattie's shy withdrawing. These young lovers are selfish, even the best of them. Patty roused herself to do justice to the occasion. She set forth a table with her best damask and the few old pieces of family silver; she spread out the choicest of her culinary stores, and invited Gregory Leslie to dine, and Mattie crowned the board with flowers, and put on her best dress, while Doris played the young fiancee to sweet perfection. Yet the keen eyes of the artist read not only Mattie's hidden pain, but Patty's sorrow and anxiety, and saw that Mark was not a rural father, joyful in a good match for his child, but a man in dire perplexity, uncertain what was right and wise for him to do. " Thio girl and all her surroundings are a mystery," said the artist to himself. Earle Moray saw no mystery; all was broad day in the lip;ht of his love. It seemed high noon even, when he went home at night, and the heavens were lit with starry hosts. Doris had kept him late, not unmindful of the mother watching alone to hear her boy's tale of wooing, mindful of her, rather, and finding it a pleasure to tantalize the unknown mother by a long delay. But once free of the beguiling voice of his little siren, Earle remembered heartily his mother, and hurried to her as if his feet were winged with the sandals of Apollo. He flung open the gate with a crash; his joyous tread rang on the gravel walk; he dashed into the house, and into the sitting-room, and dropping on his knees by his mother, clasped his arms about her waist and cried: " Mother! she is mine!" *' Heaven bless you, my son!" said hia mother; but she sighed. A FATR MYSTERY. 45 "You will go and see her, mother, to-morrow? You will see how wonderfully lovely she is; witty and accomplished, too; you are sure to be charmed, mother!" If he had chosen a l>eggar maid, like King Cophetua, the mother would have made the best of it. Yet in her secret heart Mrs Moray thought Karle too young to marry, and, besides, this girl was very \oung, and who knew if she wo.ild be a good wife. arle's poetizing and dreaming were bad enough, but his love- making was even worse! Still his mother hid her fears, and pympathixed and hel)>ed him plan his future, while in her soul she blessed Mark brace for that year's delay. Accustomed from childhood to open bis heart to his mother, Earle poured forth to her the full story of his love, his adoration, his intoxicating passion for Doris. The mother heard and trembled. His was not the love of a Christian man for a wife, but of a pagan for the idol in his shrine. She felt that this love could not be blessed or bring blessing; it was earthly, infatu- ated, unreasoning, terrible. She trembled; yet trembling did not foresee the stormy and dreadful way that this love should lead her boy, nor in what horror and blackness its grave should be! "While Mrs. Moray and her son forgot the flight of time, one in jinxi.'ty. tii-- other in overflowing joy, Mark brace and Patty, at brackeiisid-.* Farm, also kept vigils. They were perplexed to know what was right. " It was terrible to send us a child in that way," cried Patty. " "We canuot U..11 what we should do with her." " 1 think we can," said Mark. " We were told to do as by our own. "We \vould give Mattie to Earle, if they both wished it. We can give Doris. No doubt her mother will be glad to know that she is safe in the care of a husband." " but if they come to reclaim her, as I have expected?" " They gave- her to us, unasked, and must abide by our decis- ion. Besides, here is a year's delay, and the engagement no se- lf the unknown mother watches her child, let her make known her rights and interfere." "And tin' letter -aid >he was of noble blood." " Karle Moray is a good man. a ^-ntleman. a scholar." " but what would lie think of this secret? They believe Doris to be ours, the same as Mattie." "There's tin- rub," said Mark; "but here, to be honest, we moot break silence. Not to Doris, but to Earle. \\v must tell Karle ami his mother all the truth that we know. Married life ill. Patty, begun in mystery." "Possibly Mrs. Moray will not consent." " I think it will make ri<> dilleri nee. If it does, we have done our duty, and that is all our troir her im-ii. timid soul, secretly married, and perhaps now dead, and the father al>o." Patty sighed, and a look of trouble and conviction was in her had thoughts about Doris that she did not tell even to Mark. " Love and trouble always come together," aighed Patty. 46 A FATE MYSTERY. " Doris has been a great help to us, as well as a great rare," sa' ! Mark. " Her money saved us from ruin, and put us on our feet. I have done honestly by her, and have not forgotten that she has helped us. But I admit she fills me with anxiety, and is a strange element in our home. Once she is well married and gone, I think we shall be very happy together. I'll save this year's hundred pounds to give her a good outfit, and give her next year's hun- dred for a wedding present." " She has had all the money since she was twelve," said Patty. " True, but for the first twelve years I did not spend the half of it on her." Next day Earle brought his mother, and proudly presented Doris to her. Mrs. Moray, making allowances for the enthusiasm of a lover, had expected to find a rosy, pretty country girl. She saw a dainty, high-bred beauty, of the most exquisite and aristocratic type. She looked in wonder at Doris, then helplessly at Mark and Patty. " How little your daughter resembles you!" she cried, Patty blushed, honest Mark studied the carpet pattern, the pretty lips of Doris curled scornfully. Mrs. Moray suspected a mystery. Mark Brace spoke up: "I'd like a word with you and your son in the garden, ina'am.'' Doris watched the three angrily from the window. " What is father saying that I may not hear ? See how oddly Mrs. Moray looks, and Earle too! What is he saying 'f " Perhaps that he has no fortune to give you," hinted Patty. " My face is my fortune," cried Doris, pettishly. "Dear child, do not be so vain! Suppose you lost that fort- une." " Then I'd kill myself. I would not live unbeautiful!" Poor Patty held up her hands in horror. CHAPTER XVII. A SHINING MEMORY. YES, Mark, in plain phraso, had told his story. Mrs. Moray had opened the way, saying, frankly: " Have you anything to tell us?" " Yes. Doris is not my daughter. She was left, being two months old or thereabouts, on my door-step, with a letter and a hundred pounds. Here is the letter for you to read. I have done my best for the girl, and I love her. I have hied to meet the wishes of her unknown mother. And of that mother and her history I know no more than you. If this makes a diil'er. ence, now is the time to speak." "It makes no difference," cried Earle; "only, if possible, I shall love her more than ever, she having no kith or kin." " I saw she (ii honorable, I promise you." " You are a ytaii'-h fellow." said Mark. ' But I pled-e you to keep this secret always. The idea of being a foundling might make Doris miserable, drive her half wild. Or it mi^ht .- up i't pome queer caper. She lias a line spirit of her own." i to manager" asked Mrs. Moray, anxi. " i never found her hard to manage," said Earle, the daunt- " I hope you'll tell the same tale twenty years from now," said Mark, with a 1: Hi- fi It glad this matter was settled. ,all never mention it," B) ."orar, yieldin"- to the inevitable. ling-day I'll give her a hundred pounds, and she shall have a hundred poem's in her OK " You are very generous. ' , 1 Mrs. Morav. 'Doris is quick and ,'what we were saying out here. 1 her of the promised out lit ami the wedding AH i i her more to the idea of marrying. " 3I: ha'nt interfere with what I -outfit" Kai'l "I'll dress like a 1 :ce. 6ne hun- dred , rlothes will make a very fair sh< I, 1'alty, in ) 1( . r thrifty mi-i.l. had' alre;. 1 part of :d table-cloth. : id red poumls for cloth whit* 1 mull fur the notion of a .- ' "A I. inds on my weddii " V.'ii may ! (ure 1 >li /n't t.. "A hundred p.-un.. but it is not n: I could >p.-]id it in one hour in ' "our. i'i not fond of money." .1." rm. f would rather die than and plain, and \x>or, all .r child. \ou d( : -i shall nevi-r !-e lei; ,-r up. J inouey, and you, uiy little idol, aluui spend it :" 48 A FAIR MYSTERY. "That is fair," cried Doris, joyously. "I'll buy no end of things." Gregory Leslie finished his picture of "Innocence," and took it away, knowing it should grace the walls of the Academy the next May. At Brackenside he had found an artistic ideal, and reached the acme of his art life. Doris wondered a little, the while she had inspired the artist, she had not conquered the man. Earle and Gregory made a compact of friendship and parted to meet in pain. Earle entered into a very happy winter. As Doris had inspired the artist so she inspired the poet; and Earle fang as he had never sung before. A little volume of his verses found a pub- lisher, and public approval, and though the recompense did not at all meet the idea of Doris, yet she told herself that fame led the way to fortune. Indulged by Mark and 'Patty, and waited on by Mattie, while Earle was in daily raptures over her charms, as bride-elect Doris managed to pass the winter at the farm with some content. Mark had hired for her a good piano, she had a store of French novels, and she sedulously refused to have any steps taken in. the matter of wedding paraphernalia. And yet, as the weeks crept by, Doris began to be weary of lover and friends and country home, and her longing for the gay world and all its glories filled her fantastic heart. "Oh, why does not some lord with a coach and six come along and carry me off and marry me ?" she cried one day as she sat in the window, lazily watching the falling sno\v. "Surely you would not give up Earle for any lord!" cried Mattie. " Wouldn't I ! I only hope for his sake I'd not be tempted. If the lord had money enough, and jewels enough, and memo- rial castles enough I'm afraid, Mattie, you'd be left to console Earle." " Child, don't talk in that reckless way," said Mrs. Brace. " I'm only telling the truth. I find in myself a natural af- finity for lords," said Doris, and Mrs. Brace sighed and flushed. Well, the winter passed, and the love-making of Earle was becoming an old story, and farm life a weariness to the flesh, but still Doris hid her vexations and unrest in her heart. The hawthorn bloomed, when Mark came in one day, crying cheerily : " Here's something like old days. The duke is coming home for good, and Lady Estelle is finally quite well and strong, but unmarried still more's the pity." " They've been away long," said Patty, uneasily. "Ay. How long is it since I've seen his grace? Not since they all came here." Patty looked warningly at him. He stooped to tic his shoe. " Th. duke been here!" said Doris. " The duke and his family to a common farm-house!" " A farm-house is not so poor a pldce, missey," said Mark. Doris sprung up. A FAIR MYSTERY. 49 " T remember now I remember! I've had gleams of it, and wondered what I was trying to think of. They came hi a gorge- ous coadi, with men in Livery that I thought quite splendid; the duke, a tall, grand man, and with him Uvu ladies?" " Yes," said Patty, shortly. " I can see my memories best in the dark," said Doris, shutting her lovely blue eyes. " It is a vague dream of a fair, proud face, ;i shining, lovely lady all in lace, and silk, and jewels!" " That was I^idy Estelle Hereford," said Mark, carried away. " Laxly Estelle Hereford! There's a name worth wearing! Why did not I have such a name not that hateful Doris Brace!" " Your name is good enough," said Mark, tartly. " Why did they come ?" demanded Doris. These people were not good at fine evasions, but Mark made shift to answer: " The duke is my landlord; it is only proper for him to see hia best farm now and then." " Did they see me?" urged Doris. " Listen to Vanity! As if she was the show of the house!" said Mark. ~<> I am. What here is worth seeing in comparison?" " If that doesn't beat all!" said the scandalised Patty. " Yes, h> saw you," said Mark; "and now your next question will l>e, ' Did he admire me?' I won't answer you." "There's no need: it goes without saying. Of course he ad- mired nic if he had eyes. I must have hern lovely. Why did you not have my picture taken? I must have looked just like one of ( 'oiT'vr :;io's little angels." " Whose .-" asked Mark. "You didn't act much like an angel, if I remember right," said Mattie. quietly. " Who raivs for the nctiiig, so long as one has the looks?" in- quired Doris, with simplicity. " Share and share alike between i know, Muttiu. I'll look like an angel, and you'll act like one!" CHAPTER XVIII. A WOMjLN AVERSE TO MARRIAGE. THE Duke and Duchess of Downsbury had been so long absent from their home, that on their return they felt the gr pleasure and keenest interest in every one whose name the niembered. Lady Estelle had outgrown her weakness of < a, For many years it had been quit' 1 uncertain how her illness would terminate. It was not ho much a inalad' ML-th, an utter absence of all hope or energy, a bt range languor that attacked l*>th body and mind. Doctors recommended travel: tra-.ei rattened her: t! mended Change; change wearied her nothing on e; t : to have the least interest for her. Beautiful, high-born, blessed will: every advantage that wealth ami rank 'an give, ah afflicted with that most terril.!-- of uV. l-'ss 'MI. Then, after a time, her physical health failed her, and it became 50 A FAIR MYSTERY. a question as to whether she would recover or not. It was the one great trial that her devoted parents had to bear. They would have given all they had, all they cared for most, to have seen her happy, bright, light of heart as were others. That was never to be. On this morning, early in the month of May, the duchess and her daughter were alone in the drawing-room of Downsbury Castle; a May morning that should have rejoiced the heart of a poet- -crowned with golden rays of the sun, musical with the sweet song of birds. Lady Estelle stood at the window, looking over the trees, a wistful expression in her fine eyes. She never moved quickly when any thought or idea occurred to her; she never turned with the rapid movement peculiar to some people. AJI idea had evidently occurred to her now, for her face flushed, the white skin was for some minutes dyed scarlet; she waited until it died away, then she turned slowly and glanced at the duchess. "Mamma," she said, "have you heard how the interview between papa and his agent passed off ?'' " Quite satisfactorily, I believe," replied the duchess: " every- thing is prosperous. The tenants are all well, and there has been no misfortune among them." Lady Estelle crossed the room; there was a beautiful stand of white hyacinths, and she bent over, caressing the beautiful buds. "Do you remember the farmer we went to see?' she contin- ued " What was his name? the man with the honest face?" ' ' Mark Brace ?" replied the duchess. "Yes," said Lady Estelle; "Mark Brace. Do you remember him, and that simple, gentle wife of his. and the two children, one as brown as a berry, and the other as fair as a lily, with hair of shining gold ?" " I remember them very well," replied her grace. " Indeed I could never forgot that child; she was the m<;:-t beautiful little creature I ever beheld; but she gave promise of being one of the worst." " Oh, mamma, do not say such a thing!" cried Lady Estelle, with more animation than was usual with ' "Why not, my dear?" said the duchess, calmly. "Great beauty and great wickedness so often go tog. " But it seems such a cruel thing to say of a child a little child." " Well, perhaps it does seem rather hard: but then, 'the child gives promise of the man,' and if ever child was precocious in vanity and ambition, that child was. You forget her.'' " Yes," said Lady Estelle. " It is so long since, I forget her; but you are generally merciful in your judgments, mamma. It seems strange to hear you speak harshly of a child." The duchess made no reply. The subject seemed to have no particular interest for her. whereas the beautiful point-lace she was making had great claims on her attention. After a few minutes Lady Estelle coiitiniM'il: " I suppose nothing more has been heard of the child; no one A FAIR MYSTERY. 51 has claimed her. or the story would have reached us. I must 98 that I feel some little curiosity ;is to what she is like. I should be pleased to see her." " If the girl hears out the promise of her youth, she would be worth seeing." said the duchess. The entrance of her husband interrupted her, and she said no The Duke of Downsbury looked pleased. " My dear." he said to his wife, "I am delighted. I have the finest agent in the country. The accounts and everything else are in the finest possible order. I am so pleased that I thought of giving a dinner to the tenants; it could be no annoyance to you, and it would be a nice little act of attention, after being nbs.-nt so long." The diiche-s quite agreed with the project. Itwouldbe acom- pliment to them, and a pleasure to herself, she said. The duke smiled to think what an amiahle wile he had. " To all your tenants, papa ?" said Lady Estelle, in her graceful, :H way. " Yes, all of them rich and poor; but then there are no poor." She smiled, " I shall see Mark Brace." she said. " I was just telling mam- ma that I felt some interest in that child we saw. I should like to know how she has turned out." The duke's I'acc lighted up. "That pretty little girl." lie said; " the one over whom there was a mystery. I had forgotten her, and the story too. 1 should like to see her. What wonderful hair she had. I must tell Mark Brace to bring her over." "Mark Brace is a sensible man," the duchess hastened to oh- : " 1 am sure he will understand. She was a vain child then she will l>e even vainer now. No one knows what non- al ideas will fill her mind if she thinks she has been in- vited IP re; you might do her a great harm by such indiscretion. Tell him to bring her over if he likes; but tell him at the same time, it will be as well for him not to mention it he is sensible enough to understand." "I see you are quite right, my dear it shall be just as you say." I 1-i'lv K-telle hastened to add: " You are wi.-..-. mamma. 1 feel some curiositv over her. I ' i vague recollection of a brilliant, beautiful child, who ry much out of place in that quiet farm-house. But it is so long ago." Looking at his daughter, the duke hardly reali/ed how long it -he did not look one year older; perhaps the del, of lnT health had preserved her face from all marks of time. The calm, high-bred features were unrutlled as ever; there wad Tv>t one tin i the fair brow, nor round th- vene lip;; the fair hair was abundant and shining a- ever: the light of tin* ; .. brilliant undimmed. Time, indeed. uxxl still for Lady i , d. It might be that she 52 A FAIR MYSTERY. had escaped the wear and tear of emotion, so had had nothing to mar the calm serenity of her life or her features. She went back to her post at the window, and stood once more looking out over the trees. She remained silent, dreamy, abstracted, while the duke and duchess discussed their affairs, their ten- ants, friends, and neighbors. Estelle,'' said the duke, at length, " are you going to drive to-day ?" " No, papa. I think not; I do not care to go." The duke and duchess exchanged glances. " My dear Estelle," said the duke, gravely, " I wish that you did feel interested in going out or in anything else. We were in great hopes, your mother and I, that when you returned you would show a little more animation, a little more interest in the world around you more capacity for enjoyment. Could you not throw off that languor, aad be bright, animated, and happy ?" She smiled, and if that smile concealed any pain, no one knew it. " I am happy, papa." she said; " but my languor is, I suppose, part of myself I should not know how to throw it off. I sup- pose the right thing to do when you propose a walk or a drive, on this lovely May morning, would be to blush to glow and dimple. I am really sorry that I am so faslu'oned by nature as to find anything of the kind impossible." The duke rose from his seat and went to his daughter. He placed his arm round the stately figure. " Do you think that I am scolding you, Estelle?" he said. " I shall never do that. Nor could I be more proud of you than I am. It is only for your own sake that I speak to you, and be- cause I long to see you happy. I should like to see you married, Estelle, and to hold my grandchildren in my arms before I die." She started, the calm face grew a shade paler, then she clasped her arms round his neck. " I am so happy with you and mamma," she replied, " I do not want any other love." The next minute she had quitted the room. The duchess looked at her husband with a smile. " It is useless," she said. " Estelle is like no other woman in the world. I do not think she is capable of love; I do not think the man is born who could win from her a kindly smile, a warm word, or a loving look. She loves us; no one else. I have watched her year after year, and feel sure of it." " It is strange, too," said the duke, " for the Herefords are not a cold-hearted race. And do you really think that she will nevef marry ?" " I feel sure of it. I do not think she will ever like any one well enough. There is variety in all creation. We must not be surprised to find it in ladies." The day fixed for the tenants' dinner came round, and among the others Mark Brace arrived at the Castle in a state of great g'ory. There had been great excitement at Brackenside when A FAIR MYSTERY. 53 the invitation readied there, and Mark, with considerable diffi- culty, hail mastered it. "You an- t<> dine at the Castle.'' said Doris, with, that quick- ness which seemed to take everything in at one glance. "Then, for once in your life, you must have a suit of clothes that pretend to lit you. Yours always look as though you had found them by accident, and had met with considerable difficulty in the v putting them on." Mark laughed, but Patty took up the cudgels for her husband. n sure your father always looks nice, Doris." ""Why, mother, how can you juu are a gentleman," she said; "one of nature's very own." The whole family stood by the gate to see Mark drive off. had placed a white ro- in his buttonhole; his wii. daughter watched him with nride and exultation in their 1; while l)ori> thought t<> beneif that, after all, even a broadcloth aid not make what >iie called a gentleman. I am sun- that no one in the room \\ ill look so nice as your father." >aid Mrs. Bni'-e, proudly; the glories of the new broad- had dax./led her. Mattie quite ith her, while id, with a mocking smile, went au CI1A1TKR XIX. A Pi: >R DORIS. THE tenants' dinner was a great sue.-. --.. It was well at- tended, for all were anxious to show that they appreciated arid returned the duke's kindly feeling. To Mark it was a dream of 54 A FAIR MYSTERY. glory; he had seen nothing like the interior of this magnificent castle. The state rooms, the superb hall, with its blazonry of shields and armor; the banquet-room, with its groined roof and grand pictures, puzzled him. It was something to be a tenant of such a duke as this. As for the dinner itself, it simply amazed him; he did not know the name of half the dishes or half the wines; as for the fruit, the silver, the servants in attendance, he thought of it all with bated breath. Doris had desired him, in a whisper, to tell her all he saw, and to be sure and not forget anything. Honest Mark tried to take an inventory, but his mind failed him: it gave way under the strain; he could not grasp the half what he saw and heard. Mark's wonder was not diminished when a footman, bending very respectfully, asked him to be kind enough to follow him. He arose instantly, and followed through such dazzling and magnificent rooms that he began to think of the wonders of the " Arabian Nights " he had read when a boy. They came to a door that was covered with rich velvet hangings; the footman pushed them aside, opened it, and Mark Brace found himself, to his great consternation and distress, in the presence of the duchess and her daughter, both in evening dress; and the shimmer of " Yes; hut we can't help it." "And," interrupted tlie duchess, " have you heard any more? D-> >ou know to whom she belongs? Have you any trace of her par. Lady Kstelle shut her jeweled fan, and laid it on the table. Her eves wen- fixed on Mark's face. " No, your grace," he replied "We know no more than we did on the day She lirst came to us. The money comes every vear. Jt always comes from London, generally in Hank of . (iiite new and crisp; sometimes gold parked in a little lto\. It never fails." " It is so strange. 'I here is never a word about the child in the is? No questions '.- No remarks ':" No; not one." he replied. " And what have you done with her all these years V asked the duehess. " She had high spirits of her own." " She ha.-- l)cen to school, your grace; it was her own wish she should go. She was away for four years without coming home." " Then she is clever and accomplished ?" said the ducfii "Ye.-,,' replied Mark; "she is as cle\er as any lady in the land." Then his face grew crimson, and he said to himself that he had made a great blunder. Lady Estelle smiled in her usual languid fashion. "I mean, vour grace." exclaimed Mark, " that she is really lever. Sin- sin.us like a mermaid." he added, delighted at <-h; "she can dance, and speaks two loivi:;lt lailgll.T Tip- din-he--, laughed. It was impossible to help it; Mark's ach a study as he enumerated this list of accomplish- ments. " I should like to Bee ;< "iir firnf, ./.v. Mr. l?ra'-e." xiid her grace; " but inclined to be vain, it would be wiM' jK-rhap to tell her that 1 hav. d such a wish." Mark looked very wi>e: he <|uitc agreed with it. " You might say." e(,mimied her grace, " that you are coming over to the Ca.-tle next week on business, and "bring her with you." " I "ill. your iid Mark, proudly. " I am coming on busine-s next Tin -day; my l.-a>e is to be renewed. 1 will bring her with me. she i , to be married," he added, bluntlv. " Kngagi'd:" rt p. ati-d tlie du.he. "Wliv, .she<-anno; m>re than nineteen." "She is nineteen," said Mark; "ami, of course, I shall not allow her to IK- married for a \ " You are quite right," interrupted the dud. I^uly K.Melle had opened her tan, and ^ he Minvd it LTentlv, as whom i- ing the conver.-ation, that it was the 56 A FAIR MYSTERY. grammar that destroyed him. It made him feel uneqiial to giv. ing any answer. He turned uneasily in his chair. "To whom is she engaged?" repeated the clear, musical Toice. " Why. my lady, he is a poet and a gentleman." " A poet and a gentleman!" repeated the duchess. " That is high praise." " He deserves it, your grace. He has written a book I can- not say whether it has been read among the great people; but, with such as us, the verses are on the lips of every man, woman and child." '' What is the poet's name ?" asked Lady Estelle. " Earle Moray, my lady. He lives near us, and his father was a clergyman. His mother is a very quiet, grave lady. She al- ways thought that Doris was my daughter, and when she heard the truth she was quite unwilling for her son to make such a marriage. But he talked her over." Lady Estelle used her fan vigorously; her face had suddenly grown burning red. "They are very much attached to each other." continued Mark. " I never saw anything like the way in which he wor- ships her. I am sure that if he lost her he would go mad." " Let us hope not," said the duchess, with a smile. "Going mad is a very serious matter." " Then," said the low, sweet voice of Lady Estelle, yourpro- tegee is provided for, Mr. Brace ? Her future is safe ?" " I hope so, my lady," said cautious Mark. " But as the wedding does not take place for a year, much may happen in that time." " We will hope it will all end happily," said her grace, kindly. Then Mark understood that his interview had ended. Ladly Estelle murmured a careless adieu: the duchess spoke kindly of Patty, and Mark went home that night a proud and happy man. He was greeted with innumerable questions; his wife seemed to think that Mark had been the principal person present: that except for the fact of his presence, the dinner-party would have been insignificant, Doris positively bewildered him with ques- tions. Mrs. Brace and Mattie sat with awe and wonder on their faces. "I cannot answer so many questions, Doris," said Mark, at last. " I tell you what I am going to the Castle again on Tues- day to renew my Icivc: will you go with nie?" Her beautiful face flushed crimson. " Will I? Of course I will." Doris said. " What would they .say '! asked Mattie. "They would not say anything." said Mark. "I should tell them that my daughter Doris had a great fancy for sec-ing the inside of a castle; and you may take my word they will be kind enough." " Let Mattie go," suggested Mrs. Brace. But Mattie shrank back. " Oh, no!" she said, " I should not care for it, I would rather not." A FAIR MYSTEKY. 57 " And I would give a year of my life," said Doris. " You need in it cive anything," said Mark. " Dress yourself tidily, not finely," In- added, with a touch of natural shrewd- ' OIK- does not require finery in going to see a duchess." Shall I see the diu-hess '.-" asked Doris, opening her eyes wide with sur|<: Then Mark Brace perceived his error. "1 am a poor hand at keeping a secret," he thought. " If yon go to the ( 'astle," he replied, " it id very probable you will see the DucheOB of Downsbury." " I shall not be able to sleep from this moment till then," cried Doris. And when Earle Moray came she could talk to him about noth- ing but the intensity of the pleasure in store for her. A hundred times and more did Mark repent giving the invitation; he had no peace, no rest; even Earle himself could not persuade her to talk about anything except the grandeur of Downsbur " I am quite sorry I cannot go back to school for a few days," she said, " just to make all my school-fellows mad with jealousy." " Why should they be mad ?" asked Mattie. "You do not know how much they talk about Downsbury Castle," she replied. " My dear, they call England a Christian land, and they pray for the conversion of all pagans and idolaters. There are no such idolaters as these same English, who worship rank, title, and wealth, as they never worshiped n." ' You are one of them, Doris," said Mattie." " Not altogether. Underneath my wor>hip there is a vein of cynicism, but no one suspects it. If you want to learn a few les- sons of that kind, Mat'.ie, you should go to a fashionable I hool. I declare that I never heard any one quoted for being good or virtuous; it was always for being nobly born, rich, titled. I learned my lesson cjuiekly. Mat: " You did, indeed, ' was the brief reply, "and it is a lesson that I am sorry Earle's wife should ever ha\ heart." The only reply was a caivle-s laii^h. Doris did not even care to quarrel with her highly delighted was she at the prospect of going to the < Surf At length, to the intense delight and the relief of every one, Tuesday came, and it wa.s time to go. Doris did not love nature. She had no appreciation of its beauties; but in aft- > did remember now the sun had shone on this day, and how blithely the little birds had sung in the trees; how sweet was the pi-rtmne of the li 1 tho fragrance of the hedges as they drove to Dowusbury Castle. CH.MTKH XX. "THEY TELL ME, CHILD, THAT YOU ARE REALLY PROMISED IN MAUUI A IT was a busv morning at Downsbury Castle. Several visitors had called, aiid wLcii liurk, with hi* beautiful prot egee, arr. 68 A FAIR MYSTERY. they -were shown into the library to await the duke's leisure. It was evident to Mark that they had been expected, for a tempting lunch was served to them; a lunch the servants called it to Mark and Doris it seemed a most sumptuous dinner. Mark could not help watching the girl. He himself was strange, em barrassed, confused; the silver fork was heavy, the napkin con- fused him; she sat with the easy grace and dignity of a young queen, sipping the rosy wine from the richly cut glass, and look- ing quite at her ease over it. " You seem quite at home, Doris," said Mark, enviously. " I feel so," she replied. " I could live happily enough here; it is so easy to be good when one is rich." He looked at her in dull wonder, as he generally did when she puzzled him. "But Doris," he said, "that is just exactly the opposite of what the Bible says. Don't you remember the text about the rich man, the camel, and the needle's eye ?" " I remember it," she replied. " Those who have no money long for it, and some desire it so ardently they will do anything to win it; the rich have no need to be envious or jealous." He was not clever enough to argue with her; the only thing he could do was to tell her she was wrong, and that she should not talk that way. Before there was time to reply, the door opened, and the duke came in. He spoke kindly, saying that the duchess was engaged with some visitors, but that Lady Estelle Hereford would see Miss Brace, and would be pleased to show her the pictures and the flowers. Mark looked astounded at the condescension; even the duke himself felt some little surprise when she had made the offer. "You had better let the housekeeper take her, my dear," he had said. " Very well, papa," she replied, carelessly; but after a few minutes she added: " I think it will amuse me to see this young girl, papa. I will show her some of the pictures and my flow- ers." " She would be more comfortable with the housekeeper," he said; " but do as you wish, my dear." When he saw the beautiful, refined, high-bred young girl seated at the table, he changed his mind it did not seem so certain that she would be more comfortable with the housekeeper. He looked in wonder at her perfect face and graceful figure. " She looks like a young princess," he said to himself; and his manner almost involuntarily changed something of chivalrous respect came into it; and Doris, so marvelously quick, detected the change. She saw that he admired her, and then she felt quite at her ease. He said something to Mark about the agent who was waiting to see him. Then the door opened, and Lady Estelle entered. As her eyes fell upon the young girl she started, and her face grew deadly pale so pale that the duke stepped hastily forward, and cried out; A FAIR MYSTERY. 59 "Are you ill. Estelle r " No," slie replied; " the day is warm, and warm weather never suits me. Good-morning, Mr. Brace. Is this your daughter?" Mark bowed to the pale, stately lady. " This is my daughter, my lady," he replied. Lady Estelfe Hereford, going nearer to her, looked into the Ix'autiful. radiant face. Doris returned the glance, and the t\vo remained for one minute looking, for the second time in their lives, steadily at each other. "1 am glad to si-e you," said Lady Estelle, kindly. "I re- member having seen you when you were a child." Doris bowed. There was perfeet ease, perfeet grace in her manner, and the duke, looking at her. was fairly puzzled: that high-bred, ])eri'eet repose, that fascinating charm of manner sur- : i him. He looked at his daughter to see if she shared his surprise, and fe!t anxious about her when he siiw that her face \ ill deadly pale. Then he asked Mark to go !11 "' ^'<-' the agent. Lady Estelle, with her rigid lips, smiled at Doris. "I will take charge of you," she said. "Come with me." They left the room together. " We will go to the boudoir she said. "Then; are some very tine paintings; you will like to see them." When they reached the boudoir Lady Estelle seemed to forget why they had gone there. She sat down on the couch, and jilaeed Doris by her side. 1 saw you once when you wore quite a little child." " How you have altered: how tall you have grown!" She lai'* her hands on the shining waves of hair. " What beautiful hair you have!" she continued, and her lingers lingered caressingly oil it. " They tell me. child, that you are really promised in mar- 8 is it truer" There was no Mush on that lovely young face; no sweet, tender the beautiful eyes; they were raised quite Calmly to the questioning face. plied: " it is quite true." A look quite indescribable came over Lady Estelle; something yearning, wistful: then .-he slowly added: \ love-story always interests me; will you tell me vdin-sr" " 1 have none." was the quick reply. " Earle M 1 me to marry him, and 1 said "lint you love him Y' a-ked I.ndy Estelle. Yes. I lo\e him at 1 o. I do no* know what lo\t is: but 1 imagine 1 lo\e him." You do not know what 1" '.-lie. in a tone I will tell \ ..... It i- a lire that burns and pains burns and pains: it is a torrent that d< everything in it* way; it is a hurricane thai over every le; it is a tempest in which the ship is forever an-l i; it is the highest bliss. t!r ry! ( >h. child! ; ray that ya may never know v, : Who could have recognized the quiet, graceful- languid Lady BO A FAIR MYSTERY. Estelle? Her face shone like flame, and her eyes flashed fire the calm, proud repose was all gone. Doris looked at her in wonder. " There must be many kinds of love. I know nothing of that which you describe, and Earle loves me quite differently." " How does he love you?" asked Lady Estelle. " He is always singing to me, and these are his favorite lines: " ' Thou art my life, my soul, my heart, The very eyes of rne; Thou hast command of every part, To live and die for thee.' And that just expresses Earle's love." The lady's eyes were riveted on the glorious face; the rich, sweet voice had given such force and effect to the words. Then she said, anxiously: " You will be very happy in your new life, I hope even should I never see you again I hope you will be happy." " I hope so," replied Doris, in a dubious voice. Then her face brightened as she looked round the magnificent room. " I should be happy enough here," she said. " This is what my soul loves best this is better than love." The lady drew back from the girl as though she had been struck. " Faithless and debonaire," she murmured. Doris looked inquiringly at her. " This is what you love best?" she said. " You mean luxury and magnificence ?" " Yes, I mean that it is ten thousand times better than love." " But," said Lady Estelle, " that is a strange doctrine for one BO young as you." "I am young, but I know something of life," said Doris. " I know that money can purchase everything, can do everything, can influence everything." " But," said Lady Estelle, drawing still further from her, ' you would not surely tell me that of all the gifts of this world you value money most." " I think I do," said Doris, with a frank smile. " That is strange in one so young," said Lady Estelle. " I am so sorry." Then she rose, saying, coldly: " You will like to see ; the pictures. You think it strange that I should speak to you in 'this fashion. As I told you before, a love-story interests me. I am sorry that you have none." The change was soon perceived by Doris, and just as quickly understood. " I do not think," she said, gently, " that you have quite un- derstood me. I do not love money; that is, the actual gold. It is the pleasures v..^. money can purchase which seem to me so enviable, that I long so urgently for." Lady Estelle smiled. " I see I understand. You did not express just what you meant; that is a different thing. There seems to me something hateful in the love of money. So you long for pleasure^ inv poor child. You little know how soon it would tire you." A FAIR MYSTERY. 61 "Indeed, it never would," she replied, eagerly. "I should like oh, how much I should like! to live always in rooms beautiful a> these, to wear shining jewels, rich silks, costly I do not. and never have, liked my own home: in some strange way it never seems to belong to me, nor I to it." Lady Kstelle drew near to her aicain. "You do not like it. poor child?" she said. " That is very sad. Yet they are v.-ry kind to you." Y re kind to me. I cannot explain what I mean. Ine\' think as they think, or do as they do. I am not good either, after their fashion of being goo. I." " What is your idea of being good ?" asked Lady Estelle. " 1 ivself. amusing myself, making myself happy." " It is comfortable philosophy at least. What is he like, this Earle Moray, whom your lather calls poet and gentleman?" asked Lady Estelle. Doris smiled. She did not blush, nor did her eyes droop; there was no shyness nor timidity. " He is fain," she replied, " and he has a noble head, crowned with clustering hair: his face is spiritual and tender, and his mouth is beautiful as a woman's." " That is a good description: I can almost see him. You love him <>r you cuiild not describe him so." " He will be a great man in the future," replied the girl. Then she started at finding on what familiar terms she was with this daughter Of a mighty duke. They were sitting ie, and I^idy Kstelle had again taken the shining hair in her hand. Doris' hat IKK! become unfastened, and she held it with careless grace. It even surprised herself to find she \\ much at home and at her ease with Lady Estelle Hereford as she was with Mattie. " Where shall you live after you married ?" asked Lady Estelle, gently. " At Lindenholm for some little time: hut Earlehas promised me that 1 shall &> to Indon. I live only in that hope." " Why do you wish so ardently for London?" " K "pie know what life means there. They have balls, par! music, operas, theaters, and 1 long for a life of plea.Mire." " How much you will have to suffer?" said Lady Estelle, un- I v. " W' I linri-. in sur; i .-xp.'ct to miieh. and the world has so little to givi that is why. But come. w. iting th- ure-." In the long trailer; joined by the duke: < i>eautiful face had brought him tli-Te. l)oria Wat looking at a portrait tliat pleas.-d her very much, and her beautiful profile ;iou. The duke started** his fell upon it. vent iu> to his dan:: -aid. in a low \oi.-e. " wljo i-> it that young girl C2 A FAIR MYSTERY. resembles some one we know well ? Look *c the curve of the lip, the straight, clear brow!" " I do not see any likeness," she replied, with white, trembling lips, " none at all; but, oh! papa, I am so tired. I am not so weft as usual to-day; I seem to have no strength." She sat on one of the crimson seats, and the duke forgot all about their visitor in his anxiety for her. " I will send these people home," he said; but she interrupted him. " Not just yet, papa; it will be such a pleasure to me to show that pretty young girl my flowers." CHAPTER XXI. HER EYES INVITED HIM. LADY ESTELLE and Doris went together through the beautiful conservatories that formed one of the great attractions of th Castle, and Doris fancied herself in fairyland. She showed them, that although she might have no particular love for nature, she had a grand eye for the picturesque. Lady Estelle desired her here and there to gather a spray of choice blossoms. She did so, and the way in wlu'ch she grouped and arranged them was marvelous. " You have a good eye for color," said Lady Estelle, as she watched the white fingers, with the scarlet and amber flowers. It pleased her to see the girl lingering among them to see the beautiful face bending over the blossoms. They came to a pretty little corridor, roofed with glass; but the glass was hidden by the luxuriance of an exotic climbing plant. Great scarlet bells, with white, fragrant hearts, hung down in glorious profusion. In the middle of the corridor -etooa a large fountain, and the water was brilliant with gold fish. There were pretty seats, half overhung by the leaves of the hanging plant. It was when they reached here that the servant came in search of Lady Estelle; she was wanted in the drawing- room, to see some visitors who had arrived. She turned to Doris, with a kindly smile: " I am sure you must be tired," she said; " will you rest here? I am sorry to leave you, but I shall not be long." With the dignified air of a young princess, Doris seated her- self, the footman looking on' in silent wonder: he had rarely his languid mistress so attentive even to her most intimate friends. Then Doris was left alone in the rich, mellow light. The rip- pling spray of the fountain and the gleaming of the gold fish amused her for some time: then she took up her magnificent ilowers. and began to arrange them. She was SO deepl j '.vith them, that she did not hear the sound of footsteps; the velvet curtain at the end of the cor- ri lor was raised, and a tall, handsome man stood looking in mute wonder at the picture before him. There, in the mellow light, was a picture that for beauty of coloring could not be surpassed. A young girl, with the face of A FAIR MYSTERY. 63 an angel, and hair of the purest shining gold; white hands that like snow-flakes, among crimson and amber blossoms; the background was formed by the scarlet bells and green leaves of i-ooping p. : in silent wonder; and whil< . ids. Lord Charles Vi\ i;,iine i> ;;;i o! tall, well made, witha tine. crc.'t figure, and easj . ing. he would attract attention even among a en is handsome, hut not good; the eyes are dai ;;vhed ;ind thick; but the mouth, ti wlii >lc face, is a had one. The li;>s, thick and i by a mustache. It is the face of a man who lives enl to please himself wl 10 kt. . >n>ulis hi inclinations, and who would sacrifice every one and everything to himself. The dark eyes are riveted on the golden hair and exquisite face of the girl. It is some minutes before she becomes aware of his presence, and then som- her to look up, and she sees those Panic dark eyes lull <>i admiration, glancing at her. Sli,- does not Mush, hut the dai: ..mi deepens on her and thi- violet eyes flash back a look of archest coquetry into his own. That look decided him. If sh had blushed or looked at all I, he. U-in^ \vhat is called a gentleman, would have turned a\vay; that j full of lire, of coquetry- BO subtle, d to .start something like delicious poison through ins. He e< uiies nearer to her. making a most profound an ful IKUV. Th>"i lie sees IMT ilr-s.-. so plain and homely, although OOquettfehly worn, and he is at a lo-sto imagin-- who she a Tin' loveliness, the perfect a i 'i-tocrat ic j;r:ice of face and t, are what he would . The impress of hi^h birth is on lx>th of them, but the :i e,jnal to that of a lady's-maid, yet she is sitting ther tly at her ea>.-. >he niM.-t be a \i>i'lor. Vivkiniu-. with hise\e.s btill riveted upon her, in vain. " I U-g |irdon." h' " I hojMJ you will accept my a|x.l..ji,.>: \,ut I was told that Lady E-stelle was here, and I wis'li her." \\ill return very soon." replies Doris. The word- .ind simple, but tl'ie eye.s .seem t" .vwith me till :!!>." ' Have I the pl.-asure of ,-j leaking to a visitor at th. 9, \\i\\\ a \H>\\. Then sh- iuiined than cvt.Tof Bracken- ings. ' 1 came t > see the Castle," she replies; " and Lady Estelle is kind enough to -Jiow me the tlou- rstood at on. e. Then. sa\ing to himself that in ad ' ome . who had, as a great treat, b> -ed 64 A FAIR MYSTERY. eight of the wonders of the Castle he was perfectly at his ease then. There was no such admirer of fair women in all the world as Lord Vivianne, and this was the fairest he had ever seen. A farmer's daughter, without the prestige of rank and weali.li to save her fair prey for him. Had she been the daughter of a duke, an earl, a baron, he would simply have laid his plans for flirting with her; as it was, he sat down and deliberately said te himself that heart and soul should be his. Some little faults lay at her door. Her eyes invited him; they said things that the lips would not have dared to utter; they were full of the sweetest and most subtle invitation, gracefully veiled by the long, dark lashes. Lord Charles had done as he would all his life, and now that his eyes rested on this fairest of all faces, it was not likely that he would let anything baffle him. " You have a beautiful resting-place," he said. " 1 have never seen anything to equal the beauty of this plant." " It is very beautiful," she replied; " to me it seems like fairy- land." " I have been staying here for a week," he continued, " and I have not seen half the beauty of the Castle yet." " You have been staying here!" she said, with unconscious stress on the word " here." " Yes; I admire the scenery hereabouts. I think it is almost about the finest we have." " I have never been out of this county," she replied. " so I can- not tell." He raised his dark brows in surprise. " You have never been away from home ?" he said; " what a pity, and what a shame!'' " Why is it a shame ?" she asked, with another of those sweet glances that invited him to woo her. " Providence does not send such a face as yours in the world once in a century," he replied, "and then all the world should see it." Doris looked pleased, not shy or timid; she was per- fectly at home witli him, and lie saw it. " I must introduce myself," lie said, " as Lady Estelle does not return I am Lord Charles Vivianne if I dare, I should ask to whom I have the honor of speaking." She did blush then with gratified vanity and delight. It was something that she should have a handsome lord by her side, and that he should admire her. He did admire her, she knew; she coull read it in his eyes and the nattering homage of his smile. Lord Charles Vivianne! she wondered whether he was very rich, great, and celebrated. A lord! oh, if she could only make a conquest of him! " I wish I dare ask to whom I have the honor of speaking." And then she raised her eyes with something of defiance, and said: " My name is Doris Doris Brace" He said the name softly. ' Doris! What a pretty name! Now that you have oeen A FAIR MYSTERY. 5 kind enough to answer me OIK- question, 1 .should like to ask an- other do you live near I " I live at Braekenside,'' she replied. " My father is a tenant of the duke's- lie is a fanner." Then I was right in my first surmise," he said. ' I 'ray, what was that':" asked Doris. " I was watching you for some minutes before you saw me, and 1 guessed that you were a daughter of one of the duke's tenants." She raised her head with a magnificent pride and lofty disdain that almost annihilated him. " That is to say you thought I looked like -a farmer's daughter. I thank you BO much for the compliment." Nay," he replied; " I thought that you looked like a queen." The dark 'Mi-d to Mash light and love into her own. It must he admitted that Lord Charles Vi vianne thoroughly under- ihe ;irt of winning women. " Doris!" he said; " 1 am struck with the name, because I do member that I ever met with any one who bore it before. iieaulil'ul the.-e Mowers are! "Will you give me one to keep in Mi'-mory of this, our first meeti: ! IHT hold on the scarlet and amber blossoms. He (lid not help noticing the beauty of the white hand that held I think not." she replied. " In all the poems that I ever read thing is done to win a flower before it is given." I have done something to win it," he replied, -ed her beautiful eyes to his. . on 'i I did not know it. Will you tell me what it is?" " If you will promise me not to be angry," ho whispered. back from him and laughed. ' How can I be ai; " I beg of you to tell me you have done to win a Mower." ;eung men would not have suffered BO terribly from this as he did; but he was not naturally good, and circumstances fostered all the evil that was in him. J-'air women flattered him; he was a great prize in the matri- monial market. He knew that some of the fairest and noblest women in England would have been proud and pleased to have shared his lot; he knew that he could choose where he would, A FAIR MYSTERY. 67 but, although the chains of Hymen might !> made of the f . lie would never wear them. He lia'l resolved to h, iniu-li enjoyiiH nt as possible out of his life, rind, to secure he de< -ided upon roaming like a butterlly, and marrying when be grew older. He was wealthy, and the possessor of an ancient title and : hut the name of Lord ('harks Viviani- not IH id in highest honor by the world it was not one of pur- est renown. Husbands with beautiful wives, fathers with fair young daugh- Mroachfiilly on him, for neither virtue, honor, friendship, principle, nor pity, evrr Mood in his way when ho had a ( apri< -e to gratify or a whim to indulge. He l;r at the notion of a broken heart. In his ere'-'i, women quite an inferior order of creation they might have souls or might not, that was a mere matter of belief they d simply for the amusement of the passing hour, and to do the real drudgery work of the world. How many wo: hearts he broke, how many fair young li\< hted, will all be known on that terrible day when sin is called by its right name, and there is no gloss thrown over it. He had had numerous flirtations, but love he had never known. If he saw a face that pleased him, he pursued it until he won it. and then it mi.irht i-i-ri>h like a faded rose-leafit was of no more inn-rest to him. Ah. it was an evil hour in which he saw the promised wife of Moray! ile had never met any one so lovely: hishear on fire as he thought of the perfect l-cauty of JUT face and li There was not the least pity in his heart as lie said to himself he must win her, no matter what it cost him; she was well worth some little trouble, and she was willing to be won, if he could judge from her The last thing Doris saw, as she drove away from the Castle rles Vivianne watching her intently, with love and admiration in his fa-v. lie was not so ha- Earle; he lacked th-- -ity of the poet; bu was a ir 1. and, to some people, that one fact makes the whole world of cliiTerence. Doris went lioim- with h-r thoughts in a maze, h-r head whirl- ith all sis. !; but the one dominant was that she had been admired by a lord. It hi meet unfortunate thing for her, the vi-it to D bury ('a.-tl--; !>'.' it in time ha- lived and cied happily: to bring into si: ; dor- i the van;: M, until tli a living llame nothing could How plain and homely the little farm seemed to her after the magnificence of Downsbury Castle! How homely and uncouth 63 A FAIR MYSTERY. Mattie and her mother were after tin- languid, graceful Lady Es- telle! Nothing pleased her, nothing contented her. " I have been foolish," she thought; " I wish I had not prom- ised to marry Earle. Who knows but there might have been a chance for me to win this handsome lord. Lady Doris Vivian ne! I like the sound of that name: what a difference between that and Mrs. Earle Moray. How foolish I was to be in such a hurry." So that evening, when poor Earle came, impatient to see her, longing for one kind word, thirsting to talk to her, he was re- ceived with great coldness by her. Ah, heaven! how pitiful it was to see the handsome face droop and sadden, the lips trem- ble, the eyes grow dim with tears. He might be master of the English language, that he certainly was; he might be master of the heart of poesy, but he was a slave to her, to her whims, her caprices, her humor. It was the first time she had been cold to Jiim, the first time her face had not brightened for him. She did not even smile when lie entered the room. He hastened up to her, and bending down lie kissed the beautiful face. " ily darling Doris," he said, " I thought the day would never come to an end. I have been longing to see you." Another time the sweet face would have been raised to his; she would have given kiss for kiss; she would have welcomed him as he loved best to be welcomed; but to-day she merely turned impatiently aside. " I wish you would be more careful, Earle," she said. " You make my hair so untidy." " I am very sorry, dear," he said, gently. " It is such beauti- ful hair, Doris, and I think it looks even more beautiful when it is what you call untidy." " There is no reason why you should make it so," she retorted. Then he looked with wondering eyes into her face. " You are not well, or are you tired; which is it?" " I am tired," she replied; " tired to death, Earle. Do not tease me." " I ought to have remembered your long journey^ of course you are tired. You ought to lie down, and I will read to you. That will rest you." ' Pray, do not be fussy, Earle. Other people get tired, but no one likes a fuss made over them." A.^ain he looked at her. Could this girl, who received him so coldly, so indifferently, be his own beautiful, bright Doris ? It seemed incredible. Perhaps he had been so unfortunate as to olFend her. He bent over her again. " Doris." lie said, gently. " have I been so unfortunate as to displease you?'' " No." she replied. " I do not remember that you have." " You're so changed, I can hardly imagine that this is you." The pain in his voice touched her. She looked at him; his face had grown very pale, and there was a cloud in his clear, loving eyes. She laughed a low, impatient laugh. "Pray do not be so unhappy because I am cross," she said. A FAIR MYSTERY. 89 " I never pretended to have a good temper. I am always impa- tient over something or other." "But why with inc.' You know that your smile makes hoaven : your frown, despair. Why be ero-s with ire. darling? I would give all I have on earth to save you from one unhappy moment. " 1 am tired." she said. ' and I cannot forget the Castle. 1 I wish so much that I had been lx>rn to live in such a pi; should have 1 een quite at home and happv there." Are \ou not at home and happy here'.'" In- a.-kcd. plied. " Happy in a lonely, dreary farm-house!" " With the kindest of parents, tl; i-ters. tlie most devoted of lovers, it seems to me, Doris, that you have all the elements of happii;- did not even hear him; she was thinking of the grandeur she had seen. " I call that something like life," she continued " luxury and gayety. I would sooner never have been born at all than be con- demned to spend all my life here." " But it will not be spent here, my darling; it will be spent witli me." His face plowed: the rapture of content came over it. There was no response in | " I Shall change Brackenside for T.indenholm." slie said. "I cannot see that it will make much difference. It is only exchang- ing one farm-house for another." lint 1 who l<>ve you am in the other." he said, gently. "Oh, Doris, you pain ally! I know that you do not mean what you say. lnit you wound me to death." Again she hardly heard him. liould very mueli like to know," Doris continued. ' if it is fair to plaee me. with a keen. pa.-.Monat- linking lor h; and pleasure, here, where I have none of the three." None of the three!" i i. sadly, " and 1 find h. with M>II." He knelt down in front of her, where lie could see her face, and he drew it gently down to his own. " 1 will not. believe you mean this, my darling: if I did helieve it 1 should o mad. Your heauty-loving. artistic nature has been ar >y what yon have seen, and it makes you slightly discontented with us all. You might to rei-n in a palace, my darling, he- itiful and hrilliant: hut the palace .-hall l.e of my winning. You shall have e\ try luxury that youha\. and envied." " When r" she asked, briefly. bringing hi- castle in the airsud- md. n. my darling you do not know how hard I am working My accomplish it." " Work!" she repl: man may work for a lifetime and sutlieient to huild a h"U-c, mil"!. -tl". .it my fatlu-r. how hard he u orks. yet he is not rich, and will he." ,i my work i- different from his, Dorin. There have been poets who have made large fortunes." 70 A FAIR MYSTERY " And there have been poets who starved in a garret," she re< plied. " But I have not that intention," cried Earle, with a look of power. " I will win wealth for you the thought of you gives m.3 skill, nerve, and courage for anything. Have patience, my darling!'' " Oh, Earle, it was so beautiful!" she cried, pitilessly interrupt- ing him; "and that Lady Estelle wore such a beautiful She lias a strange way of moving it produces a strange effect ( so slowly and so gracefully, as though she were moving to the rhythm of some hidden music. And those rooms I can never forget them ! To think that people should live and move in the midst of such luxury!" He raised the white hand to his lip. "They are not all happy, Doris. Oh, believe me, darling! money, luxury, magnificence cannot bring happiness. Sooner or later one wearies of them." "I never should," she answered, gently. "If I could live twenty lives, instead of one, I should never weary. I should like every hour of each of them to be filled with pleasure." "That is because you have had so little," he said, wistfully. " You shall have a bright future." Just at that moment Mattie Brace entered the room, and Doris looked at her with a smile. " A little brown mouse, like Mattie," she said, " can easily be content. You are happy as the day is long, are vou not, Mat- tie;" The quiet brown eyes, with their look of wistful pain, rested for one moment upon Earle, then the young girl said, calmly: " Certainly I am happy and content. Why should I not be? I always think that the same good God who made me knew how and where to place me, and knew best what I was fitted for." " There," said Doris, " that is the kind of material your model women are made of. I shall never be a model woman Mat- tie will never be anything else." " Mattie is quite right," said Earle. " There is nothing so vain and so useless as longing for that which we can never attain, ('..me. Doris, you look better and brighter than you did when I first came in. Tell me all about your day at the Castle." She told him of the duke's kind reception, of Lady Estelle's condescension, of all the beautiful things she had seen, and how the duke's (laughter had given her some flowers, and talked to her. But not one word did she say of Lord Charles Vi\ ianne. It was Letter, she thought, not even to mention that. " I am sorry you ever went near the Castle." said Mattie, p-avely. " 1 do not think you will ever be quite the some girl ii.-ain, and I have a presentiment that in some shape or other evil will come of it." And Earle, as he heard these words, turned away with a heavy sigh. A FAIR MVSTERY. 71 CHAPTER XXIII. TJ1E COQUETTE AND THE MAN OF TTIP, WORLD. EARLE wondered much what had happened to change his lady- love so completely. Looking hack, he Found that she had never b-en quite the same since t!ie day she went to the Castle. At first lie thought it merely a girlish feeling of discontent; tliat it would pass away in time as the remembrance of all the luxury and splendor she had seen faded from her. Kvery morning when he arose he thought. " It will come all right to-day; she will put her sweet arms around my neck, and hend her beautiful fa<-e to mine, and tell me she is sorry oh! so sorry, that she has heen cold in me." But the oris ha, I ever seen the stran^r before, made some remark about h " He has a handsome face, said Karle, " but it is not a I like; it is ' "(loud!" rep.-ated Doris; " that is like you and Mattie. Karle, yon think every one must be good." - they must," replied Karle. Then they were both silent, for the stranger was ji: by. He looked at horis. hut he did in t ho.v or speak to her; only from his eves to hers there passed a stran.L-" .uleam of intel- ile did not think it wise to make any .-Ln of reeogni- tion before the young escort who looked at him witli sii.-ii 'ioning e\ lie would only 1' k half a hundred questions about me. which she \\ould lind it diiiii ult to answer." he tlioa-; ii.- passed on in silence, and for a few minutes Iloris , If with \ . It i> all beeaiiM- thi- ti: ;rle is will i m--." she t If- " It' 1 ha I been aione he would have stopped and have tall, me. I low can I tell what he would have said'.- iVrhaps he. >-vl me to marry him jx-rliaps lie is -oing B and hi- wanteil t<> bid me gool-b\f. ( >h, it 1 could init M-C him alone!" , le. and i; se.-Mi--d to her that in paruon with this other young ma-. ,- was so infj-riur. she felt a sudden sense of impatieoca that made her unjust to him. 72 A FAIR MYSTERY. Earle thought no more of the stranger who had passed them on the high-road it was nothing very unusual strangers passed them continually. But Doris thought of nothing else. She had begun the walk in the best of spirits, but now she hardly spoke. Earle could not imagine what change had passed over the sum- mer sky of his love. She was impatient, complained of being tired, turned to go home. He was growing accustomed to her caprices now; and though they pained him, as the unkindness of those we love is certain to pain us, still he bore it patiently; he used to think that as she was young the quiet home life tired her. It would be all right when he could take her away, where she would be happy and bright; still the pain was very keen, so keen that it blanched his face, and made his lips tremble. If she could make him so happy, why could he not suffice for her 'f Doris wanted to be alone and to think over what had hap- pened. Lord Vivianne had been there in the hope of seeing her, that was certain. If he had been once, it was just possible that he might come again. She resolved on the morrow to be out alone, no matter what Earle said. Chance favored her. Earlo came over quite early, and remained but a short time. His mother wished him to go over to Quainton, and he would not return till evening. ' So that I shall not see much of you, my beautiful Doris," he said. She was so relieved to hear it that it made her more than usually kind to him. She looked up to him with a sunny smile; she held her bright face for him to kiss; she was so kind to him that all his fears died away, and he rejoiced in the sunshine of his perfect love. She was kind to him, gentle, caressing, loving, because she was going to deceive him. Women are so constitued, they can veil the greatest cruelty with a pretense of the greatest affection, There was no fear in the heart of her young lover, while she knew that, if the opportunity were given to her, she would as- suredly perjure herself. Earle went away completely happy, and when he was gone Doris breathed freely. She went to the dairy where her mother and sister were busy at work. She looked for a minute with great contempt on the cans of rich milk and cream. Mattie was deeply engaged in the mysteries of curds and whey. " Mother, said Doris, ' you do not want me?" " Well, for the matter o"f that, it is not much use wanting you, my dear; you do not like work." " Indeed I do not. It is such a pleasant morning, I thought of going through Thorpe Woods." Very well. Though mind, Doris, it is not quite right for you to go out amusing yourself while Mattie works so hard." " But if I stay at home I shall not work, so 1 am better out of the way." Mrs. Brace kn0w it was false reasoning; but what was the use of saying so; she had long since ceased arguing with Doris. A FAIR MYSTERY. 73 " Do not expert me hack very early. I may go on to see Lottie Granger." said Doris. Thinking it wist.- that no hour should be set for her return, she intended to cross the high-road and linger in the hope of H him. There was no fear of discovery. Her mother and Mattie settled for the day, Eurle had gone to Quainton. her father way in some distant meadow-land. She hoped that she could see her lord, for no time could be more favorable for a long conversation. She was singing up stairs in her own room. " I must make myself look as nice as I can," she thought. She inspected her wardrobe; there was really nothing in it worth wearing. She gave an impatient sigh. Then- was a plain white hat, trimmed with blue ribbon; there was a black lace shawl and a white muslin dress. She hastened down into the garden and gathered a beautiful rose; she fastened it into her hat, and it was instantly transformed into the most becoming head-gear. The black lace shawl, by a few touches of the skillful fingers, became a Spanish mantilla, and hung in graceful folds over the pretty muslin. Her toilet was a compl- : she had that marvelous gift of transforming everything she touched. At school she had -.\\<- envy of her companions; she had a taste that was at artistic and picturesque, and it was nowhere displa :--r advantage than in her own dr. When she looked in the little glass all doubts as to the su of berappearanoe faded at once. There was a dainty llusli on her loxt'lv face, the beautiful eyes were brijrlit a What matter the fashion of the hat that covered that luxuriant hair? She smiled at herself. ia not much fear, my dear," she mused, "that you will fail in anything you undertake.'' Then, in the fair June morning, she went out to meet her doom. She had not gone many steps on the high-road when she pa\v 'oniing. Like a true - 1 un- to gather the woodbines from the hedges. He smiled at the transparent artifice. She did not know how- well he had studied the nature of woman, how perfectly he was n'-miainted with every little art. muttered a most inimical exclamation of surprise. When rue. I >iiddcnlv round and saw him. she made what she con- d a grand e(Teet by suddenly dropping all her wild i\< as though the snrp: r. " Let them lie." he ^aid; "happy nes to die by so fair a band. I am so pl.-ar-ed to see you, Ml88 Bracfe "What happy fortune sent me on this roa She did not play off the same pretty airs on him that had so completely captivated poor E lid not ask him to call her Doris, and - 1 the name " Brace." Peeri and poets require different treatment." 74 A FAIR MYSTERY. " My poor roses," she said; " I had been so happy in gathering them." " Never mind the roses," said Lord Vivianne; " there are hun- dreds more. I want to talk to you. Are you going for a walk ? May I go with you T " I am going to Thorpe Woods," she replied, " and if you wish to go with me I am willing. " She spoke with the proud grace of a young princess. For the moment he actually forgot she was but the daughter of a tiller of the soil. " I thank you," he said, gravely; and they turned aside from the high-road to the fields that led to Thorpe Woods. The day was so lovely that it might have reminded him that life had brighter aims than the wrecking of a woman's soul and the winning of a woman's love; but it did not. The birds sang in the trees, the fair sun shone, the hawthorn covered the hedges, the woodbine scented the air, and they walked on, never even hearing the myriad voices that called them to look from earth to heaven. " I was so anxious to see you again," said Lord Vivianne. " I tried to forget you, but I could not." ' ' AVhy should you wish to forget me ?" Doris asked, coquet- tishly. "Some men would flatter you," he replied, "and tell you that you are so fair they dreaded to remember you. I tell you the honest truth. I heard something which made me wish that I had never seen you, or that, having seen you, I might forgei' you." " What did you hear?" she asked. "You can guess. I heard that young, lovely as you are some one has been wise enough and quick enough to win you." She smiled a slow, cruel, peculiar smile, and when Lord Viv- ianne saw that expression on her face, he felt that his victory wa.s won. "They tell me," he continued, " that this fair beauty, which ought to have the world to do it homage, is to be shut up in the obscurity of a country home; that the fair girl, who might win the hearts of all men, has promised herself to a farmer. Is it true ?" Her eyes were raised to his, and in them there was a cold glit- ter, as of steel. " Supposing that it is true, what then ?" she asked. " Then I regret, with my whole heart, having seen you, for I have met you too late." And after that they walked in silence for some minutes. He gave the words full time to do their work ; he saw that they were full of meaning to her, for her face flushed, and her eyes drooped. He continued in a lighter tone: " Pray do not think me very impertinent if I inquire whether that was your shepherd lover with whom I saw you yesterday?" She raised her beautiful head proudly. Because he was her lover, no one should ridicule Eai'le. She might desert him, be- A FAIR MYSTERY. 75 tray him, break his heart, but no one should utter one word 'st him not oiu>. "That was my lover with whom you saw me," she said, in a cold, eh-ir voice. " You have spoken of him mer, he is .at. I should not have fallen in love with a farmer. He is a poet and a gentleman." He looks like it," said my lord, seeing that he was altogether on the wrong track. " therefore I say how deeply I regret that I met you too late. You cannot surely, Miss Brace, be angry with me for saying that V" " I am not angry at all," said Doris, and the beautiful eyes raised frankly to Ins. "How can I be angry," she con- tinued, " when you pay me the greatest compliments in your power." CHAPTER XXTV. AN IMPASSIONED WOOING. " THIS is the very place for lovers," said Lord Vivianne. They had reached an open piece of moorland, where the shadows of the tall trees danced on the grass, and great sheets of blue!,ells contrasted with starry primroses. There was a bank where the wild thyme grew, sheltered liv a tall linden-tree. The bird- M i-paed t-> have made their home there, for the summer air iiuied with sweet song. Lord Vivianne drew aside the fallen branch of a slender willow, that she might find room to sit down. "The very place tor lovers," he repeated. She looked at him with a smile: "But we are not lovers," she said; "therefore it is not the place for us." FalM- logic! tairest of ladiest" he replied; " there is no know- . though. I feel sure we t mi et for no! . "Can a: lovers?" she asked, looking up at him i the frank eyes of an innocent child. Laughed. " That (mite depends on the state of one's conscience," he re- '.. " and the elasticity of o li two lovers are ob- laUe, the proper tliiag ; >ne away." " "Which should lx.> sent " I should say the one that is loved the. 1' ast. Tell me, n^w, do you really love thi-; country admirer of yours \vry much':" " I do not understand why you ask i; "Do you not? I will tell you. Becai thing that in- s you interests me; your pains and piea.-un s would soon be mine." "I have no pains," she said, thoughtfully, "and no pleas- " Then yours must be a most dull and monotonous life. IIo\v ran yon. with so keen a v can you bear 76 A FAIR MYSTERY. "I do not bear it very well," she replied; " I am always more or less bad-tempered." He laughed again. "You improve upon acquaintance, Miss Brace. You are the first lady whom I have heard plead guilty to bad temper. As a rule, women prefer making themselves out to be angelic." " I am very far from that," said Doris, frankly, " nor am I naturally bad-tempered. It is because nothing ha iny life pleases or interests me." " Not even your lover?" he said, bending over her and whis- pering the words. She blushed under his keen gaze. Her words had betrayed more than she meant to betray. Then he added: " Would you like it changed this dull life of yours into one of fairy brightness ?" " I should; but it will not be possible. My fate in the future is fixed nothing can alter it." " Yes," he said, gently, " there is one thing that can alter it, and only one your will and mine." Then he seemed to think that for a time he had said enough. He looked over the trees, and began to talk to her about the flowers. Doris did not much care about that she had not come out to listen to the praises of flowers; she would rather ten thou- sand times over thai her lordly lover had praised herself. While he was talking, she was thinking of many things. Was it a dream, or a reality, that she, Doris Brace, daughter of Mark and Patty Brace, was really talking to a lord, listening to his compliments, that he admired her quite as much as Earle did ? It was more like a dream than a reality. He, who had been half over the world, who belonged to the highest society, who had seen and known the most beautiful women in England, to be talking to her so easily, so kindly. " I must be beautiful," thought the girl, in her heart, " or he would never have noticed me." Then she recalled her wandering thoughts. The sun was shin- ing full upon them, and all its light seemed to be concentrated in a superb diamond that ne wore on his left hand. No matter where she looked, her eyes seemed to be drawn to that stone; the fire of it was dazzling. Then her eyes wandered over tl well-knit figure. Wiiat a difference dress made. Earle, in sucn garments would look like a nobleman. Her attention was suddenly ;-,:' r:ict*-.l. " You do not aas'.ver me," he was saying. She looked up at him. " I beg your pardon," she said; " I was not really listening to you/' " I was telling you that I ought to have left the Castle three days ago, but I was determined that I would not leave until I had seen you. I do not know how I can tear myself away." Again she blushed crimson. Could it be possible that he had stayed purposely to see hev ? ,1 FAIR MYSTERY. 7: ' I should rather think that you stayed to enjoy a little more of Lady M*trl!"'s Mwirty." she said. I.:,.iv Egtelle,* 1 1 I. "Vou do not suppose that any one could tind any pleasure in that perfect it-irk-." "loir!*-: [ should sever give her that name. She seemed to me, on the contrary, almost sentimental." My dear M ; - he said, " it is simply impossible that we can IK- speaking of the same lady. I assure you that I-ady Estelle Hereford is known everywhere as the coldest and proud" - women. Slit- has had many admirers, but 1 do not think . er loved any one." The girl's eyes were now fixed on him in perplexity and won- der. "Never in love!" she repeated. "Why, she gave me a long re about love, and ad \ised in- bo marry without it. When she spoke of it her face quite changed, her eyes lost their indolent expression and iilled with light. I thought she was the romantic and sentimental lady 1 had ever met." " I can only say that I believe it to IK- the first romantic idea of hT lit' . she is cold, reserved, hi^h-bred, and graceful, I admit; hut as for sentiment, ne ot' it.'' ' \V 'ii her from different points of view," said Doris. " I wonder which is the cor I dislike contradi' ting a lady, but m iiat I am likely to know her U-tter than you. I have known her many \ and yo\i hav oidy met her once." " Still we diirer considerably." said Doris. "And you think it possible that I should remain for her Oi' all the people in the world she interests me the '. se interests me most deeply. I thought of fire and ice, sun and snow, and all kinds of strange contradictions while I talked to her." 'It is for you I remained never mind I^idy Estelle. We will not v mny hours of this lovely morning talking about You have not told 1 n f> r this country ad- mirer of yours to all the world: if you do. there remains for me nothi ':e up my hat and go. I know how u it i^ ev, 11 to attempt to win even one corner of a preoccupied Why should you wish to win one corner of mi: t, subtle glance him. " Whyl" he r I long to win your whole he-art and soul; your v. ,:nd ulfei r >ose; I think of nothing :ld I not win > passion of '. Your tare ban:. 1 ;e contin- >ice haunts me, I hear it in every sound. I would fain win you, if I can, for my own; but if you tell me tha- love this country admirer of yours this man to whom a perversa 78 A FAIR MYSTERY. fate haa bound you if you tell rue that, I will go, and I will never tease you again." Then she knew that she held the balance of her life in her own hands, and that the whole of her future rested with herself. Should she be true to Earle, say she loved him, and so lose the chance of winning this love f-rom a lord, and resign herself to her quiet, dull, monotonous life ? or should she cast him from her and betray him ? " One word only one word," whispered Lord Vivianne, bend- ing his evil, handsome face over her. " You think such a question can be answered in a minute," she said. "It is impossible. I can only say this, that I liked him better than any one else one short month ago." He grasped her hand and held it tightly clasped in his own. " You say that you admit that much! Oh, Doris, the rest shall follow. I will not leave Dowusbury until I have won the rest." Then his eyes fell upon the diamond ring, shining and scintil- lating in the sun. A sudden thought struck him: he held her white hand in his own, and looked at it as he held it up to the light. " How fine and transparent," he said. '' I can see every vein. Such a hand ought to be covered with jewels." She was of the same opinion herself. Then he drew off the diamond ring that shone like flame on his own finger; he looked entreatingly at her. "I wonder," he said, "if you will be angry? This was my mother's ring, and I prize it more than I do anything in the wide world. I am afraid. Promise me you will not be angry." It was, to say the least of it, a great stretch of imagination. Lord Charles Vivianne would never have troubled himself to have worn his mother's ring; but even he, bold and adventurous as he was, thought some little preamble necessary before he offered her so valuable a gift. " Tnere is a strange, sad love-story connected with it," he said, " which I will tell you some day; but it is dear to me, because it was my mother's ring." Then he drew it from his finger. " I should like to see how it looks on that pretty white hand of yours." he said, laughingly; and, as he spoke, he drew the ring on her finger. It shone and glanced like fire; the sunbeams seemed to con- centrate themselves on it: and. certainly, the beautiful white hand looked the lovelier for the ring. lie looked at it admir- ingly. " You were born to wear jewels," he said. " You ought never to !>< without them." Hhe laughed with the faintest tinge of bitterness. " I do not see from whom 1 am to -ft them.'' she said. " As my wife you could get them, and everything that your heart could wish. Think of it, and compare a life of ease and luxury with your dull existence here. You will let me see you again? I have so much to say to ycu." A FAIR MYSTERY. 79 Yes," she replied; " I will see you, if I can get away from Vou can always do (hat." Then he held the little hand even more tightly in his own. "I am half afraid. quietly; " but I wish that you would allow me to offer ve able to manage that." he replied: "you are so r. I cannot doubt your skill. Say you will "ae< ept it, ite her: "I will hang Jew.- Is ir -ir beautiful neck, and round your wl i -.d with diamonds, if you will. 8 hand of yours. Jewels crown a beautiful ,n with a glory nothin n rive. You. above :dl Others, ought to be so crowned, for there is no other won, flush died from her face. She had not quite made up her mind. Tht-re came b.-r .n- h.-r a vision of h-r r, with his wild worship, his pa.-Honate love: of all the vows she had little to hi;n: at his trust and faith in ),. r. I: this lord's ring, and promised to m.-rt him a-ain. it i 1 spoken of n. hurriedly from her seat. He saw that her lips quiv- iier lian.ls trembled; " ' '' Vl> '"I' till! ; Hy understand. 1 must go now: they will think that 1 am ! .'h her. ai: " v< > xv iH keep the r ;,.r m v sake, in meni'.ryof tlio time when I tir>: .-aw \ "' wil1 ' -ily. -Oh. Lord Yivianne, jet m m frightened tin, is BO difl with Earle. L--t m. 8 again." h-- ' the luxury of the whole world on \ou, if vmi will mil . But now that h-r ambition was satisfied, v mghtaned at her uwu - . 80 A FAIR MYSTERY. CHAPTER XXV. THE FALSE LIPS OF WOMAN. EARLE was not the only one who found Doris changed. She had hastened home from that interview almost wild with excite- ment. Could it be that the wildest dream of her life was real- ized at last; that this handsome lord had offered her every lux- ury in the world; it seemed too bright a vision to be real; she was obliged to look again at the diamond on her finger to convince herself of its truth. Mark Brace and his wife, as well as Mattie, wondered when Doris reached home, where her animation and high spirits had gone. Mattie spoke, and she seemed hardly to hear her; her mother asked her some trifling question and she made no answer. 8he was like one in a dream. As a rule she was the delight and torment of Mark's life. As they sat together in the evening, she would puzzle him with questions she would tease, irritate, charm, and annoy him. But on this night Doris said no word, and Mark fancied it was because Earle was away. He sat looking at her with great solemn eyes, wondering who could fathom the mysteries of a woman's heart. He had never thought Doris fond of Earle. yet there she was, wretched, miserable, and lonely, because he was away. How little he guessed that in her mind Earle was already of the past. She had loved him as well as it was in her power to love any one, but that was not much; and now that the grand temptation of her life was before her all regard for Earle sank into insignificance. She was faint with wonder, and amazed that she, Doris Brace should have made such a conquest; her heart beat with delight, then sank with fear. Was he only trilling with her, this handsome lord ? Her face flushed proudly. " If I thought he was only trilling with me," she said to her- self, "I should know how to treat him." Then one look at the jewel on her finger reassured her. " Gentlemen do not give jewels that cost hundreds of pounds unless they really love and intend marriage." There was some assurance of success in the gleam of the diamond. She had been obliged to remove the ring lest her mother and Mattie might see it. On the morning following Earle hastened to Brackenside. He was longing to see his lady-love again; she was so kind to him when they parted she had been so unusually gentle that he had longed for more kindness. He was at Brackenside before the breakfast was finished. One look at the beautiful face of his love sufficed; she was dreamy, abstracted; she seemed hardly to notice his entrance. No light came in her eyes as she spoke to him; she did not make room for him by her side. "When lie went up to her and tried to kiss the face he loved so well, she drew back, not angrilv. but carelessly. " I never said you might kiss me evi ry day, Earle," she said. " I know, my darling, but I cannot ha^p it. It has grown into a custom now." A FAIR MYSTERY. 81 " When an-thing becc-n^s a custom it ceases to be a charm," she said, with unconscious philosophy, te looked down sadly at her 11 Doris." he said, "you are so sadly changed to me, I cannot understand it, dear. You say that I have not displeased you?" " No," she said, carelessly, "lam not in the least displeased." " Then, what have I done, my darling? I love you too n 'or anything to come between us. If I could win your IOT ) by d \ ing for it, I would cheerfully die. Tell me what I can i'j to make you as you were once to me ?" She raised her head impatiently. " You are always talking nonsense. Enrle. I cannot regulat" 1 my words and thoughts as I would regulate a clock. I cannot undertake to be always the same." " You are charming, but your variety used to be one of your greatest charms. I do not complain of that the summer sky changes: it goes from crimson to blue, and then white you changed from grave to gay. ;md in each mood you seemed to'me most charming. It is not that now.'' "What is it. then?" she asked. 1 ! looked so wistfully at her that, if she had had any heart, it must have been touched. " I can hardly tell I dare not even to myself say what your manner seems to me. Doris, you cannot surely repent of having promised to marry me it cannot he that:" His honest eyes grew so dim with pain his face grew so white would sooner, heartless coquette as she was. have stabbed him to the heart than have answered " Yes." She turned away from him. "I suppose vou cannot help talking nonsen-e. Karle? Iain not sentimental myself, and so much of it wearies me. When in talk about anything else I -lull I.,- glad." could' she <|uitted the room, and Karle was at a loss to know what to do or say. 1 (e tried to comfort himself. "She is so Leatitiiul, my darli: .id, tenderly, "and is hut th" ca|>i < ning girl. I must U patient." He tried to school himself to ],at: bat he felt unutterably sad. Then- was something in her man- ner he could not understand. " I know what > trrels I to himself" they are the renewal of love; hut I cannot understand this dark, cold shadow which :i us, and seems to hide from me the beauty and light < ut and tried to interest himself in his work, thinking to himsi-lf that her mood would soon change, and then t! won!': M. Hut he found work impo could think of nothing else but the loved one's face with the shadow on it. He went through the meadows, and stood leaning over the gate. When Mattio saw him she watched him for some minutes in silence, her sweet, homely face full of wistful an eyes full of tenderest love. To her simple mind he ' above her loved him as she : 82 A FAIR MYSTERY. loved any ore else. She had feared greatly for him, and it had been some relief to her to find that Doris had really promised to marry him and intended to keep her word. It was the first time since she had heard the news of the engagement that she had seen that look of doubt, almost despair, on his face, and it troubled her greatly. ' What can have happened?'' she said to herself; then, with a sudden sense of foreboding, it seemed to her what she had always dreaded had come at last. Involuntarily the girl clasped her hands: "God save Earle!" she said; then she went up to him. She spoke twice to him before he heard her; then she started in alarm as the white face, with its expression of bitter sorrow, was turned to her. " Earle, what has happened?" " Nothing," he replied. Then the sweet, mild, sympathizing face reproached him with kindness. "Nothing has happened, Mattie," he said, " but I am not happy; 1 am afraid that I have grieved Doris." " What have you done to her?" she asked, briefly. "That is what I want to find out and cannot," he replied. " Tell me, Mattie, have you noticed a change in her?" "Yes," replied the young girl, gravely, "I have, Earle, ever since the day she went to the Castle. I wish she had never seen it. We were very happy until then." " Yes, we were happy," he replied sadly. " What has changed her, Mattie? Tell me truthfully; never mind about giving me pain." " I think she saw and envied all the magnificence that was there," said Mattie; "our simple home and homely ways ha ve been disagreeable to her ever since." " Will it pass away ?" he asked, anxiously. " We must have patience with her, Mattie. Who can wonder at it ? She is so young and so lovely, it seems only natural that she should care most for what is bright and beautiful. Downsbury Castle seemed like fairy-land to her. No wonder that after it we all seem a little tame and dull." "You can never be tame, Earle," said the girl, indignantly. " How can you say such a thing ? Tame indeed! I should like tf say what I think on the matter." Her warm sympathy somewhat reassured him. He looked up at her. " You do not think, (hen, that it is anything serious, Mattie ? I am so glad. One so gay and bright as Doris naturally tires of a quiet home." "I do not think home so very quiet. You are always there, and she ought to find her happiness in your society." " I am sure she does," he replied, hastily, unable to cast even the shadow of blame on her; "but you see, dear, I love her so that a shadow on her fair face drives me mad." " You worship her, Earle," said Mattie. gravely; "and in this weary world man or woman who commits that sin of idolatry is certain to suffer for it. : A FAIR MYSTERY. 83 "What can I do to win her smiles again?" asked the young lover. " I do not know, Enrle. I wish your happiness did not de- pend so entirel}' on her smiles." " lr is loo late to remedy that," replied Earle. As he spoke he saw in the distance the glimmer of her dress between the ti "There she is!" he rried. " I will go to her." His fa* < Hushed crimson, and Mattie watched him sadly as he ed nf'ter her sister. " I iow he loves her!" she thought. "Poor Earle! he has no life apart from her; it is almost pitiful to see him." Doris, believing herself unseen, had gone out hoping to avoid Earle. She liked him too well to pain him, yet every moment slie w;is ''rawing nearer to the precipice. " Anything," she said to herself, " is better than the sight of that pained face." ived to go down to the Thorpe Meadow and while p.wav an hour or two there. Earle wonld not dream of looking there lor her; so she went, taking with her one of her l'a\o:-j! 1 V IK -h novels. She found a seat in a shady nook. She opened the novel, but she could not read; the romance of -\ n life was ?noiv exciting to her now than any other that wild romance of which the outward symbol was a diamond ring. Bhe took the ring from her purse and placed it on her linger. Huw it shone, and gleamed, and glittered! So may theeye of the .-erpent have glittered in the garden of Paradise. She held out her hand tin- better to admire it. Her lover's wo;--!s cainn ki'-k to her: " I will hang jewels on your beautiful neck and round your white arms." Her h'-art heat fa-t. That wouH indeed !)< n triumph. "\Vlint i-ein the wide world compared to this'.- p.esides, the yonn.u' lord sincerely loved her. Had he not so declared, with | d truth burning in his eyes? What was Karle'.s i love of a p 'i>iln- passionate rapture of a rich y-'iiiiL' lord, who was willing to marry her, and could crown her with the i e her every luxury in lile? ; he thought crossed her mind Karle drew near, nt first un- observed by her. J. -nee alighted upon the ring. "That is a beautiful ring, Doris," he said, "and a costly one. "U ho gave it to you ':" He took her hand and Imld it tightly in .n, while his face ^TCW deadly jial'-. " I know but little of jewel : inned, ' but I can tell that this is costly and val- uable. Who gave it to you r" : face Hushed deepest crimson, her eyes flashed fire. " That is no busim ." she replied. P.nt, rather to her surprise, Earle showed no fear of her anger, no irresolution. y I have a right to ask," he said. " You are my promised wife, Who gave you the .jewel you wear on your h; " I refuse to answer you," sh- " Doris," he said, and there was more of contempt than of pain 84 A FAIR MYSTERY. in his voice. "Doris, has that anything to do with your cold- ness to me ?' ' For one moment she looked at him steadily, then she seemed to remember that defiance and denial would be useless would only cause inquii'ies. Her only way out of the difficulty lay in untruth. She smiled sweetly in his face. " My jealous Earle," she said; " who do you think gave me this ring?" I cannot tell," he replied, gravely. " Will you promise, if I tell you, never to mention it ?" " I promise faithfully, Doris." " Lady Estelle Hereford gave it to me on the day I went to Downsbury Castle. Are you jealous of her, Earle ?" ' No, rny darling. I hope the time may come when I shall bring you even brighter jewels than this," and he kissed the fair, false liand as he spoke. CHAPTER XXVI. THE LAST HAPPY DAY OP HIS LIFE. " EARLE," said Doris, suddenly, " I hope you will keep your promise, and not mention to any person a word about this riug." " I have never broken my word in my life," said Earle, proudly. " Because, "when I-ady Estelle gave it to me, she wished me not to mention it; they would be so jealous at home. Mattie would want one like it." Earle was indignant at this insinuation. " You do not understand Mattie if you think that," he said. " She would be pleased in your pleasure, not envious." Doris laughed. "You think all women are angels, Earle. I hope you may never find out your mistake." " I hope not," he said. " Of course I will respect your wishes, and keep the most perfect silence. At the same time, I think you are rather imprudent: and any one, seeing such a valuable ring in your possession, would naturally wonder how you came by it." " They may wonder," she said indifferently. " 1 know, and that i.s quite sullicient. Is it really valuable, Earle? What do you think it is worth?" ' I am no judge of such shings," he said. " It is a large stone, full of fire, and without a flaw. I should imagine it to be worth two or three hundred pounds; it may be worth more, certainly not less." Three hundred pounds. Why, the bare idea of it .was fabulous to have a lover who could give you such jewels; it was like a fairy tale, and he would hang chains of such round her neck and arms. Earl wondered why she so suddenly grew abstracted and quiet it was so unlike Doris, this dreamy repose. It had wanted but little to cause her to make up her mind as to her decision such A FAIR MYSTERY. 85 wealth as that was not to be despised. Earle suddenly grew quite insignificant in her eyes. When would he he able to give her a diamond worth three hundred pounds- Still, she would not let him even guess what were her thoughts: to-morrow she had tit sec her young lord lover she would keep good friends with Earle till then: so she threw aside the many thoughts and which haunted her, and turning to him, wa.s once more her own charming sx If. ! was enchanted: she had hut to smile at him, to him a look of kindn Inc.- the l<-a>t sign of affection for him. and all was well: sin- \\ mpletfly mistress of his heart, soul, and mind, that she could do with him just a would, lie surrendered himself to the charm he was more happy than words can tell; he said to himself that he had been mistaken, there was no coldness in her manner, no chang had. a i'i -r all, only been some little shadow of erve, some little variation of spirit; she was his own love beautiful, tender, and true. Seated by her, in the fair June sunshine, he told her all his and his fears; he told her how he had fancied that h< -r love was leaving him. that she was c! to him. that she had In-.'n carini: l-.-s for him. Now he was delighted t" that she was all th;/ ' kind, most ai-iiable, and winning. None, looking at the bright, happy face, could have guessed what was hidden underneath it -1 t of all. Thos. nil of h'-aven to him; he saw all truth, all honor, all no- bility in the matchless features. Earle believed in her; drink- ing in the marvelous U-auty of her face, listening to the .- voice, he would have gone to death for her; it never entered his mind to doubt her. Po the '(lira passed, and Earle. completely happy, complete! 1. was in the seventh heaven of delight. They went ho- :ter\vnrd did he dwell on the memoi the last ha] f his life! He remained at tin- farm until evening: he se.-med unable to imself away. Th'' moon was shining, and tli- gl-aiiiiiiL,' in the sky when he went. !! vis if she would with him did not willing, but M;<: who had noti< tful expn t he night is line; going as far as the gate will not hurt you." Unwillingly she rose to 'her time she would hrr '. but now the consciousness of th- v she was Tivditating forbade that; Ehe would do as they liked for the at. Mr :t her hand t" If slu- could have K. nything to help him! Sh well, that Dor in. oil-night, Mattie," said Earle, in & low voice; " you see the sun ia shining for me again," 86 A FAIR MYSTERY. "Heaven grant that it may always so shine!" said sincere Mattie. Then she turned away from liim abruptly. There were time? when she could not bear those outward evidences of his love. She said to herself that Doris was quite unworthy of him quite unworthy; but that if he had only cared for her, she would have made his life so bright for him. Then the lovers went out together. Mattie, looking after them with a sigh, Mark Brace with a smile. Earle wishing that each moment of the starlight night could be lengthened into yeu.-s, Doris silently wishing that there was no love in the world noth- ing but diamonds. Doris walked in silence to the garden gate. The picture was a beautiful one. The picturesque old farm-house lying in the soft moonlight, the moonbeams falling full and bright on the flow- ers, the fields, and the trees. The laburnums shining yellow and pale; the lilacs filling the air with sweet perfume; the star- light touching the golden head and face of tha young girl until she looked beautiful and ethereal as an angel lighting up the spiritual face of the young lover. Doris leaned against tha gate, and directly over her head hung tha flowers of the syringa tree. There was a deep, dreamy silence over the whole earth, as though the rest of heaven were lying over it. Earle was the first to speak. "You look so beautiful, my darling," he said. " How am I to tear myself away ?' " Do not look at me," she replied, " then, you will go easily enough." " Do you want me to go ?" he asked, bending a spray of syringa until it rested on her head. " Do you want me to go'?" No need to pain him yet. No need to wound with the point of a pin when she was preparing a sharp sword to stab him. to the heart. "Why should I want you to go?" Doris asked, with one of those sweet, subtle smiles which fire the hearts of men. " I am so happy," he said, after a time, " here with you in the moonlight, my darling; it seems to me that earth and heaven have no higher bliss to give me. I wish you could see yourself, Doris. The moonlight just touches your hair, and makes it something like an aureole of glory round your head; it touches your face, and makes it like a lily leaf; it shines in your eyes, and they are brighter than the stars. Oh, my darling, all the .-!S in the \\-orld could not toll how lovely you are!" 'Micro, /x something in having a poet fora lover after all," ught Doris. " 11 >w 111:1 I to leave you? When I go away my heart clings to you; it is ;is though 1 v.-ere drawn by cords that I could not ii; my eyes will not gaze in any other direction. Oil, Doris, if I could toll you how I love you, if but for once I could meas- ure the height and depth of my own wild worship, if but for once I could tell you how dearly I love you, you would be com- pelled, in sheerest pitv, to love me in return." " Have I not said I love you Earie ':" c.nu her voice was sweet A FAIR MYSTERY. 87 as the cooing ring-dove. " Whatever happens to either of us, be quite sure of one thing whatever love I have to give is given toyou." He Ix-nt down and kissed her sweet, false lips, such unutter- able hapjnY.ess shining in his eyes that the great pity was he did not die there and tl Slit.- lilted her face to his. " It is not in me," she said, " to love as some people do; but, nat may happen. I do love you. and you have all my 1 He drew the lovely fare to his own. ' I should like to take you in my arms and run away with id: " to t;ik-- \ lonely island or solitary des- ert, where no one could ever try to take you from me." knew peri e< tly wrtl that on the morrow she had to her lordly lover, yet, when Earle clasped her in his arms, and drew her head on hid breast, she mutely accepted his \Vh id was true she might do what she would, she might love the pn Btige of Lord Vivianne's rank, she might love his wealth, -ami what it could bring her, hut the whole affection of her heart poor, mean, and false as it was had been given to Earle. As she 1 his low-whispered words, she thought to f that it was mo.-t likely for the last time. The >tory of worn -ant to write. "When Earle lit that he had detained her as long as Mark Brace would v.i-li her . he said: 11 I must go. Doris; it would be just as difficult to leave you in ir's time as now. Good-bye, my 1 l\:-r irolden head and fair, tlower-like face. 1 her soft, white arm.-i around his neck, and .-aid: d ever olTered him, nnd his heart beat with i liappin. turn: d away; false, tiekle, COIMK the sL r ht of his face touched h.-r \\ i!h no ordinary pain. How he tr liow he loved her! Heaven help him! how his whole heart, xuil, and Ii: i wrapped up in her. Doris went back into the sitting-room, where honest Mark sat waiting for her, ai: . !! hardly how he readu d : 'amour of his love upon him. the mooiili-hi ir, the whole, earth and so beauti'ul; lie cni>lied t' as he walked alum': lie had Dithered th eyrin^a, and lie held it to If- mnuc amount!- f his love, he heard !; vhi-jwr of the wind; he ^tood l-ar.'-h'-a-i'-d und- r the ni-i while lie said to him-ly. : vo. mother. M\ love IS all p' poetry all love." 68 A FAIR MYSTERY. She laid her hand on the fair clustering brow. " I am afraid that your love is your religion, too," she said. " I am o happy, mother! What have I done that I should win the love of that pure, young heart ? Do not say that I have no religion. I feel that I could kneel all night and thank Heaven for the treasure it has sent me. I shall be a thousand times better man for my love." Cut Mrs. Moray was not to be convinced. She did not see Doris with the eyes of her son; she saw the girl's faults more plainly than her virtues her coquetry, her vanity, her pride; whereas Earle saw only that she was exceedingly beautiful, and that he loved her better than he loved his Jife. " It is a terrible thing," saicl Mrs. Moray, slowly, " for a man to give his whole heart into the hands of a creature as you have done, Earle. Why, what would become of you if you were to lose Doris, or anything happen to interfere with your love to separate you ?" She was startled at the expression of his face; he turned to her quickly. " Do not say anything of that kind to me, mother; the bare idea of it drives me mad! What would the reality do?" " It is not right, Earle, to love any one after such a fashion." " But I cannot help it, mother," he replied, with a smile, " and that is where the whole of my excuse lies." CHAPTER XXVII. HOW SHE WAS TEMPTED. THE morrow came, but there was no hesitation on the part of Doris. Perhaps Lord Vivianne could not have done a better thing for himself than giving her that diamond ring; the light of it dazzled her; it reminded her, perpetually, of what might oe hers; she might have felt some little remorse or sorrow but for that; when she looked at it she forgot everything except that she could have just as many as she liked of them. It was in the morning when she went out to meet him; she had. adroitly, sent Earle to Quainton, under the pretext that she wanted some silk and wool; no one else would interfere with her. Mrs. Brace never attempted the least interference in he: tions, so that she w;is perfectly safe. The loveliness of her fare "is not ,. mimed by one trace of sorrow or regret . yet she had quite decide i upon betraying Earle, and leaving him to break his heart, or anything else that despair might urge him to do. To have seen her walking through the sunlit fields and lanes, no one would have thought that she calmly and coolly contem- plated the most cruel treachery of which woman could lie guilty. Across the long green grass fell the shadow of her lordly lover. He was standing by the stile, and on one side lay the dark woods, on the other rose the spire of the old church at Quainton. The w,j.>le scene was so fair and tranquil, it seemed almost wonder- ful that treachery and sin should exist. Doris trembled when Lord Vivianne came hastily to meet her. " I began to think you would disappoint me," he sa?d; " every A FAIR MYSTERY. 89 minute that I have waited has seemed like an hour to me. \Vhatshould I have done if you had not conic'.'"' He took her hand as though it belonged to him. "Sliall \ve go to that shady spot in the woods?" ho asked; "I can talk to you more easily there." They walked on together, she listening to his honeyed compli- ments, his whispered words, hardly able to decide in her own mind, which was the braver wooer, the poet or the lord. Then they reached the pretty bank where the wild thyme grew. Lord Vivianne seated himself by her side in silence, then, after a few minutes, lie said: " I have so much to say to you I hardly know where to begin. I am not quite sure of my ground with you yet; I may offend you so seriously that you will, perhaps, order me from your ; nee, and never speak to me again.' 1 She thought of the diamond ring. " It is not very probable,'' she said. "lam what is called a man of the world," continued Lord Vivianne. " I make no great pretensions to principle, but I can honestly say 1 have never deceived any one. I always start with a clear and straightforward understanding." " I think it is the best, decidedly." she said. Tht -i IK- t->ok her hands hi his, and with his eyes fixed on her face, he continued: " I love you; I think you are the fairest and most lovely girl I have ever seen. I think also that, with your ke< n capacity for enjoynient.it is a s:ul thing that your life should be \\ here; I think that your beauty and your grace should inak one of the queens of the world you ought indeed to be out in the world it is cruel to keep you here, as it would be to bury a brilliant gem in a dark well." Then he paused, studying in- tently the expression on the downcast face. " I love you," he said. " I should like to be the one to show you the bright, brill- iant world. If you honor me with your love, I can give you wealth in abundance, magnificence, such as would gladden the heart of a tjueen. 1 will make you the envy of every woman who sees you: you shall hang jewels at - ;1 ch ear that are worth a king's ransom: you shall have servants to wait upon you: you shall have carriages, hoi ' your heart c. Hire. You xhall not be able to ionn one wi>h which shall :\i U? gratilied. Ijoris dear Dori.-, can you trust me? \Villyou go with me will you be miner" The life he had pictured to her was exactly that for which sho longed, an. I the words of her lover delighted her. Yet, as she relic-ted, then ;mout t lie glorious vista of the future the (ace of trusting K;:rle the man >he \\as al>out to betray. "It will break Karle's I, . slowly, d Vivianne laughed ;d<>ud. "Not at all," he >aid. "Th. -c country lovers do not die of broken heart -i; In- may fe'-l \ at lir.-t, but he will for- vou in a few \ in love, all over again, with some rosy-faced milknu. 90 A FAIR MYSTERY. " He will never forget me," said Doris; " and his despair will be terrible." She shuddered a little as though some bleak, cold wind were blowing over her, then she said: " If he knew I had betrayed him, and he found me, he would kill me." Again Lord Vivianne laughed. " Lovers do not kill their faithless loves in these prosaic days. An action of breach of promise, a good round sum by way of compensation, and all is over." "You do not know Earle," she said, quietly. "I should be afraid of him if I deceived him." "Never mind Earle!" said Lord Vivianne, impatiently; "I should say that it was a great impertinence of any one like Earle to think of winning such a beautiful prize as you. What has he to offer you ?" '* His name and his fame," she replied, bitterly. " What is a name ? and all copy-books of the goodly kind will tell you 'Fame is but a breath,'" he replied. "Never mind Earle, rely upon it that I can find some fair house either in sunny France or fair Italy where Earle will never disturb us. If you are really frightened at him, we will have no settled house, but we will roam over every fair land under the sun. Will you go, my darling, and leave this dull place?" She was quite silent for some minutes. Perhaps the good and bad angels fought then for the weak, tempted soul; perhaps some dim idea of a heaven to be lost or won came to her; perhaps some vague idea of terrible wrong and deadly sin came to her and made her pause. "Will you go, my darling?" he asked again, in a whisper. She raised her eyes calmly to his face. " Yes," she replied, " I will go." He did not show his triumph in any extraordinary fashion; his dark face for one moment flushed burning red. "You shall never repent it," he said, "you shall be happier than a queen." He pressed her close to his breast, and imprinted upon her willing lips the most passionate of kisses. "Dear Doris," he exclaimed, you are mine mine forever!" For some moments they stood thus, his arm encircling her graceful waist. Then with an anxiety to complete the business in hand, he said: " I leave the Castle to-morrow I have already prolonged my visit to the utmost length, and I must go tomorrow. For your oiike and mine, it will te better to avoid all scandal, all rumor. When I leave I shall go direct to London. Will you go to- night? Take a ticket for Liverpool, that will throw them all astray. When you reach Liverpool go to this hotel," and he handed her a card, "and I will join you there late to-morrow evening. The instant I reach London, I will take the express for Liverpool. Will you do that ?'' " Yes; I do not see why I should not. I am a great hypocrite at times," she said, " and not particularly good; but I declare to A FAIR MYSTERY. 91 yon that I could not spend eveii a day -uore with Earle, know- ing that I was intent upon decei% T ing him. Yes, I will go to- night.* 1 (Jood; that clears nil difficulties. Tlien there is another tiling: leave a letter l)eliind you to say that you are tired of the dull life; that you can hear it no longer, and that fearing 01 tion. you have left home quietly, and have taken a situation as Knglish teacher abroad. No one will suspect the truth of such a <; . ntle Mrs. Brace, honest Mark, loving Mattie something like regret did seize, her when she thought how e-irnestly they would read that letter, and how sincerely they would believe it. " There is another tiling," said this cold-blooded lord; " prom- ise me that you will, at least until I join yon, wear a thick veil. You have no idea what a sensation such a, face as yours would make; you would easily be traced by it." She smiled, well pleased with the compliment. " Once away over the sea," he said, " and my proudest, keen- light will be to show the whole world the beautiful prize I won. Mind, tiie veil must be so thick that not one feature of the face can be seen through it." "I will remember," she said, with a smile. Then he took from his pocket a purse well filled. " I know you will not be angry," he said. " You cannot ask for money, or people will begin to wonder why you want it. You will take this." A faint Hush rose to her face. " I must." s!:-- replied, " I have none of my own." Then she rose; it was time to return to the. house she was so soon to abandon. He bent down to kiss her, and drew tb'e beautiful face to his, just as Harle had done. Thoughts of her treachery again disturbed her, and she shud- dered us though with cold. " You are tired, my darling," lie said. " Go home and rest." They parted under t!i lie went away, and aa slid v. ! slowly home, she said to herself: "I have killed Earlc!" CHAPTER XXVI1T. A V/oM.VN Ki: SOLVED. MATTIK BRACE stood at (lie farm gate; she was looking impa- tiently up and down the road, and a sudden light Hashed in her lit sight of Doris. The beautiful Hash like light from beneath the gloom of green ; ihnost impatiently. I i I.mk- . here for you. There is ;i whole roll of i. from Indon; they are directed to you, and I know ti 1 am sui- :ain notices of your pict- :i"Ul." Dem looked up with a shyness quite new to her. "' I am coming," she repUai " Whare id Earlei 1 " 92 A FAIR MYSTERY. She hesitated as she asked the question. There were no depths in her nature; she did not even understand regret of remorse she had not the slightest conception; yet even she felt unwilling to look in the face of the man who loved her. ' Where is Earle?" she repeated. " He has not returned from Quainton yet," replied Mattie: and the two girls entered the house together. On the table of the little sitting-room Jay a roll of newspapers, addressed to Miss Doris Brace. The beautiful lips curved wii h scorn as she read the name aloud. " Doris Brace!" she said. " Fate must have been deriding me to give me such a name." But Mattie made no reply; she had long since ceased to an- swer similar remarks. Then Mrs. Brace, seeing the sitting-room door open, went ia to look at what was going on. Doris looked up at her with a bright laugh. " I am in a newspaper, mother," she said, " only imagine that!" Mrs. Brace sighed, as she generally di 1 in answer to Doris. The girl was far above her comprehension, and she owned it humbly with a sigh. " What do they say, I wonder? Oh, there is a letter from Mr. Leslie!" She opened it hastily, then read aloud: " MY DEAR Miss BRACE, Nec-d I tell you my picture is the great success of the season? All London is talking about it the papers are filled with its praise. See how much I have to 5hank you for! There is even a greater honor than all this praise in store; the queen has signified her gracious desire to purchase my picture! My fortune is made; the face that made sunshine at Brackenside will now shine on the walls of a royal palace. No one admires it more than your sincere friend, " GREGORY LESLIE." - "There!" cried the girl, triumphantly, "the queen even the queen is going to buy me!" "Not you, child," said Mrs. Brace, rebukingly "only your picture." " It is all the same thing; the queen must have admired, or she would not have wished to purchase it.'' . " Gregory Leslie is a grand artist," said Mattie. " Surely some merit is due to him." Doris laughed, as she always did at her sister's admonitions. "If lie had painted yon, my dear," she said, laughingly, "I do not think the queen would have bought the picture." Matt ie made no reply, knowing well that in all probability it was true. Then Doris opened the papers, and read the critiques one after another; they were all alike one rapture of praise over the magnificent picture. " ' innocence ' is the great picture of the day," said one. Another assed: " Where had Mr. Leslie found the ideally beautiful face so gloriously placed on canvas ? Had he drawn it from the rich depths cf glowing fancy, or had he A FAIR MYSTERY. 93 seen a face like it?" Another paper told how the r^ieon had purchased the picture, and foretold great things for the at ' "It Is rectify true," said Doris. "I shall be in a palace. Oh, Mattie! I am so sorry that no one will know it is a picture of me: they will admire my portrait, and no one will .- should like to go to the queen and say: 'That is my pic tare hanging on your palace wall.'" ' she \\ould not speak to you," said Mrs. Brace, who took all - literally. " Hundreds of beautiful faces are placed upon canvas t day," said Mattie; "and I do not suppose any one cares for th models they are painted from." " I wish I were my own picture," sighed Doris. "I -would a thousand times rather hang upon a palace wall than live !; Then she suddenly remembered how uncertain it was, after all, whether she should l>e here mu^h longer; in the excitement .ding so much in her own praise, she had almost forgot t< n Lord Y iviaune. As she remembered him her face grew burning red. " I am glad you have the grace to blush," said Mattie. " You are so vain, Doris, I should be afraid that your vanity would i ray.'' " So matter where I go my picture will be safe," was the flip- pant reply. And then tin- little council was broken up. Mrs. Brace went away to tell Mark of IKT fears. Mattie did not care to lie ir any more self-laudation, and Doris was left alone. Her f:;' her pulse thrilled with gratified vanity; her heart seemed ; i with the keen, passional'- sen-e of her own beauty. " It : - hly gilt had been offered to me." Doris thought, " I should have rho.-i'ii beauty. Rank and wealth are de-i: : but without a face to charm they would be worth little, and can win them even if one be born without them. 1 shall win them yet, because men cannot look at me without caring for i An ><>d by the little rose-framed window th.Te camo to her a | longing that her beauty should be seen and -hould receive the 1 due to it. who was fair enough to win the admiration of a qi; * would dwell so often, and with such great delight! " 1 wonder," she thought to horself, " if any of the royal princes \\ ill l.e likel : !,;it piet:.; admire it, and then, if !. . admire : 'ihere was no limit to her ambit i->:i. as there was none to her vanity. Had >he l*'.-n a>ked ' of dax/.Iing delight eanii' t" ! ood in the humble sin in.:: -room that v . delight of Mrs. l>rac"'s h art: life Hushed and thrill' vein. Doris held out her hands with ry for that whi! ; far from her; the tin vague possibilities of life r. What could si: ffin with her beauty what could not her beauty do for he*,. 4 A FAIR MYSTERY. Then Mrs. Brace came in again on business cares intent, hold- ing several pieces of calico in her hands. " Doris," she said, " I have been thinking that as you will per- haps soon be married to Earle, I may as well order a piece of gray calico for you when I order one for ourselves." Down went the brilliant vision! The queen who admired her f ice, the palace where her picture would hang, the glorious pn s- pect, the dream that had no name, the sweet, wild fancies tl;>;t had filled every nerve they faded before those prosaic woi *Ls iike snow in the sun! "Marriage and gray calico! gray calico and Earle!" She turned with a quick, impatient gesture, almost tierce in its anger. ' Oh, mother! you do say such absurd things," she said; " you annoy me." " Why, my dear ? What have I said? You will want gray calico. You cannot be married from a respectable home like this, and not take a store of house linen with you." "House linen!" repeated Doris. "You are not talking to Mattie, mother." ' I am not, indeed; if I were, I should at least receive a sensi- ble answer. You are above my understanding. If you think tnat because a gentleman painted your portrait, and people ad- mire it, you will never need to be sensible again, yor. make a great mistake." Doris made no reply; a great flame of impatience seemed to burn her heart. How could she bear it. this prosaic, common- place life? Gray calico and marriage all mingled in one idea! Kindly Mrs. Brace mistook her silence, and really thought she was making an impression on her. "We have had but this one chance of giving the order: if it is not done now, it cannot be done until next year. Mrs. Moray is such a respectable woman herself that I should not like " Doris held up her hands with a passionate cry. " That will do, mother! Order what you like, do as you like, but do not talk to nie: I will not hear another word." " You will grow more sensible as you grow older." said Mrs. Brace, composedly, as she went away with the calico in her hand, leaving Doris once more alone. " How have I borne it all this timer" she asked herself, with a flush of anger on her fair face. " Yet. why should I be angry, and in what diiiVr from them? Why should I be vexed or angry: Mattie would have talked for an hour would hav given asensiliie answer, while I feel as though I had bt-en in- sulted. They are my own niotlur and sister why am 1 so dif- ferent from them? Why does a bird of paradise differ from a homely linnet: Why does a carnation differ from a sun- flower ? 1 cannot tell." She could not tell. It was not given to her to know that all the characteristics of race were strong within her. But that )nile scene decided her; there had lieeri some faint doubt in her r-?iad, some little leaning toward Earle, and his great wealth of A FAIR MYSTERY. 9-1 poetry and love some lingering regret as to whether she was not i lie certain humble paths of peace and virtue fora brilliant l>ut nncrrtain cai " It' 1 ilo this," she had thought to herself, " I shall kill Earle." and the idea had tilled her mind with - .iihos. But all that ' unskillful touch. Writing her story, know-higher faults. 1 make no excuses for her: hut if she had had more congenial t;urrouudings the tragedy of her life might have She >t oil hy the open window and thought it all over. The rich scent of tin me in and clung to IK r 1 her hair: the blue sky had no cloud: the birds sang sweetly and <-li irly in tlie far distance; she heard the lowing of the "cattle and the voices of the lab< Then her wh"l" heart turned in disgust from her quiet home; it had no charm for her; she wanted none of it she wanted life, warmth, glitter, perfume, jewels, the praise of men, the envy of won, -ited to feel her own power, and to l>e foil by homage. AVh.it was her bright loveliness for if not for this? where all the peopi -ting her about mar- rying Earle, having i!>le home, and buying gray calico! ot for such a commonplace life. The beauty of hill and eky, and quaint meadow an 1 shady lane, of blooming flowers an 1 green tn-es, was not for her; it was dull, tame and un- The queen in all the wide world had admired her Was she io remain hidden in this humble, lowly house, where no one saw her but Karlo and the few men whom \>\i^i- brought to t!ie farm? It was not to be imagined. She ; with a clear, " I do not car "whether it is right or wronu r : 1 do not care what the pri-.v or jn-nalty may IK-, 1 will go and take my share of what men and women call life" And from that resolution, taken on a calm, bright summer mder the goM.-u light of heaven, with ti. Of the s .-lit- never once swerved or departed, let i her wliat it might. CHAPTER XXIX. THE FLIGHT AT MIDXIGUT. "IT will bo a fine moonlight night," said horn "If tiiis w. [8, 1'atty, we shall have a good b the bank by the end of the year.' 1 * "Thank Heaven!'' .-aid his wife. " a little money is a comlVrt- iing, Mark: there is alv. -ingon h It was nearly nine o'clock; a late hour for Hark and 1 : lie had tak- :. foiuid tiie < his wi: ful. ! :;ot with them; t-he had ; to attend to tin ::i that I Inaensiblj, the absence of Doris was something of a relief to P6 A FAIR MYSTERY. the honest fanner and his wife. "When Doris was present, she kept them in a continual turmoil. They honestly believed themselves bound to correct her, to admonish her, to check her wild flow of words, the careless and often irreligious speech, and she never brooked the correction ; so that most evenings ia the old homestead were of a stormy nature. It was something of a relief, therefore, to have his homely wife on one side, and his * daughter on the other. Honest Mark could indulge in that which his soul loved best; a few homely jests and solemn . ances of his own prosperity, while the bright, beautiful girl who puzzled him, was beyond the reach of his understanding, was busied in her own affairs. " It is after nine," said Mark, " and I am tired. How was it that Earle did not return ?" " He knew that he could not see Doris," said Mattie, with a smile that was half a Sigh. Mark laughed when he was at a safe distance from her. There was nothing that Mark enjoyed more than what he called Doris' airs and graces. "She keeps him in order," he said, slyly. "Mattie, if ever you tliink of being married, take a lesson from your sister, my dear." " I hope she will not," said Mrs. Brace. " The true secret of being a good wife, Mattie, is to love your husband better than yourself; and though Doris is beautiful as a day-star, she will never do that." Then Mark looked out into the quiet, white moonlight, and said: " I shall begin to work in the Thorpe Meadows to-morrow, I hope the birds will wake me when the sun rises." And 5is lie passed Doris' room he saw the light underneath the door. " Good-night," he said; " do not sit up late, writing, or you will epoil your eyes, and then Earle will grumble at me." " I shall not be late," said Doris. And Mark Brace, without a thought of the tragedy looming, went on. Mrs. Brace saw the light, but she had not yet forgotten the cruel reception of her advice about the gray calico. " Good-night, Doris," she said, without entering. But Mattie went into the room. The excuse had been a per- fectly true one. Doris sat writing still, with a tired look on her face, her round, white arms on the table, and two letters by her Bide. " I have finished," she said, looking at Mattie. " What can I do for you, Doris shall I stay and talk to you ?" 'No," she interrupted; "I am tired, and I would rather be alone." " Good -night," said Mattie, not particularly liking the rebuff. Then Doris went to her, and clasped her arms round her bis- ter's neck. " Good-night, little Mattif good, simple Mnttio. Kiss me." The brown eyes were raised glowly to her face. A FAIR MYSTERY. 97 " You li ! asked me (<> kiss you before, Doris. 1 ' "Have I not? Perhaps 1 ne\er ui:iy ask you again. Perhaps if I asked you for a kiss this time next year, you would refuse to give it to me." \D, I should never do that, Doris." And the two faces one so hr i 11 iantly beautiful, the other so good in its intelligent kindness touched each other. Lontf afterward Mattie remembered that the warm arms had e would only be cruelty," she said to If. "Better for Karle to know at once. 1 should prefer ii death to lingering torture." The beautiful lips curved iu a smile that had in it much of pity. "1'oor Marie!" she mur- . as she placed the letter written to him on the table. It - follows: " DEAR EARLE, I have thought it all over my promise to you, and your threat wish that I should become your wife. I have thought it all over, and feel convinced that it will not do we should not he happy. What 1 want, in order to he happy, mnot . j;-ive me. You will have to work hard for money, then you will have but 1'ttle of it. We ar\3 better apart. 1 love ;.nd it will be a sorrow to leave you; hut it i.s all for the I have gone away where it will I to follow I am piimr aliroad as | to some little children, ae a chance to see the world 1 am lunging to -Id. " You will try to f . will you not, Karle? Is it any use >i; that .M.-ittie would !>e a far more sensible wit'n >u than I could ever make ? I in not try to find me, 1 am -id miller another name, and it would nt plea.-<- me to -u. I say good-bye to you with sorrow. A I can ny one, I love you. J >< It was a rold, heart!' d lette"; but it was twenty cruelty, than if sh ! 1 phrase's. There \ I and more curt. It was addressed "To Father, " and rau thus: "I writ-- ther as I have not time for three sep- arate V">i will be surprised in the morning not ' 1 have borne this kind or life as long as it was po.-- il do so, and now I . away. I hope you will not any eltort to B return" to Bracken- side I do not want to marry Earle. I am going to teach some 98 A FAIR MYSTERY. little children; and though it may not be quite the life I should like, it will be better than this." It was not a kind letter. She placed them both together and pinned them to the cushion of the toilet-table. " IJattie will see them the first thing in the morning," she said, " and ah, me, what a sensation they will make!" Then she looked at her little watch? it was but just ten: she had to go to the railway station at Quainton, and catch the mail train for Liverpool it would pass there at midnight. She had to walk some distance through the fields and on the high-road. "I am sorry the moon shines so clearly, it will be light as day." The moon had looked down on many cruel deeds, perhaps on none more cruel than the flight of this young girl from the roof that had so long sheltered her, the home that had been hers. Her path lay over a broken heart, and as she set her fair feet on it no remorse or regret came to her as the crimson life-blood flowed. When she had crossed tho meadows that led from the farm, she stood still and looked back at the pretty homestead; the moonbeams glistened in the windows, the great roses looked silvery, the ivy and jasmine clung to the walls, the flowers lay sleeping in the moonlight; there was the garden where she had spent the long, sunny days with Earle, there was the path which lead to the 'woods, the spreading tree underneath whose shades Earle had told of his great love. She looked at it all with a smile on her lips; no thought of regret in her heart. " It is a dull, dreary place," she said to herself; " I never wish to see it again." Then she added: " I have killed Earle." Good-bye, sweet, soft moonlight; good-bye, white-robed pu- rity, girlish innocence all left behind with the sleeping roses and the silent trees! She turned away impatiently: perhaps the moonbeams had, after all, a language of their own that stirred some unknown depths in the vain, foolish heart. Then she hastened down the high-road, thinking how fortu- nate it was that the country side was so deserted. The town of Quainton rose before her, the church, the market hall, and last of all the railway Station. It wanted a quarter of an hour yet to midnight, and she remembered her lover's injunction that her face was not to be seen. She was careful enough never to raise the veil. " I wonder," she thought t-> herself, " why he disliked the idea of my being seen ';" Then .sin- l:ii:^li. .1 a little mocking laugh. "It would be in.'onsisti lit." she said, " for the model of ' inno- cence ' to be si'en at a r.-'.il \va.v station at midnight." There were fe\v JK: >r the mail train; she managed to get her ticket first-class for Liverpool without attracting much attention, or exciting any comment or surprise. During the fe%v moments she stood there, she told the porter that she was going to meet her husband, whose ship had just reached the shore. Her face had flushed as she took out Lord Vivianne's purse and A FAIR MYSTERY. 99 Lord Vivinnne's money to pay for her tieket: then the mail train came thundering into t 38 minute or two of confusion. Hie took her seat in a lir.-t-class carriage, then left Karle ami Brackenside 1'ar behind. "That is all done with,'' said Doris. "Those quiet pastoral days are ended, thank Heaven!" No warning came to her of how she should return to the home f she was in such haste to quit. The journey was a long one. A flush of dawn reddened the and the dew was shining, th.- birds beginning to sing, as .-lie reached the great bustling city of Liverpool She was half be- wildered by the noi>e and confusion. A porter found a cab for her. and she gave the address of the hotel Lord Vivianne had fciven her. There was a long drive through the wilderness of streets, then she reached the hotel. felt, in spite of all her courage, some little timidity, when she found herself in those rooms alone. Her thoughts turned involuntarily to Earle Earle. always tender and true, consider- ate of her comfort. What if this new lover, this rich young lord, should fail her, after all? She looked in a large mirror. Ah, no! he would not fail her; though she had been traveling all night, the dainty coloring of her exquisite face was unladed. The light Hashed in lit i in her golden hair; the smooth satin skin was fair a- There was not the fainte.-t trace of fatigue on that radiant beauty, and t: u-te 1 from her re\> One of the servants brought her a card, she read on it tho name of " Mr. Conyers," and she knew that Lord Vivianne was there. CHAPTER XXX. A THORN IX THi: C.AKDEX OF ROSES. " I DO not think anything could have been more cleverly man- aged," said Lord Vivianne. "You have brought nothing with " No," she replied; and the thought rose in her mind, " I have left all I ought to \alue nioM. behind;' but prudently enough re- frained from speaking. " I do not >,e how it can l>e possible to trace us," he continued, "even should any one try.'' i " Earle will try," she said, with a slight shudder. " lie will look the world through, but he will find me in the end." lb i iitly pale as r Lord Vivianne near to " You are not frightened at Marie, nor any 1 le preferred th o Doris, and the. ly. " You Tleeil not be i You do not surely imagine that 1 ain " I was not think:- l, but of I " I am always rather frightened when I think of him; he loved me so very much, and losing me will drive him mad." 100 A FAIR MYSTERY. An expression of impatience came over Lord Vivianne's face-, he was pa in love with the beautiful girl before him, but he had no intention to play the comforter in this the moment of his triumph. " Say no more of Earle, Dora; if he annoys you, so much the worse for him. Now we will order breakfast, then take the ten o'clock express for London. I had even thought of crossing over to Calais to-day, if you are not too tired." Her face brightened at the thought Earle was already for- gotten. " That will l>e charming," she replied, all graver thoughts for- gotten in the one great fact that she was going where she would be admired beyond all words. Then, for the first time in her life, Doris sat down to a dainty and sumptuous Mjreakfast. It was all novel to her, even this third-rate splendor of a Liverpool hotel. The noiseless, atten- tive servants the respect and deference shown to them delighted her. After all," she thought to herself, " this is better than Brack- enside." Then Lord Vivian ne turned to her with a smile. " You are so sensible Dora," he said, " that I can talk to you quite at my ease; and that is a great treat after listening to the whims and caprices of the women of the fashionable world." "With artful sophistry he stated that for family reasons it would be inadvisable, if not really rash, to have a marriage ceremony that at the present time it would utterly blight his prospects. When tws loving hearts were joined by their own free consent, and vowed to live for each other, the union was just as binding, he argued, as though a clergyman had united them. To prevent recognition and gossip, it would be necessary for him to change his name; "and for the future," he added, " we shall travel and be known as Mr. and Mrs. Conyers." Tliis plan did not please Doris. It was not what she had an- ticipated. 'Being a farmer's daughter," she thought, "he thinks me unlit to associate with his titled friends. But. for all that. 1 shall fchow him that I am their equal. Yes, he shall change his mind. 1 siisill so laminate him that he will yet be glad to proclaim me his wife, the Lady Vivianne." She now began to realize that she had made the first false ..-ig the trusting poet. Earle Moray, and in con- senting to a secret departure from her humble home and loving parents. Yet the die was cast: ambition and a determina- tion to accomplish her wishes forced her forward. She had confidence, as we have seen, in the influence of her ty. Tlieivf<.iv. after some half-hearted objections, which ;nl Vivianne settled his hill. gave a liberal fee t< the r a golden guinea and half an hour later ".Mr. ail'! in a lirst-cla.--s compartment, on the train 1'. . . t metropolis. When tli : Indon\ Lord Vivianno said, looking with a smile ai . nion's plain ci; " Yiui cannot xi<> 1'aris in that fashion. Dora. Yon - suitable*; [1 will not he too late for Madame Delaine's; you had at once." ,hin^ hetti r. She held out her white hand to him with a channiti. hall not know what to This was tin- nio.-t extensive pun-ha--.- of my life. "and she I to a plain, dark silk dress which Mrs. Brace thought much <>d fi.r a fariMi-r's daughter. "I know what will suit \oiir fair style of beauty," he said: ' a ricii costume of purple velvet." II. -r eyes shone with delight purple velvet! her ambition For a few moments she was B] .vith joy. _--ther, in that, tin' first realization of her dn am, the -iie had ]>aiil for it. In the next hour i standing, flushed and beautiful, in Madame l)d u n. If ma made m> ..:._rn. th it Mrs. ( 'onycrs 9 :id t!iat she \vanted t' :t travcli! iy Mamli . beauty, marv.-lcd at tin- hi.uh-br.-.i lovelr MII^ to le Mi--. married. Sin- looked involuntarii. nail white hand: a sh"iie th'-n u. idin^-rin;^;' Mii.lai; worM pretty well, but she sighed Her artistic talents were called into p! lovely a patron to dr price ot il. iii eiihai : I's beauty, iii finding rich, delicate lace lor tin- white neCK and rounded arms, in finding shining silks and rich v< when Doris Stood arra\ed in mar\ nine, tlie .re shown to th dainty Coloring of tlie face made more be.iuiinil by contrast with the rich purple, then madame raised her ban. is in >ilent admira- tion, then trnst-d she should a.u'ain ha\. Mrs. ' 1/ird Vi\ : in a li>w \ " 1 think you have all that you re.juire i a'maid." hou Ion- she liv, .i - 10S A FAIR MYSTERY. time Doris was too happy to think of anything except her dresses. Lord Vivianne could not take his eyes off that beauti- ful face. He congratulated himself, over and over again on his wonderful good fortune. " Who could have thought," he said to himself, " that so fair a flower blossomed in that obscure place." And while he looked at her, it seemed to him, as it had done to Gregory Leslie, that there was something familiar in the face; that he had either seen that or one very like it before. A few more days, and they were settled in one of the most luxurious mansions near the Tuileries. Then, indeed, was every wish of Doris' heart fulfilled. Well-trained servants waited upon her; the magnificent rooms were carpeted with velvet pile, the hangings were of the richest silks and lace; wherever she went large mirrors showed the beautiful figure from head to foot; she had a carriage and a pair of horses that were the admi- ration of all Paris; she had jewels without number, and more dresses than she could wear; she had a maid whose business it seemed to be to anticipate every wish. What more could she desire ? Lord Vivianne was kind, but he did not treat her with any great amount of deference. There was, however, one very good characteristic, as she thought it he was unboundedly generous; if she expressed a wish he never hesitated about gratifying it; he never counted either trouble or expense. Enhanced by the aid of dress, of perfume, by the skill of a Pa- risian maid, her beauty became dazzling. He was very proud of her, he liked to drive out with her, and see all the looks of admiration cast upon her; he liked to feel himself envied. She was, without exception, the fairest woman in Paris; and his pride in her was proportionately great. The opera was then in full tide of success, and Doris never wearied of going there. It was not that she was particularly fond of music, but she enjoyed the triumph of her own bright presence: she was the observed of all observers. The sensation that her fair loveliness created was not to be surpassed. One asked another, " Who is it?" " The beautiful Englishwoman, Mrs. Conyers." " Who is Mrs. Conyers?" No one knew, and there lay the sting; there was the one thorn in her garden of roses; she drained the cup of pleasure to the dregs; she missed no / on" to envy her. She asked Ixml Vivianne one day why it was. He looked at her and laughed a most peculiar lan.u'h. " I am ai'raid. Dora, that you must learn to be content with the society of gentlemen." She understood, then, it was one of the penalties of her sin. Another thing annoyed her and made the gayeties of Paris .1 PAIR MYSTERY. 103 unpleasing to her. She was walking with Lord Vivianne in the Champs Elysees, and suddenly she saw him start, and looking at him. his face Unshod hotly. * How unfortunate!" he muttered to himself. Then she saw in the distance a little group of English people; a young gentleman, who was talking to an elderly lady, with a mild, sad face, and a tall, dark girl with proud, bright entleman saw Lord Vivianne first, but instead of stopping to speak Ins lordship turned quijkly away, much to Doris' disap- pointment. " I would not have missed seeing these people on any ac- count," he said impatiently. " "Why did you not speak to them ?" she asked wonderingly. "How could I," he retorted, " while you were here'."" She made no reply, but the words struck her with a terrrible pain. She, the fairest woman in Paris, she whom Earle called his (jueeii it was not to lie borne. She went home, resolved if possible, to alter this state of things, and if she eould not. to go away from Paris. " We will go to Italy." she thought, " where he will not meet English people whom lie knows." Her desire was --ranted. 1'ive days after that little scene she was with Lord Vivianne in one of the prettiest villas near Naples. CHAPTER XXXI. " I COULD SOONER PLUNGE A DAGGER IN HIS HEART." SUCH a beautiful morning! The golden sunbeams failing like blessings on the earth; the birds singing in a delirium of happi- ness. The sweet, warm air brooding over the fragrant fio\\ers; all nature seemed awake, happy 'Mid smiling: the Elk; : colors; earth yielded its rie|,.-st fragra llll the e. ,,f the i,ir niied at his own impatience. Ho had not seen I), iris morning, and it seemed to him a whole week, f-'be i him i lainton under the pretext of fulfil! liuie Commission, and he had not caught one .ulin;; se of her; ward. Hi- \\.i- impatient to behold her. The glory of the morn- iii, the rapturous music of the birds, was nothil wlio longi'il for one look at her face - for one sound of her It was SO early, he hardly dared \enture on go! side, yet he coidd not ! 'he fields, little dreaming whose luht footsteps h:, .ver ther- He lingered by the std-sand in the lanes until itstn then he felt sure that l>oris would be do^ At the (arm ail was ac| i\-j|y ; i he me:. dairy-maid was tripping along with her well-lilied A- Mark Hra< e in the di -ply intent < nine; and the sound seemed to die away over the flowers. ' Nine, ".said Mrs. Brace, laughingly. " Mattie, you maybe sure that Doris does not want to stain her fingers with the fruit. Go and tell her she need not touch it." Earle felt deeply grateful toward the woman. It was all A F.I//,' MYSTERY. "105 .veil. hut even lie did not like the idea of those swept hand- :ill crimsoned with ripe i'ruit. II her from me, ,M;ittie," he added, " that the \vliole world will he dark and cold nntil 1 sec her." Mattie hastened away with a low laugh on her lips at the extravagant words. She was ahsent some little time, and kindly Mrs. ! n,u that Efirie looked anxious, entertained him in mple fashion with many little anecdotes aliont Doris, her lieanty and wit as a child, her pretty, imperious fashion of nian- ..: .Mark. When Mat tie returned she did not look anxious but surpr " See how we have all misjudged Doris," she said; " she must have been up and out for some time." "Out!" repeated Earle. " Yes; she is not in her room, nor in the house. The morn- ing is SO line, and so .sweet, it has very probaMy tempted her." " But where can she have gone ?" asked Earle. " I did not see her." " No; you eame from Lindenholm, wliile she is most probably gone t< po>t the letters she wrote last night; gone to C^nainton." "Thenl will go and meet her." said Karle. "Hut \\ re idea of lier to go 1" Quainton alone. \Vhy did she not wait tor me'.'" He looked at flattie as he spoke. She answered him with a smile. " When I can tell you what the hirds are singing ahout. said, " 1 shall lie ahle to explain the caprices of J )oris. (ioantl t her: then \ on will understand." 6 nii. re Earle hurried oil' in the sunshine, having mother and daughter husy with tin- fruit. ice looked after him \\ il ! " Poor Earle," she said. "Doii- 1 . ilto liiin. Although tl married, Mattie, I do not Ihinl; for him a hit." Matlie made TIO answer. She had IOMJ^ u. V.'lialeMT horis mi, -hi he going lo : for, it certaiidy \\as not f.r ' ,\n rew warmer, the beee hummed, the hmii rllies with hri^ht win^s liov nor 1 Jon's retm .. Le homed on the road to Quainton. A- man l,i. lie went up to hii., I lii;n if 1 nin;r, hut :ie had pa " Strange." ti !d and half hlind- !. \\ i!h her I,: : hair 1 how could h. i lie walkeil mi until I . I -liar. <> pretty, white-gabled a we. man sat knitting in th hine. To in r , "No.' She had en, knitting and keeping 106 A FAIR MYSTERY. the gate. There had been gentlemen on horseback, farmers' wagons, but no young lady had passed by that gate since seven. He did not understand it. and a A T ague uneasiness came over him. Stiii he walked on to Quainton. The post-office was in the principal street, and if she were there at all, he should be sure to see her. But at the post-office he found men busily re- pairing the outer wall they had been at work some hours. From them he asked the same question " Had they seen a young lady who had come to post letters ?" "No." They had been to work since six, but they had not seen any young lady. " Then Mattie must have been mistaken," thought Earle; " my darling has not been near Quainton at all; perhaps she is wait- ing for me now at home." He returned by the woods, and when he came to any favorite nook of hers, he stopped and cried aloud : " Doris." The only answer that came to him was the rustling of the sweet western wind in the leaves, and the song of the birds. The church clock struck eleven as he came in sight of Bracken- side. He raised his eager eyes Heaven help him ! expecting to see Doris in the garden or in the porch; but she was not there. The sun was slanting over the flowers, the busy murmur of the farm grew louder. Mattie and Mrs. Brace still sat at their work, but of Doris there was no sign. My darling!" he said to himself, " where is she?" " You have not met her, Earle?" said the loud, cheery voice of Mark Brace. " No, she has not been to Quainton," he replied, " and I do not know where to look for her." " Do not look anywhere," said Mark; " the longer you look for her the less likely you are to find her. Girls are so uncertain in their ways. Sit down and drink a glass of cider, she will come soon enough then. It seems to me," continued the honest far- mer, " that she is having a game of hide-aud seek with you." Earle thought that very probable. He drank the foaming cider, but he would not sit down. " I must find her," he said. "If it be her sweet will and pleasure that I should look for her, I will do so." The farmer laughed, Mrs. Brace felt sorry for him, Mattie was indignant, and Earle went through the pretty garden and all the little nooks she loved best. He never glanced under the shade of a spreading tree, or turned aside the dense green folia <;-<', without expecting that the bright face would turn to him \\ith a smile; lie never looked where the ferns grew most thickly, and the tall grass waved in the wind, without expecting the laughing oyes to meet him, and the gay, clear voice to ring out in sunshiny laughter. No fear, no doubt, no suspicion came to him. It was a bright morning, fair and sweet enough in itself to inspire any desire of frolic, and she liked to tease him. She had hidden away hidden among the flowers; but he would find her, and when he did find her, he would imprison the sweet, white hands in his he would kiss the A FAIR MYSTERY. 10? ing lips and beautiful f \ ould take a lover's re- iiim. . .oked until li- i: I" 1 '"ill--.! aloud, over and over until it to him that the birds took up :i and chanted " 1 Jris:" He-axe it up: he could not find her; he must own himself conquered: and, tired with the sultry heat and his hard inorn- in.r's work, he walked lia<-k to the farm. It seemed to him. as he drew near, that there was a strange stillness n\er tlie place. He looked in vain for Mark's 1 The porch, too, was empty, although the fruit still stood upon the i. " Where are they all?'' thought Earle. "What a strange morning this has IM He looked through the rose-wreathed window of the little sitting-room, and there he saw a group that filled his very heart with dismay. Mark. Mrs. Brace, and M;>'tie, all standing close her. and bending over an open letter. He watched them in silence, lighting, with a terrible con: with this first fop 'boding a '-hill. stern presentiment of coming evil that, man ; . rol.hed him of his strength and clu' at \ii< heart with an iron ha:;d. Then he heard a soli from Mrs. Brace. He saw the farmer clinch his strong hand, while he cried out: " In Heaven's name, who is to tell Earle? I cannot." " You i i Mrs. Br;< But Mark drew buck pule and trembling. " 1 tell you. wife." In- said. " I love the boysowell that I could r take him out in the sunshine and plunge a m his heart than tell him this.'' A great calm seemed to com'- ov.-r I'arle as he h : v darling is dead." he said t . "she is dead, and . to tell me. 1 can die Ux>!'' and owning the door in. At >f him Mark turned away, but Mattie went up to him with outst: I AFTER XXXII. "I AM A MAX. AND I WILL HAVE .rrSTTCE." "I KNOW." said Earle, gently. "I K i are afraid to toll : id." It would be better, perhaps." said Mrs. Brace; "death is nob i a more over him. There w.-re trouble * wore than death! Surely not for him. (Jreat drops st"-d on his brow, the \vins in his hands swelled like hu his lips grew white as the lips of the "Tell me what it is," cried he, in a hoars. "You are killing me by inches. \Vhat is* gone away from us," said Mrs. Brace. " She has gone and left us." 108 A FAIR MYSTERY. He started back as thotigh the words had stabbed his heart. Mattie laid her hand on his arm. By the might of her own love she understood his fears. " Not with any one else, Earle," she said. " Do listen to me, dear. She has not gone away with any one else; but life here was dull for her; she did not like it; she has gone abroad to teach little children. It is not so dreadful, Earle, after all." But he looked at her with vague, dull eyes. "Not like the life!" he repeated. "But I am here! Dull! How could it be dull ? I am here!" "Tell him the truth, Mattie," said Mrs. Brace; "there is no use in deceiving him any more; he has been deceived long enough: tell him the truth." He looked from one to the other with haggard eyes. " Yes, tell me," he said; " tell me the worst." " She did not love you, Earle." said Mattie, with a deep sob; " she has gone away because she did not want to marry you." " I do not believe it!" he gasped. " I will not believe it! Oh, Heaven! How do you dare to slander her so? She did love me. Why should she pretend? She promised to be my wife; why should she if she did not love me ?" " My poor Earle," said Mattie; and in his hand she placed the letter. " I never thought there was anything wrong," she con- tinued; "but when neither of you returned, I went back into her room to look for something" and found these letters. They were pinned to the toilet cushion. One is for us, one for you. Oh, Earle, if I could but bear your sorrow for you." He turned away, without one word, and opened the letter. They could never tell how he had read it, how long he was in mastering its contents, what he thought of them, or how he bore the pain. He made no comment as he read, his white lips never moved, no murmur escaped him; but, after a time it seemed to them endless time he fell with his face to the ground, as a brave man falls when he receives a death-wound. " It has killed him, "said Mrs. Brace. "Oh! that false, wicked girl! He is dead, Mattie "r" But Matti-. quick as thought, had raised his head and held it in her arms. " He is not dead, mother," she said. " Run for my father." For one short minute she was left with him alone, then she raised her troubled face, repeated her well-known prayer: " God save Earle! If I could but have borne it for him!" she thought. Then the farmer came in, iitterly useless and incompetent, as men are in the presence of great trouble which they cannot understand. He commenced lus assistance by talking loudly against the perfidy of women: and when his daughter sensibly reminded him that that was no longer any use, he began to lament the folly of men in loving women s'o madly: reminded again that this was still more useless. Mark raised the helpless figure in his strong arms, tears running down his face. He laid Earle on a couch, and then looked helplessly at him. " I do not knew what is to be done for him," he said. " His mother will go distracted. Ah! wife, she would have done a A FAIR MYSTKKY. 109 kinder deed, that golden-haired lassie of ours, if she had killed him at once." Then Mark Hrace went away. " The women must manage it." lie said to himself. His tender heart was wrung l>y the si-lit of that anguish. It was Mattic who ministered to him. until Karle opened his eyes, and looked at lier witli a glance that frightened her. "] remember it all." he said, hoarsely; "she has gone away because she did not love me did not want to marry me. Will you leave me alone. Mattie:'" It you will promise me not to do anything to hurt yourself," she said. " I shall not do that. Do you know why? She promised to marry me. and she shall do it. To find her I will seareli (he wide world through. I will follow her. even to the valley of the shadow of death, lint she shall he my wife as she has promised to lie I swear it to the just high God!" Hush, my dear: your gn-at sorrow drives you mad. You will think differently after a time." "I shall not," lie replied: "she shall he my wife. Listen. Mattie; bend down to me while I whisper. She shall he my wife, or I will kill her!" "Hush! You do not mean it. Your sorrow has made you mad." " No, I am not mad. Mattie." lie held hot h her hands tightly in his o\vn. "1 am not mad. hut 1 will have my just rigl, my just levenge." His l.reatli (lamed hotly upon her face. "You will remember that, on the day she lied from me. I swore never t until 1 found her; never to rest until she was my wife, and if she refused to be that, I swore to murder her!" ie shrank from him. trembling ami frightened. 'No wonder," he said, "that men go mad; women make devils of them. No wonder they slay that which they lovi women madden them. What have I done r oh, Heaven! what I done that 1 should sutler this'.' Listen to me i go. I gave her my lo\e--she has mocked it. laughed at it. I gave her my <;enius- -he has blighted it, she has crushed it. I her my heart it has been her to\ and her pla\ thing tor a few short months, she has broken it with her \\hite hand ha- daii.-ed o\er it with her light feet. r my lib bhe has destroyed it. lama man. and I will have justice; she shall give back to me what 1 have uiveii her. or I will kill her." She saw that he was growing more wild with every word; his Wished hotly, his lips burned like tire. hise\.'-, were filled with flame. She was afraid of him; and yet in tin-,, the darkest of his need, she could not leave him. A^ain and her lips, as she knelt there 1 r\ in;; to console him. which she ne\ < T I , i a ve Karle." . ist the wild ra\ in. -h.- . oiiM only think it raving (.-eased; darken and droop. "He will iteep now," thought Mattie, "and sleep will save him." She drew down tho blinds, and shut out the bright sunshine; 110 .4 FAIR MYSTERY. then, with a long, lingering look at the changed, haggard face, she left him. Mrs. Brace saw her come from the little parlor, looking so white and wan that her mother's heart ached for her. She kissed the pale face. "That wicked girl is not going to kill you as well as Earle," she said. " I will not have you distressed in this way." "Oh, mother!" cried Mattie, "never mind my distress, think of Earle. Earle will go mad or die." " Nothing of the kind, my dear. He was sure to feel very keenly. He loved Doris very much, but he will not die. It takes a great deal to kill. He has too much sense to go mad. He will get over it in time, and be just as fond of some one else." Mattie had a truer insight into his nature than had Mrs. Brace. They went in several times that day to look at him; he lay al- ways in the same position, his face shaded with his hand and turned from the light, sleeping heavily they thought, but sleep and Earle were strangers. He lay there only Heaven knew what he suffered during these hours of silence and solitude- going over and over again in his own niind all that he had ever said or done to Doris. She had been difficult to win; she had been coy, and he thought proud, sensitive; but he did really be- lieve, from the depths of his heart, that she loved him. What motive could she have had in deceiving him if she had not really loved him? It would have been just as easy to have said so as not. There was no need for the deception. She could have rejected him just as easily as she accepted him. He alternated between hope and despair. At one time he felt quite sure that she loved him, and that this was only a caprice, nothing more; she was determined not to be easily won. Then his mood changed, and he despaired. She had never loved him, and preferred leaving home and every one rather than marry him. Still, in one thing, he was inflexible; let it be how it might, he was determined to find her. He would search the whole world through, but find her he would. He was spared, in that hour of anguish, one trial; no pang of jealousy came to him; he felt certain of one thing, at least, if Doris did not love him, she loved no one else. If she would not marry him, she was not going to marry another. He knew quite well that here at Brackenside she had seen no one; thank Heaven at least for that. Then a deep, heavy, dreamless sleep came over him. When he woke again it \vas night and honest Mark, with a face full of bewildered pain, was standing over him. "Come, Earle," lie said, "this will never do; you have been here all day without food. You must not giveVay after this fashion." But the troubled eyes raised to his had no understanding in them. " Remember," continued Mark, with his simple eloquence, " you are the only son of your mother, and she is a widow." .1 F.I /A' MYSTKRY. 1U Tin 1 words, in their Dimple pathos, struck Karle. He rose from his much. ;ui him. ' You will feel better to-morrow," said Mark, " A night's sleep makes a wonderful difference in our way of looking at mat; Hut Mattie and her mother followed him with wistful eyes. " She has spoiled his life." said Mrs. Hrace. " She }\;<< broken his heart." said Mattie. Then they seemed to n-mt -mbt r that all their sympathy was piven to Knrle, and they hud not thought of being sorry for Ives. Mattie had lost, as she believed, her sister, yet her thoughts trie. The three >;it iii silence. It was Mark who broke it first: .alterall.it r!e and to us she was writ inu r ." he "and not to her schoolfellows. I wish I had gone in the room and looked over In r .-boulder; I should have known, then, " It would not ha. id Mrs. I?ra--.-. "Doris aa.shad her own v,ay. no matter who Suffered by it; if she had not -one now. Jie would have jrw, she made him r after her. the simple prayers he had s-.aid as a. fluid; and when, : yet troubled sleep fell over him, she prayed as Mattie did (,o,i save my Karle." Hard, bitter thoughts arose iu her mind against the vain girl whose falsity had destroyed him: but the hardest thought, tho darkest imagination sin- had 'I her, did not equal the reality, which Hi-aveii be thank i lived to On the next day, t -o ill that she would not allow him ! up. Win-never she went near him he v, as mut t-T hiuiM-lf about Doris; and when he spoke aloud, it was alwa in search of her. It did not sur Moray, mi tin- third day of his illness, to find him in a high f< and to hear tin- doctor say. when he itle hope of his life.' They, for the time, aln Doris in their fear for Karl--. As the long days and 1 night on, and the danger increased, Mrs. Moray t'-rrihly the upright figure -r.-w bent aim hair turned whit.-; dci-p furn .n the pale i'orvhead her \\hole. sole prayer was t't>r the life of In i her father's dcMr". Mattie \\.-nt to Lindenhohn, an as to 1- '. to the widow. Mattie . s. the breathless sii-j" : .vith wliicli the unhappy mother would follow her about from room to i ing alwa er mind talki; '\~ my son." Th- when the .id lie feared no human :,im--when the white-liaired mother kuee-v cryii! ' !.udly to Ib-a\ ; i"d, in i cult] way of i in this, the hour of her terrible trial, wre. lor her s.-n. K\<-n Mattio enrank from those wild u Let i -he cried: " send me torture and leatli. bii 1 a! let nn him live! I wnnl'i my body to be burned, my heart to be riven bu' son!" H4 A FAIR MYSTERY. Faint with the fervor of her own words, she fell on her face, and there lay till Mattie touched her gently. " He is asleep," she said; " Earle has fallen into^ deep sleep, and the doctor says he has taken a turn for the better." She could not thank God, for her rapture of gratitude found no words. Who is it that says that " a prayer granted is sometimes a curse ?" The time was coming when those who loved him best said it was the greatest pity that he had not died in this illness; he would then have died with his mother's hope of heaven infold- ing him. Earle grew better so slowly that the improvement could hardly be seen, and during the whole of his convalescence, his mind was busy upon the subject. He would go in search of Doris; nothing should keep him from that; neither remonstrance nor tears. The idea grew with his strength, until it became part of his life. He had some little money -money that he had saved for his marriage; he would spend it in searching for her. One day, when the doctor came, he raised his wistful eyes to the kindly face. " How soon shall I be able to travel ?" he asked. " Not for six weeks," was the reply, " and not even then unless you are careful." Careful he resolved to be, and his mother wondered at his sudden submission and attention to the doctor's orders; but much that was wonderful had to happen before those six weeks were ended. There had been great anxiety at the farm; one reason of it was. that very soon after Doris went, the money came as usual, and Mark Brace was deeply puzzled to know what to do with it. He would have returned it, but he did not know where to return it to. He took long and wise counsel with his wife, but Mrs. Brace saw no way out of the difficulty. " If we could but write to the person who sent it. and tell her what Doris has done, it would be some comfort," she said; " but we cannot do that even." It was settled at last, that the money should be placed in the bank, to await the return of Doris. "She will conif bade." said Mark, "some day, when she has seen enough of the world she so longed for to find out how false it is; she will come back when she wants true friends and true love: though it may be a long time first." After long discussions, they agreed it would be better to sanction Doris' flight than to call public attention to it. " There was nothing so injurious to a girl as to have it known that she ran away from home," Mrs. Brace said. " We must shield her all we can. We must shield her even more than if she were our own.'' " So, when friends and neighbors asked about her, the farmer and his wife bad but one answer to make, and that was, that she A FAIR MYSTERY. 11 R had grown tired of the quiet of Brackenside, and had gone out Monsieur D'Anvers was tlie only one who persisted in his inquiries, and he asked where she had gone. Mark, who truth, and hated falsehood, looked uncomfortable, then replied that she had gone a 1 -road: but for himself lie did not know the names of 1'oivign places; M> it parsed over. The few \vlio knew the family t. 'Id each other, as a pi. 're of new.-, that the pretty iirace had gone abroad as a govern--- -aid. with her beautiful face she would be sure to marry well; and then the matter died away. One day Mark returned home in a state of great excitement and happr " "What do you think has happened," he asked of his wife. " You have heard from Doris," she replied. Then for one moment his face darkened. " No," he replied, " I have not heard from Doris. I wish you did not think so much of her; it makes you dull. I heard this morning that all the family were at the Cattle again." Mrs. Hrace. seeing that he really wished her to be surprised, "I am very glad they are hack," she said. "A great noble like the duke should li\e upon his own land." .at is not ail." said Mark, witli irrepressible triumph. " I was walking through the market-place at Quainton this morn- ing, and I saw the carriage with out-riders and footmen. what do you (hink. i'atiy ': Id ore all the town tlie duke stopped 1 sent lor me." Then indeed Mrs. Hracc irlt deeply in How could she think too much of a duke who stopped his carriage, in a public 1 spoke to her husband? " What did he say. Mark '.-" she ;. " He said that he had IHVH away some months, and lie ! we were all well. That proud, beautiful daughter of his v. the carriage, l.ady Kstelle; her voice ; ilute. Ifow do \oii do, Mr. Hi ,iid, and I told her that 1 en- ; health, hoping that she did the same." "That was rather free spoken, Mark," said his wife, doubt- fully. "Not at all," was \}\-> sturdy reply. "She looked pleased enough; tl. young girl you brought tosee .-' I told her t. abroad, to be a gov- leaned hack in lit : held up her p;. : " ' Was slie tired of Ilraeke:. ' Yes I though' -he married ':' a-ked my lady. I said, 'No.' " S< ugely, and then the carriage drove on. It was stn, tlier." And again Mrs. l',ra<, turned from her husband with a sigh, There was evil ut hand, BJ :re. 116 A FAIR MYSTERY. CHAPTER XXXIV. " AFTER SO MANY YEA.RS OF DREAD HAS IT COME AT LAST?' THERE \vas no part of the day that the Duke of Downsbury en- joyed so much as the breakfast hour, when his beautiful daugh- ter and his aristocratic wife amused themselves by the discussion of letters and papers that had come by post; then Lady Estelle seemed more Lively, and the very sunshine of the duke's life was the happiness of his only child. As the day passed on she grew more listless, and the expression of ennui on her face grew deeper, but with the morning light she had something of the brightness that had distinguished her as a girl. On this morning the sun shone so fairly, the roses were bloom- ing, the birds were singing, the whole world was bright and gay. The breakfast-room was, in itself, the very picture of comfort and luxury; the sunbeams sparkled on the costly silver, the flowers fi led the air with fragrance. The duke, a fine, hand- some man, the very type of an English nobleman, sat with a most contented smile on his face. The cup of tea by his plate was odorous as a bouquet of flowers. The duchess, proud and stately, was deeply engaged in the perusal of a closely-written letter' Lady Estelle, looking more beautiful than ever in the morning light, was busily engaged in doing nothing; neither book nor paper interested her; but to one who knew that fair face well, there was a cloud upon it, an expression of unusual languor and thought. Suddenly the duke addressed his wife: " Did I fell you, my dear, that I met my model farmer yester- day, the honest man who amused you so much by his uncer- tainty over his hands and feet T " I remember Mark Brace," said the duchess; "how could I ever forget him? He seemed to me the most honest and sensible man I ever met.'' " You remember, perhaps, the pretty child, and the romantic story ?" "Yes; and I never prophesied good for that child," rejoined the ducness. Lady Estelle raised her fair, proud face. " Do not say that, mamma; it seems so hard upon the child." " It will be true, my dear." said her grace, calmly. "What has become of her, I wonder? I have not heard anything of her lately." The duke smiled. "One part of your prophecy has come true; she was tired of Brackenside, and has gone abroad." " Gone abroad '.-" repeated her grace. It was the calm, sweet voice of Lady Estolle that replied: " She has gone as governess to some little children, mamma; surely that was a sensible thing to do." The duchess looked up in surprise at the unwonted interest in Lady Estelle's voice. " It is so sensible, Estelle, that I am disposed to alter my opin- A FA III MYSTERY. 117 ion of her; she has more sense ;ui hear it. But surely you or some . told me she was going to U- married." She told me so herself," replied Lady K>telle, "on the dajf she came here; she was going to marry a gentleman and a Very improbable," said her grace; "gentlemen donotmarry beneath them, as a rule." Slu- did not se. the ove!lv," said the duke. " I mu>t conf'-.-s 1 kne\v littli The proud faee of the duchess lighted with scorn. "Did you not 'i 1 never liked the Studleigh race m ' faithless and debonair 'every one of them, men and women, i&d debonair 'fair <>f face, n-ht of heart, li.^ht of word, light of truth. When wa.s a Studleigh either tni' frit nd or loyal to a I Still no word from the silcM the window. " I wonder." continued the dake. " if he is mar: : the Stud!- would not meet in Indian .-oci.-ty , he woiil ; to marry." Then the duke looked Thoughtfully at his daughter. Not one '. her white face eou! " He will succeed to an enormous fortune," he continued. " I 118 A FAIR MYSTERY. should say the earldom of Linleigh is one of the richest in Eng- land. He will be a great match for one of our fair friends." The duchess relaxed some little of her severity. pent hour after hour thinking and' planning, she could decide upon nothing. That evening then- was a grand dinner party at Pownxbury 8, and the principal guest was a writer 1mm London, whose name was a power in the government. During the course of the long, stately dinner the great writer, turning to the duke, paid: You have a famous poet in your neighlwirhood, or rather you have one who in time will l>e a iamon> poet." 8, who had forgotten what lie had heard of the "gen- n and (Miet." asked , a-.-rly who it was. The author of Kuglish Lyrics.' " rejilied the writer. " He .Mistake, at a place called Lindenholm. on your es- tate. Unless 1 make the greatest mistake, that young man has a grand career before him. 1 should like to meet hi i>alc and stately, listened mtently. This \\-;< poet who was to marry pc.ris. Sin- likened again. They of the }>.-t's sterling worth, his wonderful honesty, his noble character, and there came to her a gleam of hope in her dis- SIic \vould '^>i to him. In all the wide world there was no one |> her but him. She would risk all. and try him. If he proved unteTH if I to help her why, even then, mat- it' lie did not ! i was willing to cum.- to h.-raid. ln-r trouble-: would at I and she could meet L'lric Studleigh with a calmer l;i CHAPTER X.\ "I MTST TKLL YOU MY SIXT.KT." EARLE MORA'. .lly jm/./l.-d. Inro the threads of his life a mi^i .1 love h:. but there had been i;oth: . It had i itiful ill of love, and dreams, anil poetry, but it had a! to the eve and pleasant to read. He held .^.mething in his hands now that puzzled him a : written on thick ^atiri wove paper a letter asking him if lie would in- at the gate leading to Quainton v> row. there to 11. ,J l,js aid. It > t. If any one wanted his aid. why did the jH-rson not M ek him in his own home \Vh him in Quaniton woods? 'I lien, what could htfdotohel I:' money inly, but he could do little. Then another thii. ! him. The |, r li- had . at the farm; hot. then as he thought of her. < 120 A FAIR MYSTERY. this strange letter? Had she gro\vn weary of being without him ? Had she sent him a letter or token ? Did she wish to see him? He tormented himself with doubts, hop.es, and fears, but resolved to go. He was getting quite strong now; he was able to travel: he had taken care of himself; and those who did not know his motive wondered that he recovered so quickly. He had never swerved from his resolution to go in search of his lost love. Perhaps the saddest sight of all to him was the quan- tity of manuscript lying unfinished in his room copies of the poems he had been engaged upon when his life was so suddenly taken from him the great work that was to have secured for him immortality. He signed when he looked at it, but he had never once attempted to continue it. If in the time to come he found Doris, and won her for his own again, then the golden dreams of fame and immortality would return to him; until then they were like his hopes dead! He had to control his impatience as best he could until noon of the day following; then he went quickly to the appointed place. An idea occured to him that the letter might be a hoax, although on looking round on his circle of friends, he knew no one who would be likely to play any jest with him. As he drew near the gate tnat led to Quainton woods, he saw that it was no jest, for walking down the woodland glade, paus- ing occasionally to look from right to left, was the figure of a tall, stately lady, whose face was closely veiled. His heart beat so quickly he could hardly endure the rapid pul- sation; but it was not Doris. This lady was taller, of a more stately presence than his golden-haired love; still, it might be some one whom she had sent to him. He raised his hat and walked bareheaded to where the lady stood. The wind lifted the fair hair from his noble brow, and freshened the spiritual handsome face. As he bent before her, the lady stood quite still and looked at him long. " You are Earle Moray, gentleman and poet,'' she said, in a voice of marvelous sweetness. " I recognize you from a descrip- tion I once heard given of you." "I am Earle Moray," he said; and still the lady looked as though she would fain read every thought; then, with a deep si-h. she held out her hand to him. " I can trust you," she said. " I have but little skifl, perhaps, in reading faces. I made a great mistake once when 1 tried, yet I can read yours. Truth, honor, loyalty, are all there. Nature never yet wrote falsely on such a face as yours. 1 will trust you with that whieh is dearer to me than my life." Then they walked side by side in silence, until they reached a broad, shady walk which was darkened by the large, spreading boughs of the trees. Earle wondering who she was marveling at the rich silk and velvet sin- wore, at the dainty grace of the gloved hand, at the proud, yet graceful beauty, at the sweet voice. Who was she '! Some one who trusted him, and who should find that he was to be trusted even to the very depths. Then the lady turned to him. " I know it is an idle question," she said, " but I ask it for A FA IK MYSTERY. 131 form's sake. Will you keep true and aacred the trust T m ing to plan- in \>m ':" ,til death'!" hi- replied. " I promise it." Now tell me." she said " I have a ri^ht to ask the question, i will learnyou were betrothed to Doris, who was known .is Brace." " Yes," he replied in a low voice. " I was." " Would yon mind telling nie whether that engagement still His face quivered with pain as he turned it to her. " I cannot answer you." he said: "I do not know. Tome it - solemnly and sac red lv. I do not know what Doria thin! 1 It r voice was wonderfully fioft and gentle as she continued: " I know that I am paining yon; I am sorry for it. Was there any quarrel between you when you parted'.-" No." he replied, " there was no quarrel." How was it ';" she asked, gently. " Do not fear to tell me." " I do not know: I was not good enough for her. perhaps not bright and eloquent enough. I'erhaps I loved her too dearly. as tli.' li''e of my life. She may have got tired of my mad, love only (!od knows. Sin- left me." " How did sin- leave you V" persiste 1 the sweet, pitiless voice. "I left her one day, believing she loved me. that in a short time she would In- my wife. 1 returned the next, and she ue away, leaving a letter for me." what did that letter say :-" " It said that she could never marry me; that the quiet life and quiet wa>s would not suit her; that she had i them. She was going abroad to (, little children, 1 me never to lind her, for she would turn." He drew his breath with a hard, painful gasp as he finished the words. " 1 hhall find her," he added, with uui-t force. " She pro; and in the sight of the j'i.-t Cod she is mine. I will i until I have found her, life of my life, the heart of me. She shall i "Then .-he left you and broke h--i promise without anysen- bible rea-on whate\ " It you will have the truth," lie replied, " yes, she di " Fa it hie.-.- and debonair," murmured the lady, " like all of her vonng." said Karl.-, iu quiek evuse, >ri0l Tht-i rible irony, after all, in I ('I I AFTER XXXVI. LADY ESTELLE'S STORY. at Lady Estelle. E.n-le >a\v that her face had grown ;>a!e, ami her hands tremliled. [t was BO strange for hull, on this beautiful, sunlit morning, to lind him-elf >eated by this Eale, liigli-lm-d lady. The sun shone throu-h the thi< -k. ram-lies, and tlie li^ht fell in slanting rays <>n \< the hirds sang gaily in the trees- the sweet, pin ; the wild-tlo\\ their beautiful heads, >o fair and delicate. E nd >weet; thei. nature. " Dear 1 arself. You do not like to tell me this story why do 124 A FAIR MYSTERY. " I must," she said. <; Never mind the pain for me; the pain has been greater in bearing it for twenty years than it is now in the telling of it. Looking at me, Earle Moray, can you imagine what I was twenty years ago ?" " Yes," he said, gently, " I can imagine it. Time does not dim and line a face like yours. I can see you now as you were then." " The lightest heart ah, me! the happiest girl there was not one so happy! Proud, because every one told me how much I had to be proud of. I was beautiful, and the Duke of Downs- bury's only daughter. What people call high prizes in this world ought to have been mine. Listen to what I have won. At eighteen I made my debut in the great world, and before I had even time to look round me, I had a number of lovers and admirers, thanks to the prestige of my father's name. I had more offers during the first seat-on than falls to the lot of most young ladies. There was not one among the crowd of admirers for whom I cared; none interested me, none touched me. Young as I was, I longed for something that I did not find. I had great ideas of the happiness and sanctity of love. In thia new world I heard but little of it. People talked of diamonds, opera-boxes, country-houses, pin-money, settlements: but I heard little of love. I had firmly resolved in my own mind that when I married it should be for love alone. I had everything else rank, title, wealth, position. I wanted love. One great man after another great according to the world's estimation laid title and wealth before me, the Duke of Downsbury's heir- ess. I had flattery, homage, compliments, praise, but not what I thought to be love. In discussing different offers my mother would say: ' This one belongs to the oldest family in England;' of another, ' He has the fairest estates in the country;' of another, ' He is a great favorite at court;' of another, ' He can give lu's wife jewels fit for an empress;' but she never urged as a recommendation that any one loved me. As a rule, one values least that which one has, and longs most for that which one has not. I was born and reared in the very heart of luxury I knew nothing else so that I valued splendor and magnificence, lux- ury and wealth far less than I valued love: and while wiser heads than mine were occupied in discussing which would be the most advisable suitor for me, I was occupied in looking for some one who would love me. Is it natural, Earle Moray, that one should long to be loved ?" He looked at the pale, sad face. "Just as natural, Lady Hereford, as that the thirsty flowers should long for dew," he replied. " So I think. I made a terrible mistake. I wrecked my whole lilV: yet I think that if I had to live over again I should look first for love. " One evening there was a ball at the palace, and I went with the duchess, my mother. On our way she began to talk to me about a certain Lord Alverton, whose proposal of marriage had delighted her. " ' I should certainly advise you, my dear child,' she said, 'to A FAIR MYSTERY. 125 t him. TTe will b<- at the palaee this evening, and I shall In- pleased to liear that you have arc,. [.ted him.' " ' Hut I do not love him, mamma,' I said. " She looked surprised. " 'Never he vehement. Kstelle.' she said, in atone of re; ' it is not lady-like. And. my dear child, rememher, rank has its penalty. In ours \ve do not marry for love.' She meant it all kindly. She loved me then, and loves me now, better than half the mothers in this world love their chil- dren. Shi !' had been taught: but I was re- 1 never to learn the same lesson. I would marry for love, and nothing else. I entered the palace gates, resolved tod! his lordship, and to wait until some one loved me. "As I was promenading with one of my partners. m\ iddenly upon one of the handsomest men 1 had ever seen a faee that irresistibly drew my attention, it was so handsome, high-bred and debonair. I looked at him again and again in wonder. I watched him as he spoke to different people. I saw that he left everyone whom he addressed laughing. 1 won wlio he could l>e. A royal duchess spoke to him, and seemed to enjoy his conversation: BO that he- must be ' one of us,' I thought Suddenly I asked my companion. 'Who is tin n to whom the Duchess of lv is talking?' " Ib i little, low laugh. " ' That is Captain I'lrir Studleigh,' he replied, 'the hand- :. liie mo-t popular, and tiie most good-for-nothing don.' Cood-for-nothing,' I repeated; 'how is that? What do you mean .-' "'Perhaps I should apologize. for the expression.' said my mion, but really I know of none other so suitable. He is ii. and you know the character of the i I I do in.; ''ply- he Stndli-ighs are all faitldosand debonair,' he continued: 'they ha\emade more love and broken more hearts than ."tiy of t\\ ii-e tlieir number.' "'Buteveiy one seems to like Captain Stndleigh. See ho\v le 1! -ten to him, talk to him, laugh at him.' " ' I toll JTOU, Lady H'-ref<.p!. tliat h-- is really the most jHipu- lar man in London.' " ' I in he be popular.' I per.M>ti-d. ' i!' he is what \ou " ' Faitldess and debonair,' lie repeated. ' I'M! I do not kn<.\c that i he world \\id like him any the le-, s for that. lie has a. handsome likeagle.: hine. y\nl, to tell you the truth, I-idy Hereford, I know of no on. who e;,n talk ;LS h- d "1'heu my partner .ud I be< .sed in wateh- . plain Stndleigh. Sure: ilar; -c'd him without a word or a jeet. I watd it over the white handsof fair ladies, and I v .ugh 1 something like jealousy when he .-eemed to like 126 A FAIR MYSTERY. Then, by some accident, I can never remember how it happened, our eyes met. I saw him start, and I hoped he admired me. ' Ah, dear Heaven! what a foolish child I was! Then he went away hurriedly, and in a few minutes afterward he was bowing before me, while some one introduced him to me. The extreme bitterness of the pain has long since left me, and I can remem- ber that when he asked me to dance with him, and my hand touched his arm, it was as though the happiness of my life had suddenly grown complete. Thinking of myself as I was then, tears of pity fill my eyes. " It was a long dance, and when it ended Captain Studleigh did not seem more anxious to part from me than I was to part from him. The spell was beginning to work on me as it worked on others. His bright, laughing eyes, handsome face, rich, clear voice, the inexhaustible fund of wit and mirth, the tender, chiv- alrous deference that he knew so well how to pay, delighted me. He asked me if I should like to see a famous picture that had been recently sent to the palace. I said ' Yes,' glad of any pre- text for being longer with him. I do not know how time passed. I was happier than I had ever been in my life before. Suddenly Captain Studleigh asked me, with a smile, where was my mother, the duchess. I told him she had been invited to join the roval circle, and was there now, I believed. " ' Fortune is kind to me to-night,' he said, with a smile. " Simply enough I asked him why he should call my mother's preoccupation fortunate to him. He4kughed outright. " ' My dear Lady Hereford,' he said, ' if her grace were at hand, do you 'suppose I should be allowed this delightful half hour here with you 'i "Why not?' I asked, wonderingly. " ' Because I am \vhat is called a detrimental. I am a poor younger son, whose presumption, as the dowagers say, is fright- ful. Have I any right, possessing under ten thousand a year and no title, to monopolize, even for five minutes, the smiles of Lady Estelle Hereford? " I knew that he was speaking satirically, but it struck me, at the same time, that his views and mine would upon many points agree. " ' What nonsense about being a poor younger son,' I said. ' What difference does it maker 1 ' " He lauu;h<"l air'.in. " That is the most sensible question I ever heard. Lady Here- ford, and as a younger son 1 thank you for it. It makes a won- derful difference in the opinion of most people.' " ' It makes none in mine,' I said, decidedly: and then I saw him look steadfastly at me. I never even gave a thought to the significance of my words. Suddenly I remembered the con- !Jon I had had ft 1 .-out him. I looked up into his ! " ' Captain Studleigh,' I asked, ' why do people call you faith- le--, and debonair :' " i)o they ?' he asked. ' I do not think that such a bad char- acter. Lad .1 FAIR MYSTERY. 127 " ' Is it true tliat all the Siudleighs are faithless ? I repeated. ' ' I wish I dared say, try one of them, Lady Estelle. That may be the tradition of tin- family, hut it would ho cruel to judge every member by it. After all.it is something to be debonair, so I must In 1 content.' " Looking at him and listening to 1dm, I did not believe one word of it. Tin-re was a charm about him that no words of mill"- conl.l p,. .--ibl;. a charm that I In-Hove, even now, beli.ngs to no OIK- el-t on earth. 1 soon found that what h. tly true. As I returned to the ball-room I saw my mother looking for us. Her eyes did not fall with a very pleased expression on Captain Studleigh. She came up tons and made some little observation to him; the tone of it was barely civil, and he was quick enough to notice it. He gave me one laughing glance, as t hough he would say, 'You see, I told you 1 was a detrimental, 1 then he bowed and went away. My dear Kstelle,' she said, ' have you been long with Cap- tain Studlei-h r' 11 1 told her how long, and she looked displeased. " ' Who introduced you to him T she asked. h! how ashamed I was. I could not remember; I had even noticed. She turned to me. "'It was a mistake, 1 she said, gently. 'He is a handsome man, but the Studleighs are all alike. I should not wish you to fall into the habit of wasting your time with him.' " ' Wa^tin.Lr my time.' I related that phrase over and over again. The only gleam of happiness I had found in this world was looked coldly upon oy iny mother, and called 'wast- ing my time. 1 1 went home with my head and heart full of him, longing only for the hour to come when I should meet him again. Looking back, I pity myself, Earle Moray I pity myself! 1 ' \1TKR XXXVII. "UK MADE ME BELIEVE THAT I WAS THE WHOLE WORLD TO HIM!" . " Do I - :, Earle Moray, with t 1 Is?" Lady ked, looking with wi - into his face. " Out of i. iv thirty .1 was m; :uu of light much." n>ed t<> won.;. ontimied. "when I heard p .it love made or mam d a uoi.ian ; life. I ;i my own mind I thought BUCh ..mil that they were latally true my love marred m\ the palace, with my heart and mind full of Ulrie Studleigh, and the r mu were, forbidd- riaiu it. Tin- duch- .iiy motller spoke to me oi;, . W t to a, fete at Kensington Gardens. IVi'or-- we started she called me to her. 128 A FAIR MYSTERY. " 'Estelle,' she said, gravely, ' I hope you will not forget what is due to your position as daughter of the Duke of Downsbury. I hope you will not forget what is required and expected of you.' " I told her that I hoped always to please her, and I intended then to do so. " ' If Captain Studleigh should have the bad taste to intrude his society on you,' she continued, ' without being the least un- iady-like, you must let him see that it is displeasing to you.' "'But, mamma,' I remonstrated, ' it is not displeasing; it is most amusing.' " ' The expression of my least wish ought to suffice, Estelle,' said my mother, haughtily. ' I tell you to avoid Captain Stud- leigh whenever you possibly can; and if you are compelled for a few minutes, by unavoidable circumstances, to talk to him, I insist upon it that you show no interest whatever that you treat him with studied coolness and reserve.' " ' Will you tell me why, mamma?' I asked gently. " ' Yes, I will tell you. The love of a Studleigh never yet brought anything with it save sorrow. Secondly, were it even otherwise, Ulrie Studleigh, a younger sou, is no match for my daughter, Lady Estelle Hereford. You hear this V "I had heard, and at first my only emotion was one of sorrow that a pleasant intercourse must be ended. It was very evident that I must not look again at the laughing face and tender eyes. I hardly understood the cloud that came over me, or why the thought that he was so soon to be taken out of my life darkened it. " He was at ihefete. strange to say, with my only and dearest friend, Lady Agnes Delapain. We had been schoolmates, and the year previous she had marriad Lord Delapain. I felt pleased when I saw him with her. My mother did not see either of them. After a time Lady Agnes left her companion and came to me. My mother, who knew our great affection for each other, had no scruple in leaving us together while she joined some friends of her own. " ' Estelle,' said Lady Agnes, as we wandered through a beau- tiful grove of trees' Estelle. you have accomplished a miracle.' What have I done V I asked. 1 You have written your name where no one ever inscribed a woman's name before,' she replied. I had not the lea^t idea what she meant. ' Where is that V I asked. Lady Agnes laughed aloud. ' On" the hitherto invincible heart of Ulric Studleigh,' she said. ' I should imagine that he has admired more pretty girls than any one ever did before, but you are the first who has made a real impression on him.' " ' Who says I have done so, Agnes?' " ' I say so. He has been sitting by me for half an hour, and all his conversation has been of you. I assure you, Estelle, ho is hopelessly in love.' A FAIR MYSTERY. 129 " ' The love of the Studleighs always brings sorrow, my mother Bays.' laughed again. '"i our mother will not like him no mothers do. Mill" use-1 in (<;;. re in-- a'.-out Jiim before I was married. You wouH not fun I a dowager in London who approves of him.' " ' Uni wiiy '.'' I persisted. "'A handsome. . pemii!"ss younger son? What dowager in her senses would approve of such a man ':' " ' lie eannoi help being a younger son and having no money, I said. " ' No; ho cannot help it. A man cannot help being born blind or lame, I suppose; \>\it then lie does not expect to fare the same as a man who can walk and see.' " It is not a just world,' I said gravely; and again Lady Agnes laug! "'Ye-, i'lr!- 1 ought at least to have been a prince,' she said; ' there is now only one resource for him.' ' What is thai ':' I askfd. ' ile has no money, and he cannot make money. Military fame is very empty; but he could, at least, marry some one who lias in And Lady Agnes, who, I believe, had a decided liking for him, looked sharply at me. ' Why can he nevt r make money V I asked. " ' It is not the habit of the Studieighs: they have a reckless fashion of spending, but I do not know that they are capable of making money. Captain Ulric is a soldier, and we all know how empty i- fame.' "At tli.it very moment he joined us. Lady Agnes turned to me. " I leave you in safe hands,' she said. 'I promised to look after little Nellie Plumpton, and I ha\e not seen her " Th. MI she went away. It \\a> kind of her in . but wrong in another. I was terribly frightened. What should I do if my mother found me hen- in this -v\>- of trees with tain Stiidlei-ili '/ I remembered, tOO, that 1 had promised to IIH ver\ uiMant and reserved with him: yet then- I was. looking at him, blii.-*hing and smiling, utterly unable either to look m an% thing save happy. " Me .saw. and was quick enough to detect the anxiety on my \h! I.ady Hereford.' he said. 'I was a true proph " Then, without waiting for any answer, he Ix-gau to talk about ! :he unit- vith him. . the sun mU never fhine 1' r me again as it did that day; the sky will never be so blue, the : t aad fair. " When lie saw Lady Agnes returning to us in the distance, he said, quickly: 130 A FAIR MYSTERY. " 'You will not be unjust to me, Lady Estelle you will not visit the sins of my race on me ?' ' No,' I said, I will never do that.' ' Sometimes you will let me forget graver anxieties, graver cares, the troubles of my life, in talking to you ?' Then I saw my difficulty. ' I will do all that I possibly can,' I said; ' but ' ' But what?' he asked. ' Tell me the difficulty.' How could I ? I could not look into his face, and tell him my mother disliked and disapproved of him. " ' 1 think I understand,' he said, with a low laugh. ' If I were a duke, with two or three fine estates, there would be no objection to me; as it is, perhaps her grace has told you the Studleighs are unfortunate 'f " ' Yes, she has told me so, but I do not believe it,' I hastened to reply. " ' Thank you; you are generous. I shall trust in your gener- osity, Lady Hereford.' " Then he went away, and the brightness of the sun, the sky, the flowers, went with him. Yet I was strangely happy, with a new, strange, shy happiness. When other people, whom I had neither liked nor cared for, talked to me, I found that I had a fresh stock of patience that I had such a fountain of happiness in my own heart I had abundance to shower upon others. The whole world changed to me from that day. I lived only in the hope of seeing Captain Studleigh. I counted the hours when I was away from him. Unfortunately for me, I found an aider and abettor in Lady Agnes Delapain. My mother did not even know that she was acquainted with him, and I alas! never told her. " Lady Agnes had a "beautiful villa at Twickenham, and it was no unusual thing for rue to spend two or three days with her. It was cruel to betray my mother's trust; there is no excuse for it, nor was there any for my friend. We never made any posi- tive appointment. I never told him when I was going to Twick- enham, yet he always seemed to know by instinct. Lord Dela- pain held some important office under the government, so that he was seldom at home. We three, Lady Delapain, Captain Studleigh, and myself, spent whole days together, sometimes in the grounds that surrounded her home,' or on the river which ran close by. " The end of it was see. I offer no excuse that we both be- lieved it impossible to live any longer without each other. Oh! folly and blindness and madness of love! I, who had never dis- obeyed my parents, who had always been a docile, obedient child, whose highest ambition had been to please them. I suf- fered mm, my lover, to talk to me alwmt a private mar He said that if we were once married, my parents would In- angry for a short time, that was certain: hut when the\ there was no help for it. they would forgive us, and all would be well again. I asked, timidly enough, for I dreaded to dis- please him, if it would not be better for him to try to win my parents' consent. A FAIR MYSTERY. 131 "'I will try, if you like,' he said. 'I will do anything to please you: but I am quite sure it is us<-]e-s. The moment they that I care for you they will take you away, and I shall see you no more.' " ' Do you really think so. Ulric ':' I asked, sadly. I am quite certain of it: still it shall he as you wish. I can- not live without you. Estelle. You are the whole world to me; and you love me, unless the story told by those sweet e untrue. 1 ''Lady Agnes knew nothing of these longing entreat i his for a <*-ergt marriage. If I had told her 1 might have been saved. She. with all her imprudence, would never have jiermit- ted that. I dared not tell her, lest she should disapprove. " Looking hack. I cannot tell what jx>ssessed im what mad infatuation, what wild folly had taken hold of me. Is it the same. I wonder, with all those who love with all girls who sur- i't and judgment as I did? Yet I did not reply all at i a grave and serious one, even i inex] . that I hesitated long before taking it. I mu-t do him justice: I think that in those days Uiric Stu-: did love me very dearly indeed, better, perhaps, than lie loved anyone else: arid that, for a Studleigh, is certainly sa\ ing a great deal. He told me, over and over again, in most : words, tliat lie loved me. lie made me believe that I was the whole world to him. Then, when he .still found that I was un- willingoh! so unwilling for this private m; e hurt, to think that I did not can- for him: ami for ten long days 1. ,me near me ten long, dreary, terrible 1 can remember even now the misery ot e;i--li ot them the hours that j-eemed to have no end the nights without - If we met in public, lie pa.-.-ed me uith a cold bow. and d> himself to some one else. I went through all the torti: jealousy, my i. pale and thin. Ah! what I sun Then 16 to me and said: "I -had enough of this? I feel I can bear it no longer.' It is \our fault.' I replied; ' you have kept away from me.' " ' Is a man's heart made of wax, do you think ': Kept away from you! If I had not done so I should have gone mad. Your ..ild's play, judging from the way in which you me. How eiuild I bear to be near you, when you so coldly i my pr:. 14 We were standing behind a great cluster of trees, and the next moment ]. me in hi-> ing that I must I -hall be at Twiekeiiliam to-morrow,' he said; ' Estelle, 1 pray y >u to meet me t h. " Aiul I, weak and miserable, promised him.'' 182 A FAIR MYSTERY. CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE PUNISHMENT OF FOLLY. " 4 1 CANNOT bear it,' said my lover to me," continued Lady Estelle, " when we met the next day on the green lawn at Twick- enham. ' We Studleighs are just as mad in jealousy as we are in love. When I see you surrounded by the wealthiest and noblest in the land men each of whom is more worthy of you a thou- sand times than I am but no one else loves you one-half so well, I can bear it no longer. Estelle. I will stand by no longer to see you loved, admired, and sought by other men. I will go away, and never return to this hateful land again.' " ' What can I do, Ulric ?' I asked. ' I cannot help it I do not ask people to admire me.' "' You can do one thing, if you will,' he said; 'you can set my heart at rest; you can consent to what I ask a private mar- riage, that will make you mine, and it will not be in the pov>-er of any human being to take you from me, It will set my heart at rest, and I shall know, no matter who admires you, that you are mine. If you will not consent to this, I must go.' " I was sorely afraid to lose him, Earle Moray. " ' But what will become of me when my parents find it out? I asked. " ' They need never find it out. When they seem to like me a little better, we will tell them. No one knows what an excellent thing it is to make one's self master of the situation. Once done, we cannot be expected to undo it, and after a few days they will say that we were naughty; but they will forgive us when they are quite sure that being angry is of no use.' *' Those were weak arguments, Earle Moray, to lead a girl away from her duty. They seem to me so now, though then I fancied them full of wisest sense. I destroyed myself when I looked up into his face, and said; " ' But even if I were willing, how could it be managed, Ulric V " He clasped me in his arms. " ' Only say that you are willing, that is enough. I shall go mad with joy! Estelle, say that you are willing, and leave the preliminaries to me.' " He looked so eager, so handsome; I was so weak and young. I loved him so dearly, all higher and better considerations faded away I proir. ! She buried her 1'aee in her hands, and Earle saw the tears fall through 1; ;-s. He saw the fragile figure torn with deep, convulsive BObs, .set he did not dare comfort her. He fell that, for such a wrong as she had committed, there could be no pardon from those she had deceived. Yet his feeling of compassion tor her was so strong that he could not refrain from showing her some sympathy. He laid lu's hand gently on her arm. ' Dear Lady Hereford," he said, " I wish that I knew how to comfort you. A FAIR MYSTERY. 133 "You cannoi >lied; " there can be no consolation for sins like mine. Oh! Earle Moray. y->u aee that I am speaking to vou ;is though I liaed not tire you with details. I have dwelt longer than I need have done on my temptations, because I warn who love Doris so dearly, to think the best which is possible of- me. Do you agree to that 'i Will you ; Most certainly I will, dear Lady Hereford. "Who am I, that I should sit in judgment over you ':" I am ashamed to tell you the rest," she said, in a wailing tone. " It is a st>ry that would disgrace the humblest beggar think how it humiliates me, the sole daughter of one of the proudest houses in the land. No Studleigh ever failed for want of determination. The more and the greater the obstacles that rose in my lover's way, the more valiantly he overcame them. I am too ignorant even to explain hoic he arranged it everything way to money, I suppose the obstacles he encountered did. 1 f-rly know two things lor certain we were married, and our man iage was 1 "It Mio-t inere iible," said Earle, " for one so h I constantly guarded as you niubt have been, Lady " It was difficult; but I will confess my own duplicity. I told my mother that I was going to spend t i;h Lidy Agnes. and I went accompanied by my maid. It was a easv matter, on the morning of the second day. to cscajK? from Lady Aj-'ii'-s. miller some slight pretext, and meet Captain Stml- lei^'ii. We were married in some . luireh by the river; and when ' i to Twickenham I did not evt ,1 dare to t'-ll my be>t frieiiil. Vet I i 11 tin- almost del; happinc:-< perhaps all tl that it was kej t so silent the happineee of knowing that I had p--ovd to my Imsband how dearly 1 loved him: the happiness of knowing how ^ him. Ah, surely he would be content now, when for his sake 1 made nnself a living lie I v. . that hid me fn-m the parents who I Iv lie would lie satis' -t tell I,-id\ IMapain what I had done, linprnd. . -he \vould never 1. lint. " P'or some wi ;1 I'I'. V - ^. v whole life Itecam. i o\\ to ' i: .(t my liii-!,.-ind, and how mm h time it was poflsibie to sjiend with him without being foun :ty made me ! Whenever I met hir , <]. nit! 184 A FAIR MYSTERY. she did not say much; but a few days afterward Lady Agues called and wanted me to go out with her. My mother said ' Yes,' but added, that I must be more careful, as I had been too late on Tuesday.' " ' But Lady Estelle was not with me on Tuesday,' said Lady Agnes, .quickly. And my mother looked at her in deepest won- der. " ' Not with youT she cried. ' Where was she, then ?' " I turned to my friend, and she alone saw the hot flush on my face. " ' You forget,' I said. " Some inkling of the truth came io her, and she murmured confusedly that she had forgotten. The duchess looked perfectly satisfied; but when she hud quitted the room, Lady Agnes said to me: "'Estelle, I do not quite understand; I never saw you on Tuesday.' ' ' I know that,' was my curt reply. ' ' Then why did you tell your mother you had been with me? ' ' Because I did not wish her to know where I had been,' I re- pi eel. ' She kissed me, and said, sadly: ' ' Yon have secrets even from me, then?* ' And I answered: ' ' Yes.' ' She looked very unhappy. ' ' Estelle.' she said, ' I hope I have not been foolish, and aided you in folly ? " But I would not listen to her I only laughed. After that Lady Agnes became more cautious. I do not know whether she had any suspicion or not she never expressed any to me. ' ' After that I found more difficulty in meeting my husband. Oh! wretched story! How I loathe the telling of it! He grew impatient and angry, while, as the days passed on, I shrank with greater dread from letting my parents know what I had done. " Then jealousy, anger, quarrels, and impatience took the place of love. I cannot tell you the history of that wretched time I dare not. I had to find out then that a Studleigh could indulge in rage as well as love. It was not long before 1 learned many bitter lessons. " At length one day we had a more than \isually angry quar- rel, and then my husband vowed that he would leave me. A regiment was ordered to India next week; he would exc! into it. and I should never gee him again. In vain I wept, pit ;est place for younger sons without Me. Others .said it was a thousand pities thai there was no chance of the earldom of Linleigh for th- lain. o one looked ;>t me; no one thou_ 1 was the wife of the man they wore all discussing. It was many mi In-fore m . turned to me; then 1 found myself grasping tlit- liaek nf a ehair to keep myself from falling. Unseen and unnoticed. I contrived to quit l he room. Oh, Heaven! when I recall the intolerable anguish of that hour, I wonder that I lived through it. " Iliad trusted a Studleigh, and had met with the usual re- ward of those who place coniidence in a perfidious race. I think that on the face of the earth there was i.one so truly desolate and lonely, so frightened, as I was during that time. Married in t-> a man whom my parents disliked, whom the world : oned with a sneer a m;n whose name was a proverb for light-heartediu-ss, ii, married and deser " It would have 1 \'.^\i had he been here: it would have been a terrible ordeal even had he been by i - help I s; . nipathy; but i , unaided he him- what could I 1 di i th:.! wl:i )i .v. 1.1 i 68816 t r.t thp ti. ' ace. lie had a ing of the inarri:: would I. I would . live single all my life, and keep my dr- to me no other plan. To tell the truth, I stood too much i- of my father and mother t" ,.-ui. Idr their anger. I nipt in nv- I father's treat '-t gr ! I do bul y sad all to mvself? .. y BO dreadful, the j.nin "and Borrow - it. ." i anythir. tion I'etu- I saw that m ud alter a feu- \\. re nnhapT.v over l.i: some ii, after a tim- . in the t'a.-e, to tliink that the e\ il . : i Ix-ar the penalty of mv I'.'.ly, if t!:e scent of i; starred marriage could be k< 136 A FAIR MYSTERY. CHAPTER XXXIX. A MOTHER'S CONFESSION. " I COME now to a part of my story," resumed Lady Estelle, "that I would fain pass ovor in silence; but as it touches the matter that brought me here, I am obliged to tell you." The proud, fair woman buried "her face in her hands as she spoke, and Earle understood how terrible was the struggle be- tween her need of help and her pride. When she raised her face again, it was ghastly white. " Captain Studleigh had been gone four months," she gasped, " when I knew that the most terrible of all my trials had come to me that I should be the mother of a child. For a long time for days and weeks I was in the most terrible despair. I often wonder," she said, musingly, " how it was that the agony of my shame did not kill me i cannot understand it even now. I did think in those days of killing myself, but I was not brave enough I lacked the courage. Yet I do not think any one in the wide world ever suffered so greatly. There was I sole daughter of that ancient house; flattered, beloved, courted, feted, ' the envy of all who knew me with a secret bitter as death, black as sin. At List, when I. found myself obliged to seek as- sistance, I went to Lady .Agnes Delapain, and told her all. 4> Her amazement and dread of the consequences were at first appalling to me. After the first expressions of surprise and re- gret, she said: " ' So you were married to him married to liim all the time? I never suspected it.' "She was very kind to me kinder, a thousand times, than I deserved. She did not reproach me; but when she had recov- ered, she said: ' ' ' Estelle, I feel that it is more than half my fault I should never have allowed you to meet him here. I should not have dared if I had foreseen the end. I felt sorry, because you seemed to like each other; but I have done wrong.' I laid my head on her shoulder. ' What am I to do ?' I moaned. ' I see no help for it now, Estelle;' however averse you may be you must tell the duchess.' Then I clung to her, weeping and saying: ' I dare not I would rather die.' ' ' But, my dear Estelle,' she interrupted, ' you must indeed, you must. I see no help for it.' " I remember standing up with a white, haggard face and beating heart. " ' If you will not help me, Agnes, I must tell her, but I shall do it in my own fashion. I shall write a letter to her, and kill myself before she receives it. I will never look my mother in the face again after she knows.' " ' Then what is to be done, Estelle 'f " ' Be my friend, as you have always been. You have had A FAIR MYSTERY. 187 more experience than I have had: you know the world better than I know it. You are older than 1 am; help me, Agnes.' You mean, help you to keep the secret of your marriage? 1 Bhe asked. " ' I do; and in asking you that, I ask for my life itself the one depends upon the other.' "Lady Agnes sat quite silent for some minutes, then she said: " ' I will doit, Estelle. Perhaps, in making tins promise, I am wrong, as I am in everything else; but I will help you for the sake of the love that was between us when we were happy young girK' "I had no words in which to thank her; it really seemed to me as though the burden of my trouble were for the time re- moved from me to her. '* ' How will it be?' I asked her. " ' Give me time to think, Estelle; I must arrange it all in my own mind tir^t. Do not come near me for three (lays.' At the end of that time my mother received a letter from I^idy Agnes, urging her to allow me to go with her to Switzer- land; she was not strong, and required change of air. My mother had implicit faith and confidence in Lady Delapain. " ' You have not been looking well lately, Estelle,' she said to me; ' it will do you good to g " Ah, me! what a weight those few words took from my mind. Then Lady Agnes called upon us, and spoke to my mother about our little tour. " ' We shall enjoy ourselves after our own fashion,' she said. 'Lord Delapain goes with us as far aa Interlachen; there he will leave us for a time. You may safely trust Lady Estelle with me.' "My mother had not the slightest idea thr.t anything was un- usual. The only thing that eml .e in- i upon my taking my maid Leeson with me. V, hen i this t . like myself, dismayed for a few minutes, then " ' It will not matter; we should have l>een obliged to some one into our confidence; as well L< i-on a< another. We tell her of the man " So it was all settli-d; and I, taking my terrible secret with : i> ii" IK- d to linger ovi-r the <\> ispicion of the truth was ever whispered. We took I. into our confidence, and my baby was born in S\\ itzrrland. Ah! you look astonished. Now you know why I am here D> my child!" Earle was too bewildered for one moment to speak. Then a low cry of wonder and dismay came from his lips. "Doris your daughter!" he repeated. "Lady Hereford, ttua must bo a dream I" " Would to Heaven it were!" she cried. " It is all mr*t fatall v true. .\h! me. if I e<,u!d hut wake up diva m! \\'h< n my little dau_ ; 1. we had a Jttter which caused us some agitation; my fetfcer and motbot 138 A FAIR MYSTERY. were on the road to join us, and would be with us in two days. They were then at Berne. "What shall we do?" I asked again of my clear-headed, trust- worthy friend. " As usual, she was quite ready for the emergency. " ' We must do something decisive at once,' she replied; ' send away the child to England without an hour's delay. I will tele- graph to Berne to say that we have already left Interlachen, and shall be at Berne to-morrow.' There could be no delay. I sat down to think where it would be possible to send the little one. It seems strange to own such a thing, but I assure you that I did not feel any overwhelming affection for the child. She was lovely as a poet's dream, the fairest little cherub that was ever seen; but already in that in- fantile face there was a gleam of the Studleigh beauty. ' She will be like her race,' I thought, 'faithless and debonair.' Per- haps the keen anger that I felt against her father, the sorrow and the shame that he had caused me, prevented me from loving her: therefore I did not feel any sorrow at parting with her. I might have been a better woman, Earle Moray, if I had been a happier one. " I could think of no one. Leeson suggested that if the child be taken by some farmer's wife on the estate, it would be the best thing, as in that case I would see it sometimes, and should, at least, know its whereabouts. " Then I bethought myself how often I had heard my father speak of honest Mark Brace. The next moment the whole plan came to me. I told Leeson, and she approved of it. You have probably heard the story of the finding of Doris; there is no need for me to repeat it. It was Leeson who left the child at the farmer's gate, and waited under the shadow of the trees until it was taken indoors; it is I who send the money; and I have seen the child twice once when she was young, and the Studleigh look in her face frightened me, although my heart yearned to her. " Then the sense of my unhappiness, of my false position, of my terrible secret, made me so wretched that I became seriously ill. My father took me away from England, and I was away many years. I saw her again, not so very long since, and site was one of the loveliest girls that could be imagined, yet still with the Studleigh face ' faithless and debonair.' But this time my heart warmed to her, she was so beautiful, so graceful. I was proud of her, and she told me of you; she said she was going to marry Earle Moray, gentleman and poet." " Heaven bless her!" interrupted Earle, with quivering lips. " Still," continued Lady Estelle. ' I was not quite satisfied: I saw in her her father's faults repeated. My heart found no rest in her, or it would have been misery to lose sight of her again. I did think that when you were married you and she I might see more of her. She would be the wife of a poet whom we should all be proud to know. "Now listen to what I want from you, Earle Moray. In all the wide world* yt>u love Doris beet; I want you to find her. A FAIR MYSTERY. 139 Ypstprday I heard that her father my husband is no lon_ Gnnilees younger son; thai lie has succeeded to the earldom of nlei.di. and will return home. I should havp told you that s Delapain died two years alter our return from 'i-iaud. so that no person living knows our secr.-t except ;i and yourself, r.ei'ore she died slie wrote to my husband to tell him all about Doris. lie seems to have extended his in- difference even to her, for beyond acknowledging th;. 1 letter and saying that he really sympathized in my fears, he has never taken the least notice of her. Now, all is different, lie will be Earl of Linleigh. she will be Lady 1 >oi is Studleigh, and I dare not stand between my child and her rights. Do you under- stands" No." he replied, quietly, " you could not do that; it would not be honorable." that I must have her here. I will not see him until she is with me. I shall write to him, and beg of him not to come and see me until I send for him. He will do me that small grace, and I shall not -end for him until you bring her to rne." "Then you will keep your secret no Ion-err" said Karle. " I cannot. If my husband had remained Captain Studleigh, I might have kept it until my death: but, as Earl of Linleigh, he is sure to claim me, either as his wii'u to live with him, or that he may sue me for a divorce." " radon the question." said Earle, "but would you live with him '.'" A dull red flush covered her face. "If ever I loved anything on earth," she cried, passionately, "it was my husband 1 have known no other love. " What is that you want me to do?" asked Earle. " I want you to go and find her. No one loves her as you do. Love has keen instincts: you will find her because you love her. Find her tell her she is the Marl of Linleigh's daughter that Bheniu^t com.- to take her proper position in the great world; but do not tell her who is her mother." " I will obey you implicitly," he replied. Then she raised her fair, proud face to his. 11 .Mill.- i it not ':" she asked. - truth i- :han fiction," he replied. " And it is a shameful story, is it not ':" she continued. " It is not a irood one," he said, frankly. She smiled at the honest reply. You do not !:now." she said, "how my heart has turr- you since Doris of the m and p< ocrat in. 1 do not think any man could have a grander title. To honor, as a gentleman, I trust iny secret you will : Let ray it." He bowed low. " I would rather die," he said. " I believe you implicitly. This time, at least, my instinct has not failed me I am sale in trusting you. Now. tell me, have you the faintest clew as to where Dori- has -one.-" " Not the smallest; she has gone abroad that is ail I know." 140 A FAIR MYSTERY. " Then do you also go abroad. Kemernber that no money, no trouble, no toil must be spared she must be found. Go first to France to the cities most frequented by the English then to Italy. For Heaven's sake, find her, and bring her back to Brackenside. When she is once here I can bear the rest. You will not fail me. Write as often as you can; and Heaven speed you." He felt his own hand clasped in hers; then she placed a roll of bank-notes in it. The next moment she was gone, and Earle sat there alone, breathless with surprise. CHAPTER XL. A CLEW AT LAST. " I FEEL very much," thought Earle, " as though I had been dreaming in one of the fair}' circles. That proud, fair woman with such a story; and she Doris' mother. Doris, my golden- haired love, whom I have been loving, believing her to be some helpless waif or stray. Doris, belonging to the Studleighs and the proud Duke of Dowusbury what will she say? Great heavens! what will she say when she learns this?" Then the task before him might well have dismayed a braver man. He had to find her. The whole world lay before him, and he had to search all over it. Was she in Italy, Spain, or France? or had she even gone further away ? He thought of the proud lady's words "love has keen instincts; you will find her because you love her." He would certainly do his best, nor would he delay that day should see the commencement of his labor. Then he began to think. Surely an ignorant, inexperi- enced girl could not have left home have found herself a sit- uation as governess without some one to help her. Who would that some one be ? One of her old school-fellows ? She had made no more recent acquaintances. He bethought himself of Mattie, always so quick, so bright, so intelligent, so ready to solve all difficulties. He would go to her. He went, and Mattie wondered at the unusual gravity of his face. " I have been thinking of Doris," he said, in answer to her mute, reproachful glance. " I wonder, Earle," she said, " when you will think of any- thing else?" " I want to ask you something, Mattie. Sit down here; spare me two or three minutes. Tell me, has it ever seemed to you that some one must have helped Doris, or she could not have found a situation as she did ?" For one moment the kindly brown eyes rested with a troubled glance on his face. " It has occurred to me often," she replied, " but I cannot Imagine who would do it." 'Did she ever talk to you about any of her school- fellows ?" he asked. " No, none in particular. Why, Earle, tell me what you are thinking about ?' A FAIR MASTERY. 141 " I should have some clew to her whereabouts, I am convinced, if I could but discover that." She looked steadily at him. " Earle." she asked, in a low pained voice, "are you still thinking of going in search of her?" H. i (I the morning's interview, and would have felt some little relief if he could have shared the secret with V but he said: " Yes. I run still determined, and, to tell you a secret that I do not intend telling any one else, I intend to go tliis very day." He saw her lips whiten and quiver as though from some sud- den, sharp pain, but it never struck him that this quiet, kindly girl had enshrined him in her heart of hearts. She was quicker of instinct when any wish of his was in question than at any other time. Suddenly she raised her eyes to his face, and he saw in them the dawn of a new idea. " There is one person," she said, " whom we have quite over- looked, and who is very likely to have helped Doris." " Who is that ?" he asked quickly. " The artist, Gregory Leslie." And they looked at each other in silence, each feeling sure that the right chord had been struck. Then Earle said, gravely: Strange! but I never once thought of him." " Doris talked so much to him while he was here," said Mattie, "and from his half-bantering remarks, I think he understood thoroughly lur.v much she disliked the monotony of home. He MTV probablv found the situation for her." I should think so too, but for one thing he was an honor- able man, and he would not have helped her run away from me." " Perhaps she deceived him. In any case, I think it worth trying," she replied. " Heaven bless you, Mattie," said Earle. " You are always right. Do not tell any one where I have gone. I shall go to London at once. I will send a note to my mother by one of the men. Good-bye! Heaven bless you, my dear sister who was to have been " " Who will be, r cried Mattie, " whether you marry Doris or not!" He wrote a few simple words to his mother, saying merelv: " Do not be alarm, -d at my absence. I can not rest I have gone to find Doris. I shall unt<- ol'u-:i, ai.d return when I have found her." " Poor mother.' he said to himself with a sigh, "I have given her nothing but sorrow of late." Then he went quietly to (Juuinton r -.lion, and was just in time to cutcli the train for I/mdon. ie was nstonished tint evening at seeing Earle suddenly enter his studio, and held out hi.- hand to him in warm :ue. Earle looked first at the artist, then at his hand. " Can I take it - 1. is it a loyal hand?" Gregory Leslie laughed aloud. 142 A FAIR MYST3RY. " Bless the boy the poet, I ought to say; what does he mean ?'' " I mean, in all simpicity, just what I say," said Earle. " Is it the hand of a loyal man ?" " I have never been anything save loyal to you," replied the artist, wondering more and more at Earle's strange manner. " I shall understand you better in a short time," he said. " How ill you look your face is quite changed." " J have been, ill for some weeks," said Earle. " I am well now." " And how are they all at Brackenside the honest farmer und his kindly wife; bright, intelligent Miss Mattie; and last, though by no means least, my lovely model, Miss Innocence ?" "They are all well at Brackenside," said Earle, evasively. But the artiirt looked keenly at him, and from the tone of his voice he felt sure that all was not well. Then Earle sat down, and there was a few minutes' silence. At length he roused himself with a sigh. " Mr. Leslie," he said, " when you were leaving Brackenside you called me friend, and said tiiat you would do anything to help me. I have come to prove if your words are true." " I am sure they are," replied Mr. Leslie, as he looked pityingly on the worn, haggard face. " You may prove them in any way you will." Then he smiled. " Has Miss Innocence been unkind to you, that you look so dull ?" " That does not sound as though he knew anything about her going," thought Earle; "and if ho does not, I am indeed at sea." Then he looked at the artist. It was an honest face, although the lips curled satirically, aud there was a gleam of mischief ia the keen eyes, " Is it a lover's quarrel, Earle?" he asked. " No, it is more than that," replied Earle. " Tell me. Mr. Les- lie, has Doris written to you since you left Brackenside ?" An expression of blank wonder came into the artist's face. "Yes," he replied, "she wrote to me twice; each time it was to thank me for papers and critics that I had sent her." " That is all ?" said Earle. " That is all, indeed. I did not preserve the letters. I have a fatal habit of making pipe-lights of them/' " Did she tell you, in those letters, that she was tired of Brack- enside, Mr. Leslie ?" ' No, they were both written in excellent spirits, I thought. I do not remember that there was any mention of home or any one; in fact, I am sure there was not." " Did she ask you to help her to find a situation :" s.-rid Earle. "No, indeed, she never did. At Brackenside f-iie pretended often enough to be tired of the place, and to want to go where, but I never paid any serious attention to it. Yo': Earle, if you will love a woman who has all the beauty of the rainbow, you must be content to abide by all her caprices. I am sure she has done something to pain you, Earle tell me what it fa?" A FAIR "I will toll you," said Earlw. ''At first I thought that \<>u had helped her, but now I believe I am L. She li:is left home unknown to any of us. She has | -ad as \< f,e.-!ie iri've :; lit (! start of inerrdulily mid surprise. ' (Join- abroad." he r-'peated; "1 can he!;e\e that easily; but : !,at." S! ; i tell the same story." If I should believe it," said (Ire^ory 1.. s!i,'. " f should most uly say. Heaven help the children t ni.trlit hy the fair L'oii-. C'andidly speaking, I .should not like of them. ' " You (lis mind to disbelieve what she had written. That threw a fro a light upon the maUer. : me all about it," the artist said, after a few mil And Earlc did as he w;, d. (tregory Leslie li-i-ned in silei: " I know nothing about it." he slid, after a time. " It is(juite natural that you should imagine tliat I did. but I do not. She mentioned it t<> me. 1 un ier ! ind now what \ on il. I^-t me say that, lor your sal e. ii she iiie to hel,i h- r ill ; : liould ha', filse.i." " 1 believe it. Th ' ! Karle. ' I h. to lind her, and find lier I will, ('an you to me any feasible or sen;-ilil( plan of s-'areh ':" Then he uttered a little cri of amaze, for Gregory Leslie was looking at him with n in ids taee. "Strangel" he s:dd. "1 liave oidy ju t tho'.i;;iit of it. YOU :nber my piet-;re of ' InnoeeM yes,* 1 '-aid Karle. " Well, there was a great deal of .jealousy anion^ my eom- . hey all wanted to know where I h:-d found it. (?ho was my model, where she lived. <> i just such a fa--' di(-t, another t!:o:i;rht it tlie very ihiii^' for his Marie Antoinette, in the x-'iiitli < ^lorv ;i!|d beauty. A not her i. i. it if he < paint it as < his fortune would b<- made. < >f cou: not, and did not dream for ratifying eurioMiy. 1'eriiaps the mo-i (!lynl\n. 1 1. prayed me to tell him. and was ollended when I me in a Hate of <;reat triumph; he hud ju.-t leiui Italy. " ' I have found your model,' he said. ' You need not have been so precise. I thought no good would cotne of such secrecy. 1 " ' What model do you mean Y I asked. 144 A FAIR MYSTERY. " "'Your model of "Innocence." I have seen the very face you copied,' he replied. " ' Indeed, where did you see it?' " ' In Italy, in a picture-gallery at Florence. She is incom- parably beautiful. But how on earth you managed to induce her to sit for her portrait, I cannot imagine. They say she is the most exclusive lady in Florence.' " ' Indeed,' I said, gravely. " ' It is true. I saw her twice, once in the gallery, and once in the carriage with her husband.' " Then I laughed aloud. " ' My dear Ross,' I said, ' I have let you wander on because you have told me such a strange storj'; it really seemed quite sad to interrupt you. You are perfectly wrong. To begin with, the young lady whose face I copied is young and unmarried; in the second place, I can answer for it, she has never been near Italy. She is, I know for certain, preparing to niariy a gentle- man with whom I am well acquainted.' " He looked sullen and unconvinced. " ' You may say what you will,' he retorted, ' I swear it wa3 the same face.' " ' And I swear that it was not," I replied. " So the matter ended. But, Earle, could it be that Ross Glynlyn spoke the truth that she is in Florence ':" ' But he said that lady was married," said Earle. " That might be a mistake. It seems to me a clew worth fol- lowing up." And Earle thought the same. CHAPTER XLI. "I CLAM YOU AS MY OWN; I WILL NEVER RELEASE YOU!" " I CALL this a coincidence," said Gregory Leslie, as the studio door opened and a gentleman entered " a strange coincidence. If I had read it in a novel I should not have believed it." Earle looked up inquiringly as a handsome young man, with a clever, artistic face, entered the room. " Am I a coincidence?" inquired the new-comer. " I did not say that; but, decidedly, your coming is one, Mr. Glynlyn. Allow me to introduce you Mr. Moray. The two gentlemen saluted each other with a smile, each feel- ing attracted by the other's face. Then Mr. Leslie turned to his brother artist. " It is strange that you should come in just at this minute, Ross, I was telling Mr. Moray how certain you were that you had seen the original of ' Innocence ' in Florence.'' " So I did," replied Roes. " You may contradict me as much as you like. It is not probable that I should make any mistake. The lady I saw had precisely the same face as the picture. It was the" original herself or her tsvin sister." " She has no twin sister," said Earle, incautiously. "Ah! you know her, then," continued Mr. Glynlyn. " I as- iure you that I made no mistake. Our friend here may make A FAIR MYSTERY. 145 as much mystery as he will. I am amazed that ho should give me such little credit. Why should I say it if it were not true? And how could 1 possibly mistake that -my other? It' you know tin- voting lady, you can in all probability corroborate what I say namely, that she is in Florence." " I cannot do so." said Earle, " for I am perfectly ignorant of her whereabouts." Then he shook liands with the artist, for it seemed to him every moment spent there was lessening his chance of finding Doris. He would start at once for Florence. It was a frail clew. after all, feeble and weak, yet well worth following. Of course, it was all a mistake about her being married she was a govern- 688, not a married lady; yet that mistake seemed to him of very little consequence. The only doubt was that having made one mistake, was it likely the artist had made another ': (iood-b\e." said Gregory Leslie, in answer to the farewell words of Earle. " Good-bye: you will let me hear how you get on." Then he went. He never r or night until he was in Florence. Then, exhausted by the long journey, he ^\as pelled to seek repose. H ( . did \vh:;t uas wisest and bt -t in [ at once to the best hotel, the one most frequented by the English. There he made many inquiries. There were many English in Florence, but he did not hear of any young lady who was par- ticularly beautiful. The people at the hotel spoke fre< I eni they discussed every one and everything, but he heard no alla- sion to any one who in the least d : is. When he had rested him -e]| he began his search in Florence. At tirst it seemed quite hopel -ut through the churches, though he owned to himself that he need not hope to find her there. H" went almost daily to the principal places of public resort: no evening pa--'d without his going to the opera, but ho never caught sight of a face like hers. Once lie followed with golden hair all through the principal streets of Flo 1 when he came n. .in r i her. he , ;i \v that the hair was licit' bright. BO sillry. or so abundant as that of Doris. The girl turned her face it was not the fair, lovely fa< e of the girl he wor- shiped. lie spent many hours each day in the picture-gafierii of th pictures hun^ bef<>; . \, t IK-. \\hos for art and beauty v -e, never even saw them. ! to look at the pictur. s on the wall, lest he shoul 1 one of the li\ ing i'-e 66. 1 i H n : 'i; . but ''' ' ' t .', snw her. He spent a week in this fashion, and then his heart began to fail him; it was impossible that she should be in Florence, or surely before this he must have seen her. He wrote to Gregory Leslie and told him of his failure. " I am afraid either your friend is mistaken or that she hns awav," he f-aid. And if &!; be to 'I lie hetlio-iL-'i ( hi:, KHue of tho priu'-IjxiJ houses in .Florence; ' - porty or 146 A FAIR MYSTERY. fete were given, he should be sure to see her. Even in this he succeeded. With the help of Gregory Leslie he was introdured to some of the best houses in Horence. He met many English he heard nothing of Doris. People thought he had a wonder- ful fancy; whenever he heard of any English children, he lu vi r rested until he had seen them. Some one told him that Lady Cloaniell had three nice little girls; his heart beat high and last; perhaps Doris was the governess Doris lived, Dori^ lived, lie armed himself with some pretty sketches, and then asked per- mission to see the little ladies. Lady Cloamell was much gratified. " Tell the governess to come with them," she said to the servant who went in search of them. And Earle sat down with a white face and beating heart. It WPS all a waste of emotion. When the governess did come in, she was ugly and gray- haired. Poor Earle! he had to endure many such disappointments. " She is not in Florence," he said to himself at last. " I must go elsewhere." It was not until the hope was destroyed that he knew how strong it had been the disappointment was bitter in the ex- treme. He woke one morning resolved upon leaving Florence the next day. The sun was shining, the birds singing; his thoughts flew to England and the sweet summer mornings when he had wan- dered through the green lanes and fields with his love. His heart was heavy. He raised his despairing eyes to the bright heavens, and wondered how long it was to last. The morning was fair and balmy; he thought that the air would refresh him, and perhaps when he felt less jaded and tired, some inspiration might come to him where to search next; so he walked through the gay streets of sunny Florence until he came to the lovely banks of the Arno. The scene was so fair the pretty villas shining through the trees. He walked along till he came to a green patch shaded by trees whose huge branches touched the water; there he sat down to rest. Oh! thank Heaven for that few minutes' rest. He laid his head against the trunk of a tree, and bared his brow to the fresh sweet breeze. He had been there some little time when the sound of a woman's voice aroused him the sweet laughing tones of a woman's voice. " You may leave me," it said. " I shall not run away. I shall enjoy a rest by the river." Dear Heaven! what voice was it? It touched the very depths of his heart, and sent a crimson flush to his brow. For one short moment he thought he was back again in the woods of Quain- ton. Then his heart seemed to stop beating: then he leaned, white, almost senseless, against the trees; then he heard it again. " Do not forget my flowers; and remember the box for ' Satan- ella.' It is one of nay favorite operas. Au revoir." A FAIR MYSTERY. 14? Then there was ;i pound of sonic one walking down the river- bank, the rustl' 1 of a silken dress, the half-son^, half-murmur of a la.i;;hiug voice. He saw a shadow fall between himself and ::ishine. Oh, H'-avcn! could il be she? He drew aside the sheltering branches and looked out. There, on the hank U'low him, sat a young jrirl. At first he could only distinguish the rich dress of violet silk and black lace; then when the mist cleared before his eyes, and he saw a pro- fusion of golden hair shining like the sun, then he went toward Oh, blessed sky above! Oh, shining sun! Oh, flowing river! Oh, great and merciful Heaven! was it she? Nearer, and more like the shadow of a coming fate, he crept. Still she never moved. She sang of love that was never to die. Nearer and nearer lie could see the white, arched neck, whose graceful turn he would have recognized anywhere. Nearer still, and he laid his hand on her shoulder. " Doris." he said. She turned quickly round. It was she. He will never forget the ghastly pallor that came over her fac<-. She started up with a dreadful cry. ! have ymi come to kill me?" It was some moments before he could reply. Earth and sky seemed to meet; the ripple of the river <>ar of water in His first impulse had been a lierce one. He. worn, 'roken; she, brighter, fairer than ever, singing en the banks of the sunny Arno. Then he looked steadily at her. " No," he said slowly; " I have not come to kill you; I do not wi h to kill you. Death could not deal out such torture as your hands have dealt out to me." " Poor Earle," she said : but the pity was more than lie could : "1 he c.'iitimied, "by those who have a right .1. 1 do not ni I into his changed I "Pool Earle, :ited; andthet"! f her voi-e was so kind that l'r ne moment lie j-huddetvd with dread. "I n long in finding " " Earle," she interrupted, " wha; lit you here? I am not surprised. I have always felt that, SOOQ Bee you. "What ha- " I have something to tell you." he replied. "I wmild traveled the wide w hut I would never have returned without seeing you." " But why, of all other places, did you think of Florence ?" she asked. Thou it seemed to him that eho was simply trying to gain time, and to avoid what ho had to say. " Doris, I have C" 1 -ly to talk to you. \V1 -s but little; nothing matters l-tv what I have to a&y." 143 A FAIR MYSTERY. " Oh, Earle," she cried, " I was so tired of Brackenside. couM not stn v." 1 ' Never mind Brackenside. We will not discuss it now. Will you sit down here, Doris, while I tell you my message ?" She seemed to have no thought of disobeying him. Silently enough she sat down, while he leaned against the tree. She was rather hurt to find that so much of her old influence over him seemed to be lost. She would have liked him to tremble and blush, yet he had not even sought to take her white hand in his own. He had not kissed her face, nor touched the long, golden hair that he had so warmly praised. He stood looking gravely at her; then he spoke. " Doris," he said, " in the presence of Heaven you promised to be my wife. I do not absolve you from that promise, and until I do so, I claim you as my own." A hot flush crimsoned his face, sudden passion gleamed in his eyes and quivered on his lips. " I will never release you," he cried. " Death may take you from me; but of my own free will you shall never, so help me Heaven, be freed from your promise! You hear me ?" ' Yes," she replied, in a low voice, " I hear." " As the man you have promised to marry, as the man who alone on earth has the right to question you, tell me how you are living here now ?" 'Ho warn I living?" she replied, raising innocent eyes to his face. " I do not quite understand what you mean." " I mean precisely what I say. "With whom are you living, and what are you doing for a livelihood ':'' " What a strange question, Earle. I told you; I am governess to some little children." " You swear that before Heaven ?" " Before anything or any one you like," she replied, indiffer- ently, smiling the while to herself. CHAPTER XLII. "THIS IS YOUR REVENGE TO HUMILIATE ME." " I AM bound to believe you," he said, " although my faith in you has been terribly shaken. I ask you because I heard that you passed here as a married lady. Is that true ?" A keen observer might have noticed that her face grew pale that she trembled and seemed for one moment uncertain. " Is it true V repeated Earle. In the eyes raised to his face there was such blank innocence of expression that, in spite of his doubts, he felt ashamed of himself and his words. " You heard such a thing of me!" she said. " Why, who could have told you ?" " That matters little: I heard it. IG it true ?" "You puzzle me," she said, with the same startled expres- sion. " Why should I do such a thing why pass ni}seli' oil' as married? I do not understand you puzzle uie, Earle." " Is it true, or not ?" he repeated. A FAlIi MYSTERY. 149 " No/' she replied. i swear that, likewise, before TTenvrn?" itainlv," she said, nrompilv. I do noi understand." he Uanied himself for being hard upon her. \\ "< will not discus it any t\\ aid, " I have other y to you. 1 ' She looked slightly embarrassed, tlie fact being th;;t she had quite !<>.-t her fear of him, and %-.a- only pondering now upon what Id i!o to get him away. It would '.!.", r do for I. or ! Vivia-i'ieto ri turn and iind him there; tliere would be a ((uaiTfl. to say the least of it. Besides, Lord Charles was not the m<:>; patient of men. \Vhat would lie do if he heard this nonsense about Knrle elaiming her? She had no idea of going baek with Karl" sooner or later she would tell him so. It was very awkward for her, and she heartily wished she had never seen him. She had no idea, even ever so faint, of going back to Brackenside. She resolved that while he was talking sh" would Future plan of action. At first she hardly li-'er.ed to rhcn !>y d< - words began to li; iu r . weird : . her. " Dor:.-,. ' he sai !, " I think I have brought the strangest mes- me human being ever brought to another. (Jive me : ion." i hi r beautiful fa- !.in!:ing that lie was go- in^ i nelhing about love or marriage. Far dill he j.ext words that fell upon her ear. " Doris." he said, " j-ou have always l,.!ie\el your.vlf to be the daughter of Mark and Patty Braee. have you not Y' " Yes." slu- re;, lied, wonderingly, " what else could I believe? Yo,u .ire the sou of Mrs. Moray, uf Lindenlmlm. are you n. " i 'ertainly; but tliat is beside the (juestion. You never, even i mia I, doubted the truth of what you Kay '.-'' She laughed the little, careless, sweet laugh that he remem- bered so well. "To ' i the ; 'aiu truth, Earle, I never felt myself quite a Braee - th" ma ;>le were so dif- .n." . ien \\liat I have to any will not shock voti. You hai;r father, nor his kindly wii'e \our motlicr?" . \oii an . \ our- " " 1 )oes it pleare you, I >< ri>.' I 1> M'I.IIS to yourself; I tell you the plain, honest truth you are no relation of ill. " \\ iio am 1, then '.' 1; \ ..u laiie mv old iiientn\ i r. -m n.. must, at least, give me a new one," she said, laughingly. Her utter waoit of fevliug and absence of all emUioiis annoyed him greatly. 150 A FA1K MYSTL J !!\'. " I will tell you a story," he said. And with a grace and pathos all his own, he told the history of that night so long ago, when the little child was found at "the door of the farm-house, She looked incredulous. " Do you mean to tell me that I was that child? A wretched little foundling! I do not believe one word of it. This is your revenge to humiliate me." " You will know better soon," he replied, quietly. " Yes, you were that little child. Patty Brace took you to her arms, and honest Mark Brace treated you like his own." Her face flushed crimson, her lips curled with scorn, her eyes flashed light. " I look very much like a foundling, do I not? Earle Moray, take your absurd stories elsewhere." She held up one white hand. " That looks like the hand of a foundling, does it not? Shame on you for trying to humiliate me! It is a pure inven- tion. I do not believe one word of it, and I never shall. " " You have only heard the commencement," he replied, coolly. " Remember I never used the word ' foundling ' to you you used it to yourself. It is not probable that I should do so u-hcn I know u-hose daughter you are." " Ah! Do you know ? May I ask what honorable parentage you have assigned to me ? This grows amusing. Remember, before you say another word, that I distinctly refuse to believe you." "You will change your mind,'' he said, quietly, "I have not the least doubt that I am here to tell you the simple truth, and to take you back to your father." The impulse was strong upon her to say that she could not go, but she refrained, thinking it quite as wise and politic to hear first to what she was to return. " You must not ask me how I know your history," said Earle, " but it suffices that I know it. Let me tell you also, it did not surprise me so very much. I always thought, myself, that you were, as you say, ' of a different kind.'" He saw the color creep slowly over her face and a new light dawn in her eyes. "You will, henceforward, occupy a very different position, Doris," he said, gravely; "your place will be henceforth aujong the nobility." " Ah! that's better," she said in a low voice. But he could see that she trembled with impatience. She had clasped her hands so tightly that the rings she wore made great dents in the tender flesh; still she would not betray her im- patience. "Your father -is a nobleman, a wealthy British poor Earl Linleigh and you are hi-; only child.'' She grew white, even to the lips, and her breath came in quick gasps. " Earl of Linleigh?' she repeated. " Are you quite sure you are not misteken, Earle ':''' A FAIR AfYSTERY. 151 " There is no mistake, Doris; your name and title is now Lady Doris Studleigh. Do you like it ? Does it sound well?'' She drew her breath with a deep, heavy sigh. " i cannot believe it. Karle," she said. " it .-reins ojiite impos- sible that it should ! 't is what I used to dream when a child, but I ne\er thought, the dream would be realized. I can- not believe it. Karle." Tt was signilicant enough that she refused to believe him when she fancied that he wished to lower her in the social scale; but ver expressed the siigiitesi , I would rather not, it is not needful. (Ji\e me just ten minutes to d.'cide. You are just; give me ten mimit. to think." I le remained mute and motionless |,\- |, rr side. The Arno rippled musically at her feet; bird.-, sang abovi head. " Tell m. a rain:" she said. what will my rank and tit: " You will be the 1/idy Doris Sunllei-h, only daughter of the Karl of Kinli i^li " "And my fortune':" sip- interrupted. "Of that I know nothing; but I should say it must be 1:. You will probably be a wealth "And there is a place wailing for me in the grand world:" 1 certainly," he replied. then, let m.- think, Karle; I am all bewilderment and confusion. Let me arrange my ideas, then I will explain them to y- 152 A FAIR MYSTERY. He did not know why she sat so silent, while quiver after quiver of pain passed over her face why her hands were so tightly clasped; but she in that hour was reaping the reward of her folly. What had she done ? Had she, by her wicked sin, by her in- tense self-love, her eagerness for pleasure and luxury, her little esteem for virtue, her frivolous views of vice had she by al these forfeited that glorious birth-right which was hers ? Had she lost all chance of this grand position which would fill the greatest desire of her heart? It was this most terrible fear that blanched her face and made her hands tremble, that caused her to sit like one over whom a terrible blight had fallen. In her passionate desire for change and luxury, for pleasure and gayety, she had never even thought of her own degradation; it was a view of the subject that she had not yet taken; she had only thought of the lighter side. Now it seemed to look her in the face with all its natural deformity. She shrunk abashed and frightened horror-stricken now that she saw her enormity in its full colors. Still, it was not the sin that distressed her; that was nothing to her. It was the idea that through it she might lose the glori- ous future awaiting her; if this had not happened, she would never have regretted her fault. If it were known if this proud nobleman knew that she had passe 1 as the wife of a man to whom she was not married, would he ever receive her as his daughter? No; she knew enough of the world to be quite sure of that. Even Mark Brace would not do it. If he had the faintest possible idea of what her life had been since they parted, would he receive her, and think her a suitable companion for Mattie? No; she knew that he would not; he would have for- given any sin save that. A disgraceful sin like hers he consid- ered beyond pardon. If Mark Brace, with his kindly, simple heart, could not pardon her, was it probable that Earl Linleigh would? No! The only hope that remained to her was to keep her past life, with its ter- rible blunder, a dead secret there was no other resource. Could she do that ? It was just possible. Only yesterday she had been railing against her life, declaring that it was all a disappointment, that she saw no one, and was getting tired of it; no\v she felt thankful that it was so, that she had seen but few strange faces, and most of these had been Italian ones. So that if she could keep her secret, she trusted no one would recognize in Lady Doris Studleigh the person who had been known as Mrs. Conyers. CHAPTER XLIII. THE COQUETTE'S BLANDISHMENTS. " HAVE you finished thinking yet, Doris?" asked Earle, gently. " No," she replied. " I am getting a little clearer in my ideas, but I have by no means finished yet." She had two plans before her. One was to wait for Lord Charles and tell him all to trust to his generosity to keep their secret. A FAIR MYSTERY. 153 Then she b.ughed bitterly as she repeated the word " gener< h<- hud none. He WHS reckless. e\tra\ a -ant over money, hut as for generosity, honor, or principle, she knew he had none. In trust in;: to that she \vonH indeed trust to ;i Krok-n reed. !es. i!' .-.he wi re once established in this ne\v sphere o. it .would he hi.'.hlv , ' : le and offensive to ha\. near her who knew of this episode. If Lord Vivianne know, lie would always have her in his power: lie would hold the ? like ;-. dra\\n sword o\er her head. No: better for her Own safety :1 away from him without saying one word. Even if, in the alter years, they should meet sixain, it was hardly pos.Mhle that he would reeogni/.e her. surrounded by all the luxuries of her position, the honored daughter of noble parents. It was not likely that he would recogni/.c in her the girl who had left Brackenside for his sake. As for leaving him far from f< cling the lea.-t r.-givt, far from seeing that she wu> treating him dis- honorably, she smiled to herself at his consternation when he should return to the river-side and not find her. ' He will think that I have run away with some one else," she thought; and the idea amused her so intensely that she laughed aloud. ' Y..U are well content," said Earle. hitlerly. " Why should not I be? You have brought me wealth and fortune, title and honor all that my soul loves best. "Why should 1 not he content:'' She had finished her musing now, and it had brought her to nelusions: sin- mu.-i leave Lord Vivianne at once, and in silence, while she must at the same time, at an}- price, keep her t from Karle. Another ana very probable idea occurred to her. It was this: l>y Earle being gent U> fetch her, t \\as very evident that her parents approved of him. and that she would have to marry him. ! him. she thought it was not such a had alternative, all. lie was handsomer. young, r. stronger than I.< rd Viv i- amie; wliat little all ha. Then she aros" from her s--at \vith a smile. 1 have i'mi-hel thinking. Karle. To make matters stjuare. I pron: i that I will not think again for ever so many months." " What is the result ->f your deliberation ?" he said. " I wish you would he a little kinder to me, Karle. You speak BO gravely, you look so coldly, that you make me (pule un- thi-h.'d slightly and his lips trembled. " I ilo not wi>h t<> seem unkind. Ivri.. Imt 1- What . ['eel il'iil:. ^ on Know 1 alu: "I know you !>etr.r.< 1 and p ae about as 1 i~.pi - : le ( 'leceive anyone. But we need not <1, hiui with a smile few men could resist, aii'. out her hands. " Be friends, Earle; I like you too well, after all, to travel with 154 A FAIR MYSTERY. you while you look so cold and stern. Give me one smile only one then I shall feel move at my ease." " I do not think my smiles cheer, or the loss of them depresses you. Neither can I smile to order; still you need have no fear of traveling with me." It was in her nature to respect liirn more, the more difficult he seemed to please. " I shall manage him in time," she thought. " I shall return with you, Earle," she said. " I have been thinking it all over, and I will go at once. I will not wait to say good-bye to the people here." " But that seems strange not quite right. Why not go and bid them farewell? Tell them the good fortune that has hap- pened to you." "No; they are very fond of me the children especially. You do not know; they would not let me come away." " But it does not seem right," persisted Earle. " It is right enough; if I go back to them I shall not go with you. I can write to them as soon as I reach England, and tell them all about it." " I know you will have your own way, Doris. It is useless for me to interfere; do as you please." " That is like my old lover, Earle; now I begin to feel at home with you. I did use you very wickedly, but all the time I liked you." " I know exactly the value of your liking," said Earle, who had determined to be cool and guarded. She talked to him in the old sweet tones; she gave him the sweetest glances from her lovely eyes; she remembered all the pretty arts and graces which had attracted him most; and Earle, despite his caution, despite his resolve, knew that his heart was on fire again with the glamour and magic of her beauty; knew that every pulse was throbbing with passion; and she knew, as well as though he had put it into words, that the old charm was returning, only a thousand times stronger. She laid her white hand on his arm, and he shrank shuddering from the touch. She only smiled her time would come. " I shall not return to the house where I have been living. The reason is that I wish them to forget me. I shall not like, when I am Lady Doris Studleigh, to be recognized by them." That pride was so exactly like her, he understood it well. " You can return to Florence, if you like," she continued, with the air of a queen; " but if you wisli to please me, you will walk on with me to the ne.?rfst railwav station, and let us go at once to Genoa. We can travel from Genoa to London." " But I have left my things at the hotel." lie said. " Is there any tiling particular among them, Earle?" " No," he replied. ' Then you can send for them on your arrival. Please your- self. If you do not go on my terms, I shall go alone." Then he looked at the rippling, golden hair, that fell hi sucb shining profusion over her shoulders, at the dress of rich velvet; silk and delicate lace. A FAIR MYSTl 155 "You are not dressed for traveling. "Why be so hasty?" he Mid. " I can purchase anything I want at Genoa," she replied. Then lie noticed for the first time what costly jewels she wore, and how her hands were covered with shining gems. For the fjr.-,t time a thrill of uneasiness, of doubt, of fear, shot through him. " You have some beautiful jewels, Doris," he said, slowly. Her face flushed, then she laughed carelessly. " How easy it is to deceive a man," she said; "a lady would have known at one glance that they were not real." He felt greatly relieved. "They are pretty, but not very valuable," she continued " given to me by the cliildren I have been teaching. If you do not like them, Earle, I will throw them into the Arno one by one." " Why do that, if the little children gave them to you ? I am no judge of precious stones, but looking at the light in those, I should have thought them real." " Do you know that if they were real they would be worth hundreds and hundreds of pounds? You must think an English governess in Italy coins money." lie !<,,!.. . 1 admiringly at her handsome dress, although too in- 1 to know it- iv;il value. "This is my !. " And do you know, Earle. that as I put it on 1 said to myself, I do not look amiss in this; I v. i-h llirle could see me." Did you really':" lie a.sked, a flush of delight rising to his brow. It ive a generous and trusting that one i!ii_l;t a! ; > do it. "Did you, :i'-n. although you ran away from me so cruelly, you did like iue. alter all':" (ill, Karle, what a question! Like you? Did you not feel sure that wh.-n I had seen something of tin- world had a! the fever of excitement that 1 should return to you? Did you not 1'eel Mire ot' it ':" No su-h thought or intention ha<: n in her mind, still she wi>hed to make the U^t ot matter*. It \vas no use for her to return to England ui : friends with him. r untruths, more OT lees, did not trouble, her in tin- only provided that he believed them. " 1 never thought mply reply. " I believed you ns." u would apply toothers. Karle. 1 told you so from the lx.-ginning quaintaii'-e. 1 tell you so now." " 1 lH-ll<-\ e it." lie n [!.. -lied to make friend flatteiv l by tii. ild not all atom and sorrow she had cau.-ed him. Ihen she took out a lilt I wateh that she wore. Tiiin- was flying. In one short halt-hour Lord Charles would be back with her flowers and news of tho oj>era-box. 153 .4 FAIR MYSTERY. " How angry he will be," she said to herself. " to think that any one should thwart his sovereign will and pleasure. He will look in every pretty nook by the river-bank, then he will go into the house and ask, ' Have you seen Mrs. Conyers '? And no one will be able to answer him. I should like to be here to see the sensation. Then he will be sulky, and finally come to the conclusion that I have given him up, and have run away from him." She was so accustomed to think of him as selfish, loving noth- ing but himself, that she never imagined that he had grown to love her with a madness of passion to which he would have sacrificed everything on earth. She had been so entirely wrapped up in her own pursuits, in the acquisition of number- less dresses and jewels, that she had not observed the signs of his increasing devotion. Blind to his mad passion for her, she decided upon leaving him: and of all the mistakes that she ever made in her life, none was so great as this. Ten minutes later they were walking rapidly toward the little town of Seipia : there they could go Ly train to Genoa. As they walked along the high-road Doris laughed and talked gavly, as though nothing had^happened since they were first betrothed. " This reminds me of old times, Earle," she said. " How goes the poetry, dear? I expect to hear that you have performed miracles by this time." "You destroyed my poetry, Doris, when you marred my genius and blighted my life!" She laid her hand caressingly on his. " Did I ? Then I must make amends for it now," she said. And he was almost vexed to find how the words thrilled him with a keen, passionate delight. Suddenly she raised a laughing face to his. "Was there a very dreadful sensation, Earle, when they found out I was gone ':'' The smiling face, the laughing voice, smote him like a sharp sword. He remembered the pain and the anguish, the torture he had suffered, the long hours when he had lain between life and death; lie remembered the fame he had lost, the sweet gift of genius, all destroyed; his heart broken, his life rendered stale and profitless, while she could smile and ask with laughing eyes if there had been much sensation. " I believe," he cried, with a sudden flame of passion, " women are nerved with heartlessness!" She was scared by his manner. Deep feeling and earnestness feel )>! him some little blow in return fr the b!o\\- he had In h.-r In . rgiven him that he had not found her bear.ty and her grace in.luroin.-nt sutHcie; | him marry her. Slit- could not pardon him that, and sh.- lik.-d to think that he would he annoyed and vexed l-y h. : little drvanied of the storni of par-simi in tliat in art of his. If slie liad had any inkling of it, :;he would most assuredly have done the wisest and m<>-t straightforward tiling told him her story, tnir-teJ him. and CMU sided in what hu called his honor it would have been by far the s ... .1 i'urv of rage. He had gone into .: of her, anxious to ^ratitv every r. It had been her v. hi; he went to ].un-li,; Mi.- had plenty of lie had j.l;:; cd lier-'>he was surn did n-.l -t \vh<> sn Thv-n, t lesire lla," and knowing t'lat it n-..-ud l:e reallv impos- Pible. unless Lord Vivianne went liims"lf, t" -en the : rice of sitting by the river until h. turn. II'- :i the highest spirits, ha. n all that t with hi;: t! MI tiresome; I shall have no peace with her." And again he n-| eated hi.-, formula of comfort, " It is not for On the evening they reached Rrackcnside it was cold and windy. I.'ain had fallen during (lie day, but the rain-clouds ha 1 all disappeared: tl I clear and line, the moon shone, but Id was {.Teat. The s< i-i,e in England was quite wintry; there was no Italian sun to warm it: the (lowers and I all dead; the lields looked ^ray, ! nd the \\ind wailed v, tli a sound BO mournful that it made one shudder to listen walked up the fields together, Earle said to his beau- tiful eompaiM'in: "According to Mark Bract uanigh*; thi.- thai ' i ought to Bracnni She laughed. 160 A FAIR MYSTERY. " Do you know, Earle," she said, " I am quite ashamed of it, but I have a very uncomfortable sensation that I am returning home very much after the style of the piodigal son." " Nothing of the kind," said generous Earle. He would not allow her to depreciate herself. The wind was fearful; it bent the tall trees, and swayed them to and fro as though they were reeds. It moaned and wailed round the house with long-drawn, terrible cries. "One would think the wind had a voice, and was foretelling evil," said Doris, with a shudder. " Listen, Earle!" But the attention of the young poet was drawn to a pretty scene. Through the window of the farm-house a ruddy light came like a beam of welcome. " They are sitting there," said Earle" the farmer and his wife, with Mattie. Let us go to the window, Doris; we shall see them, but they will not see us." They drew near to the window. It was the prettiest home scene that was ever imagined. The ruddy light of the fire was reflected in the shining cupboard, in Mark's honest face it played over the bent head of his wife, and on Mattie's brown hair. Tears came into the young poet's eyes as he stood and watched; for Mark had taken the great Bible down from the shelf, and was reading aloud to his wife and child. They could not distinguish what he was reading, but they heard the deep reverence of his voice, and how it faltered when he came to any words that touched him. They could see the look of reverence on Mattie's face, and the picture was a pleasing one it touched all that was most noble in the heart of the young poet. " I have seen just such a look as Mattie wears on the pict- ured faces of the saints," he said; and although Doris affected to laugh at his enthusiasm, she was half jealous of the girl who ex- cited it. Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to Earle; he turned quickly to her. " Doris," he said, " raise your face to the quiet skies; let me look into the depths of your eyes. Tell me, before Heaven, are you worthy to return and take your place as sister by the side of that girl, whose every thought is pure, and every word de- vout '(" " I understand you," she said, coldly. " Yes, I am quite worthy to stand by her side." " Swear it, before Heaven!" he cried. And the unhappy girl swore it! CHAPTER XLV. AN APPEAL FOR FORGIVENESS. THE same wind that wailed so mournfully round the farm made sad music round the Castle walls. Lady Estelle shuddered as she listened to it; it seemed so full of prophecy, and tho prophecy was so full of evil. It moaned and sobbed, then went off into wild cries, t>~en into fitful wails. .4 FAIR MYSTERY. 161 A scene was passing just then in the drawing-room of the Castle, such as the dead and gone Hereford* had never seen. A group of four people were assembled there, the duke looking older liy t rs than when we saw him la.-t. his head bent, ,telv figure droopingi SB a man droops who has just met rrible blow of his lifetime. All the pride and the di_M!ii v seemed t.' have died away from the face of the du< .vere swollen with wet-ping. I >hall nevi-r f.-el myself again," she .siid to her husband; " it is my death-blow." Two others were in that group Lady Estelle, whose face was y pale; and standing near her, a tall, handsome man, fair of face, frank, careless and debonair. He was evidently trying \< sorry for something, but had not been able to succeed. It is so 'long since." he was saying, in a tone of apology; " but really I fear there can be no excuse off. 11 No," replied the duke, in a stern voice, "that is certain none." Two days before this two events had happened at the Castle. One was "that luidy Kstelle rec.-ived a note from Earle, brief enough in itself, but full of imixjrt to her. It simply said: 1 have found her. She is now at home, awaiting your sum- mons. I am thankful not to have failed." I .a !y Kstelle grew white to the lips as she read those lines. Then d letter. It was just as brief, and was : to the Earl of Linleigh. It said: " There is no use in further delay; come to the Castle when- ou like, only give me twelve hour's notice." Then came a letter which sorely puzzled the duke. It was from the Karl of Linleigh, saying that he should be happy to pay ,uea visit if it were quite convenient, and that he would on \\Vdne.~iay, when he would have something parti iiirn. The duke read the letter, then passed :fe with a very anxious look. He follows his k-tt.-r. he gives me no time to refuse him. I suppose we can "both guess what he wants to see me ' 1 am afraid so," said the duchess, with a sigh. " I am afraid she likes him. If she does, we must look upon the brightest side. i inly, to be Countess of : i i L'P-at thin;;, after all." "Ti _-h." said the duke; " it is the bearer of it whom I neither like nor tr 'her of them w< ir the story that Vlri<\ 'i. had to tell them. K\e:i to t! e duehess. who . ii;_-h!er N\as in love with the i-;irl. her I'Ut little, yet it w;uj the look of happy, dreamy content that sat on her : -ruck the duchess at last there was no mis: it it Lady Estelle looke i 8 to see her daughter manifest some little sign of delight at the coining C2 A FAIR MYSTERY. of her lover; she had expected some little attention to dress, some of the many hundred pretty ways of showing delight, but she saw none. Then the day dawned which was to bring the earl, and the duchess felt sure, from her daughter's face, that she had spent the greater part of the night in tears, Through some mistake in the time of his arrival, Lady Estelle was alone; the duke had not returned from his drive, and the duchess had driven over to the neighboring presbytery. The earl was not expected until six, but he arrived at four. It was perhaps well for Lady Estelle that she had not more time for anticipation; it was a terrible time for her a trying ordeal. She was alone in the library when she heard the sound of ear- riage-whef is; she never dreamed it was he till the sudden open- ing of the library door, and the footman announced: " The F irl of Linleigh!" She of*~ m wondered in after years that she had not died in that mor tent. But the pride and self-control of long years came to her a> i; she rose, pale as marble, cold, dignified, ready to die rather t ian yield to emotion; and without one word, she held out her hand in greeting to her husband. He was looking at her with e res that seemed to devour her. " I> telle," he murmured; then, ready, eloquent, debonair as he w is, he could say no more. Vt'as it possible gracious Hea^ HI! was it possible that this pale, proud, beautiful woman, BO bv aghty that she looked as though nothing could touch her was t possible that she was the fair young Estelle who had sac- rifk- .d everything for him, and been so cruelly rewarded ? Was thi ( magnificent woman really his wife? 1 Estelle," he repeated. He drew nearer, as though he would cf /ess her. She shrunk from him. " No," she said, " dc not touch me." But the earl, so handsome and debonair, was not to be aunted. " "Why. Estelle. my darling, my wife, surely you are going to brgive me I shall never forgive myself. No man ever did be- lave so vilely, I believe; but, my darling, you will forgive me, iml let us be happy now." " Alter twenty years!" she answered " after twenty long, sad * rear.s." " Better late than never, my \<9re. You must forgive me, Es- telle. 1 did you a most cruel wrong, but the most cruel of all svas to quarrel with you and leave you." " No,'' she said, firmly. ' the most cruel wrong you did was to marry me; and the next, to leave me all these ycar.s without one word. No \voiuan could ever forgive such a wrong.'' " But you are not a woman, you are an angel, Estelle so it has alwas's seemed to me. "Will you believe me in this one in- etance I am full of faults; I have behaved shamefully; my con- duct to you disgraces the name I bear, the name of a gentleman but will you believe this, Eetelle. my wife, my silence during A FAIR MYSTERY. 103 all these years lias not been because T would not write, but be- cause I dare not ? I never dreamed that you could forgive me; I held myself unworthy of all pardon. I knew that 1 had wronged you so greatly, I deserved no compassion." "If you felt so sure that I could never forgive you, why do you come here now? she asked, haughtily. The least possible gleam of amusement came into his eyes, the least possible curl to his lip. " Von see, my darling Estelle, it is in this way: As Ulric Stud- leigh it mattered little what bee ,une of me whether I went to t'ne bad altogether or not, whether I was marrird or not; but as Hurl of Linleigh it is quite another thing. I must have a wife to reign in my ancestral home; I must have children to succeed me; therefore, from the depth of my heart, I say forgive the fault of erring, passionate youth, and be my wife in reality as you are in name. I promise you, Estelle, I will atone to you for the evil I have clone; that I will make you happy beyond the power of words to tell; that I will spend my life in your service. Do you believe me V" She looked at him. His face was earnest and agitated, the eloquent eyes seemed to rain love into her own. It was hard to resist him. and yet he. had been so cruel. ""Why have you never written to me all these ye.-irs, Ulric?" she asked, and he knew that the faltering voice meant good for him. " My darling, I tell you I dared not. No man ever so sinned against :i woman a.s I sinned against you. I took advantage of your youth, y.jur simplicity, your love for me, to induce you to contract a private marriage with me. Then my horrible pride got ahead of me, I quarreled with you and left you for twenty may Heaven 1'otvhe im twenty j-ears. I can hardly expect that you will pardon me. How can you '.-" She drew a little nearer to him when she saw how unhappy he looked. " Ah, Ulric," she said "your race are all alike faithless and debonair; even the little one is the same." The words seemed to cost her violent effort; her face grew crimson. He looked at her with brightening eyes. The little one our child? Oh, Estelle, you have never told me anything of our child." " You have never asked," she retorted. " No. I am to blame. What dull, stupid apathy has come lie? Wliat have I been doing or thinking about? M and ciiild to drill through all the.-.,- year-. Weil, t'rom the depth* of my heart 1 n pardon me, for I am a ^ivat sinner. EMeile. tell me something about our child.'' Tlu 'ii of his la pitiful that tl".' could not help replying. " I cannot tell you much," she said. " I have been, like your- self, careless over the child. I could not keep nay secret and keep her, so she went" 164 A FAIR MYSTERY. " Yes, Lady Delapain told me; but have you never seen her* Do you know nothing of her?" " I have seen her twice/' And then Lady Estelle gave him the whole history of Doris. (i She is very beautiful," she said, in conclusion, " but she re- sembles you more than me. She is a Studleigh in face and in character. She is faithless and debonair, Ulric, as you are." " Perhaps you judge her rather harshly," he said, with great tenderness in his voice. " Why do you call her faithless, Es- telle ?" " Because she was engaged to marry some one who loved her with a true and tender love. She ran away from him, and al- most broke his heart." " Who was the some one?" asked the earl. " Earle Moray, a poet and a gentleman one whom a princess might rnarry, if she loved him." " Why did the little one run away from him? What was her reason ?" " She wanted to see something of the world, so she went abroad as governess to some little children." " That was not so very bad," he said. " She might have done much worse than that. It is quite natural for a girl to want to see something of life. Where did she go to, dear?" " To Florence, with some English people, I believe." " Well, I cannot really be very angry with her for it; of course her position will be changed now. We shall have to think twice before she fulfills this engagement." " I shall never be willing for her to marry any one but Earle," said Lady Estelle." " We have plenty of time to think of that," he said. " I feel rather inclined to be jealous of this Earle Moray. Estelle, my darling, you have not said that you forgive me." He drew nearer to her, he clasped her in his arms, and kissed the pale, beautiful face. He might be faithless, he had been cruel, but in all the wide world he was the only love for her. She did not avert her face from the passionate kisses that he showered upon it. " You forgive me, Estelle, my wife?" "Yes," she replied, "I forgive you; I cannot help it; but I know quite well that I ought not." CHAPTER XLVI. A THUNDERBOLT IN A DUCAL PALACE. THE Earl of Linleigh seemed to be indifferent as to the terms on which he obtained his pardon, provided only that he did ob- tain it. His thanks and gratitude were pleasing to hear. Her pale face relaxed as she listened. After all she had suffered, the Long, silent a^-ony of years there was something very delightful in being loved. " And you will be good to me, my darling?" whispered the earl. " You will not do what you might do take vengeance on me for my many sins ?" " No," said Lady Estelle, " I will not do that." A FAIR MYSTERY. 165 " And you will come with me to my home, Linleigh Towers, and reign there as its mistress and queen?" " I will do whatever makes you happiest," she said, with that gentleness that scorned to sit s<> - trmgoly upon her. " l> lie," said the .n-l, hear. I will take the onus on myself, (live me 1. t. they will make me strong enough to light any battlo iu your . He bent over her, and was busily engaged in taking tho ac- curate number of ki-.-es when the door suddenly opened, the duke and duchess entered the room, having returned from their drive together. The scene is better imagined than described. They were all well-bred people; but just at that moment the circunisl; d to bewilder them. Lady Estdle .sink pale and trembling into a chair the mo- ment she had dreaded f^r \ ;u s had e ;. . The earl was the lirst to recover himself. Coolly, as though nothing particular had occurred, (h u |> to the duke and duchess with o;/ They ted liim kindly, but ;ick emu: thing of restraint in their voices. They s;>oke of indi;' . 1 then the di if hid ..en of any refreshment. "We do not dine till eight," he said; "take some wine, at least." " No." said tho oarl; "the truth is. before T can a- hospitality, I have sumething to tell you ' .jn-t and Mit; but I JTOU, as tlie fault was all mine, so let the blame be all mine. every one ei-e. -> lie : i,an.!>oni' <:tike felt touched. What could he haw Ihim? ' ,t love his daughter; and th::! \i t'TriHo rely smiled as lie h.-ard the \ with a sudden nervous movement of the h;; her dau;. liter. "I have no the earl, "to oi'cr f >r which I i OB6. It WSB l!i" ; folly of a LK>V the trusting simplicity and i. girl." Then, for the first tim M of fear cam" inf duki 1 the din i tiiough .--! "Listen to me, your grace. Twenty years ago, when I wa 166 A FAIR MYSTERY. Ulric Studleigh, a captain in the army, without even the prospect of advancement, I fell in love with Lady Estelle." He was still looking in the duke's grave face, and his words seemed to fail him, his lips grew dry and hot, his hands trembled. " I am ashamed of my folly," he said, in a low, agitated voic*, " and I find it hard to tell." " You will remember. Lord Linleigh, that you are keeping us in suspense, and Lady Estelle is our only child. Be brief, for her mother's sake, if not for my own." The earl continued: "Do not think me a coward, your grace; I have faced the enemy in open figlit as often as any soldier. I never fled from a foe, but I would sooner face a regiment of foes, each with a drawn sword in his hand, than stand before you to tell what I have to tell." " Be brief, my lord," was the impatient comment. " Be brief." " In a few words, then, your grace, I loved your daughter. I won her love, and privately, unknown to any person, save one, we were married twenty years ago." The duchess ut'ered a low cry of sorrow and dismay. The duke suddenly drcpped into his chair like a man who had been shot. A painful silence fell over the room, broken only by the sobs of Lady Estelle. "Married!" said the duke, at last. "Oh, Heaven! has my daughter so cruelly deceived me ?" "The fault was all mine, your grace; shooting would be far too good for me. I persuaded her, I followed her, I made her wretched, I gave her no peace until she consented." " Oh! Estelle, my daughter, is it true?" cried the duke. "Is it can it be true ?" Estelle's only answer was a series of heart-breaking sobs. " It is true, your grace," said the earl. " If any suffering could undo it, I would suffer the extremity of torture. I repent with my whole heart; let me pray your grace not to turn a deaf ear to my repentance. The duke made no answer, but laid his head on his clasped hands. ' I had better tell you all," continued the earl, in a low voice. " We were married. I call Heaven to witness that the fault was all mine, and that I intended to act loyally, honorably, and truthfully to my dear wife; but we were unfortunate. I was proud and jealous, she was proud and impatient; she taunted me always by saying the Stiullcighs were all faithless. We quar- reled at last, and both of us were too proud to be the first to seek forgiveness. Then, in a fit of desperate rage, I exchanged into a regiment ordered to India, and. with the exception of one letter, no word has lieen exchanged between us since." The duke did riot raise his head. The duchess gave a long, shuddering moan. "There is one thing more oh, Heaven! how could I be so cruel ? when I h/id been gone some five months, my poor wife, my unhappy wife, became a mother." A FAIR HfYSTERY. 167 " I do not believe it!" cried the duke. " I will not believe it! It is nn infamous lie." "It is the solemn truth, your grace." "Stephanie, my wife," cried the duke, despairingly, " do you believe this ? Do you believe the child we have loved and cher- ished has deceived us so cruelly .-" The duchess left her daughter's side and went over to him. She laid her hand on his. "We must bear it together," she said. "It is the first great trial of our lives we must make the best of it." "To li.- deceived to smile on us, to kiss us, to sit by us, to share the same roof, to kneel at the same altar, and yet to keep Bu<-li a secret from us! "Why, Stephanie, it cannot he true." The duchess was not one of the demonstrative kind. 1 nit she was so deeply touched by the pain in his voice, that she clasped her arms round his neck. " I can only say one thing to comfort you, my husband. We Inve spent the greater part of our 1: her, and in no single thing have I deceived you yet. Let the remembrance of your wife's loyalty soften the thought of your daughter's treachery." The next moment the daughter whom he had loved as the very pride and joy of liis life, was kneeling and sobbing at his " It was not treachery, papa; dp not give it so bad a name. I was very young, and I loved him very much: except you and mamma, I loved no one else. Ah! papa, do not turn from me; I have suffered so terribly I have never been bap; moment since. I loved you so dearly I never could hear to lo,k at your face and remember how I had deceived you. I have been so unhappy, so wretched, so miserable. I cannot tell you. Pity me- do pot he angry with me. 1 loved you both, and" my rn in two. K me." Hut lie turned away from, the pitiful, plia-iing voice and 1/e- "1 not forgive you, E>telle," he said; "the pain is too great. " " Then I will kneel here until I die," she cried, ately; " I will never leave yon until % on say that you pardon me! The du!. his face, and when the F.arl of Lin; ;ed hack. It was as though a blight had ' over it it was changed, haggard, gray twenty \ears older than when he had entered th< rl felt nn when he caught sight of that pale face than he had ever I known. "Lord Linleigh." said the duke. "I want you to give m- nr marriage; how and where it took place; u ho were the wi I want to .see tin- copy of the register; 1 shall want the certiticuto of the chilli's birth and death." " It is not dead!" cried Lord Linleigh, in astonishment. " Not dead!" repeated the d.-ike. " Do you mean to tell me. 168 A FAIR MYSTERY. my lord, I have had a grandchild living all these years, and havs known nothing about it. Do you mean to tell me that a de- scendant of the Herefords has been born, and I have never even seen it? Great Heaven! what have I done, that I should have this to endure ?" " I was ashamed of the story of my marriage," said the earl, "but, if possible, I am still more ashamed of the history of my child. My poor wife was ill-advised win n she acted as she did.''" A certain nervous tremor came over the duchess. She remem- bered many things that the duke had forgotten, and a presenti- ment of the truth came over her. " Estelle," she said, " tell us where your child was born, and who helped you to deceive us ? v Obediently enough, she told the whole story. " We must not blame poor Lady Delapain," said the duke, kindly; " of the dead no ill should be spoken. Rely upon it, she did it for the kindest and best. Now, tell us, Estelle, what you did with this unhappy child." But Lady Estelle hid her face. " Ulric." she said to her husband, " will you tell for me?" They listened with a shock of horror and surprise. So this little foundling, over whose story they had wondered and pon- dered, of whose future the duchess had prophesied such evil, was of their own race, a Hereford. It seemed to the duke and duchess that they could never forget that humiliation, never re- cover from it. The duke rose from his chair; he held out one trembling hand to his wife. "Come away, Stephanie," he said; "this has been too much forme. I thought I was stronger. Come away! We can talk it over better alone we shall get over it better alone. We have n6 daughter now, dear we are quite alone. Our daughter has been some one else's wife for twenty years. Come away!" The duchess, since Lord Linleigh had told Doris' story, had never once looked at her daughter. She seemed the stronger of the two as they turned to quit the room together. The duke, never speaking to his daughter, said to his guest: " I will talk this over with my wife, and we will tell you after dinner what is our division." " Oh. Ulric!" cried Lady Estelle, " they will never forgive me. What shall I do? 1 But he kissed her face and consoled her. " It will all come right," lie said. " Of course it was a terrible shock to them both, that Brackenside business especially. I am very sorry over that; but they will forgive you. By this time to-morrow we shall all be laughing over it. trust me, darling." But Lord Linleigh. before this time to-morrow, had to hear something whi<-h startled even him, a"H he could boast of tol- erably strong nerves. A FAIR MYSTERY. CHAPTER XLVII. THE DUKE'S PLA.N. TH-VT was surely the most silent ami somber dinner-party ever held at the C'astle. The four who sat down to the table owned to themselves that it was a terrible mistake they ought to have me stranger present, if only to break the ice. Even the servants wondered, aa they looked from one grave face to an- other what unusual cloud had fallen over their superiors. The duke looked as though years had passed over his head since morning, when he went riding away, the picture of a pro ous genial, happy-hearted nobleman. His hair seemed to have grown grayer, the lines on his face deeper; the stately i stooped as it had never done before; the star on his breast in mockery, and contrasted cruelly with the, worn, haggard face o VG The' duchess, in her superb dress of black velvet, with its point- lace and diamonds, looked unhappy. She. had lost none ot her dignitv women reserve that under the most trying eircum- Btancee but there was a hesitation and faltering m her deal voice no one had ever heard before. Lord I.inl.'iirh did his best to restore something like cheerful- ness. The worst wa- over for him now; the story was told, and 11 to men of his race to feel dull for long. They had the happy faculty >f recovering from any blow, no matter howse\ere, in a marvelously short space of tin. sion was made, the story told, the worst known, and what had j would soon come right. He should take his beautiful wife to Linleign, and their daughter would soon join tt em; the whole story would soon blow over, then who so happy i? He was not troubled with any extra amount ot ce with any keen sen* .aohetold m tiu Indian life, and as far as possible tried to uui : ly F.sMle had. perhaps in all her life. tifuL ll.TUMial g.-ntl.- languor bad Mt her: there was a lier lair face, a light in .-d. The ordeal she had dreaded for so man} nt hM- tin- punisliment would follow. Sin- i too accurately tt,d..ubt that: still, the worst was over. Hie well-trained servants had qmt- ted the dining-room. t!ie door was closed, and then the duke, looking verv grave said: ieand myself have been talking over naatter8,and ,,!ldllet. 1 Shall In- if it it does m.t. i Leeply 1 n. it, von mu'st hiMi.-efortli U-tii ' me. 1 ' ,1 ui.tfuliv at him: l-ut his face waa stern. and she knew that just then all pleading would l-e vain. You. !(ialt me a blow I never th- Bfer, and you ought to something to atou >r it," 170 A FAIR MYSfERY. " I will sacrifice almost anything," she said; " that ia, anything except ray husband." " I need not tell you," continued the duke, "that I feel the disgrace and shame of the story I have just heard far more than you do who have told it. I feel it so keenly, that if it were known, I should never again show my face. I should never hold Up my head again among my peers; in fact, I could not endure to live and to know that such a history could be told of my daughter. My wife feels it as keenly as myself, therefore we have come to a fixed resolution." " May I ask what it is ?" said the earl. " It is this that the shameful secret be kept a secret still. I do not question the validity of the marriage. I own that, as far as I can see and understand, it was a perfectly legal ceremony; but with my consent it shall never be known. " I would rather far rather, Heaven knows see the daughter whom I have loved BO tenderly and so proudly, dead, than have this known." The Earl and Countess of Linleigh looked at each other. This was very different to what they had expected to hear. " I do not see," murmured the earl, " how it can possibly be avoided it must be known." " I have thought of a plan which will obviate the necessity," said the duke, in his most stately manner. " Permit me to ex- plain it. I grant that the existence of this unfortunate girl ren- ders it doubly difficult. Still, I protest, by the spotless name the Herefords have ever borne, by my pride of race, by the nobility of my ancestry, by the honor of my house I protest against let- ting the world know how my daughter has deceived me. But for the existence of this girl, I would propose that the marriage be annulled. Respect must be paid to her rights; she is at present your sole heiress, and the heiress of niy daughter. In all conscience, honor and loyalty, we are bound to recognize her rights." " We cannot do otherwise," said the duchess, with a stately bend of her head. Lady Estelle looked up with an expression of relief. " I must ask you," continued the duke, " to follow me atten- tively. I am anxious to do two things I wish to preserve the unsullied honor of my house, and I wish to do justice to her whom I must, in spite of my objection, call my grandchild. I propose to do it in this way: Let the secret of this private mar- riage ever remain unknown and unsuspected. It was known that Captain Studleigh admired Lady Estelle before he went abroad; it will not seem strange to any one that, having suc- ceeded to the earldom, and finding her still with us, he seeks to marry her. Visit Downsbury Castle when you will, my lord; vou can speak of Lady Estelle with all the rapture of a Studleigh. It will soon be rumored about that you have renewed the old love. At the end of six weeks I will take my daughter to Paris, you can follow us. I will not ask you to go again through the religious ceremony I have to much respect for religion to sug- gest it; but you can go through the civil forms, with all the pomp and splendor flue to yr.ur own rank and ours. Every paper A FAIR MYSTERY. 171 in England will then have an account of the marriage of Lady reford with tlic Earl of Liuleigh. and I shall IK- - I the great t -st di-gra--e the greatest shame tliat could have be- fal It'll me. Do \ou agree to my proposal. lrd Linleigh r In making it there is nothing auain-t your interest <>r my daughter's nothing against justice, loyalty, or honor: it is simply a sub- terfuge to Bave the honor of a noble liou-e. Do you 8;- " I see no ohjection." said the earl, cautiously. " I shall dower my daughter right royally." said the duke " as munificently as though she \\ere marrying the man whom I should have chosen lor her." " It would save an immense deal of scandal, and rumor, and remarks," said the du<-he>s. gravel v: "it would save us from a thousand taunts and jeers. We "have men so proud of you, Esteller Hut the child," said the earl "she cannot be ignored after that fashion." " i ertainly not. My plan you will find best for her as well as for you. I have told you before that I cannot and will not sul>- init to tin- degradation of hearing this story laughed at hy half London. Tliis is what I proj>ose for the child: You, my Lord Linleigh. were in your youth tamed for eccentricity. Tell the world openly, as you please, that you were married befor* went abroad, and lost your wife. That is perfectly true, and vou will n, ,t find ninny questions n-ked. Add that, unable to burden your-elf with the care of a child in India, you were com- 1 to leave her with friends of your wife every word of which is literally, strictly, and perfectly true. The only s that I charge you to guard a-; you would guard your life, is thn vour wife. You will not lind people curious to know it. They will conclude that you i: girl, an 1 not t.-a^e you with (iiiestions. You can claim l.ler at once, and take her home with ; earl looked quite content, hut there was a pitiful ex- pre^ion on the face of Ividy Kstelie that was painful to "1 unii- id: " hut. papa, if we do this she will t know wiio Ls her mother. She will never know that she is my child." it is not needful," was the Ptern reply. "I should think that any mother would shrink from letting her child knm a history as yours. Sh" will IN- with vou under you: an do all a mother's part toward h> tl.e honor of our na' The face of La> ! TOW rrimson a 1 ? ?ho listened. marriage was a legal one. rapa." she rtaiidy, hut not an honorable one. 1 do not, how- insist ujxtn it; you can please yourself. You know the alt'-rna- itive if you make the true >tory of lier birth known, I shall England, and never look on the faces of my old friends again." " 1 do not see, I". id the d- a pra^e. voice, " what difference it c-u possibly make to you. If you AC- knowledge her as your daughter twenty times over, you coul 172 A FAIR MYSTERY. not do more than let her live in your house, and take charge of her. You can do that now." "Oh, mamma, it will be so hard!" " I do not think you will find it so. You must remember that, with the unfortunate training the child has had, it is quite im- possible that she can beany credit to you. You should have looked better after her education, had you ever intended to ac- knowledge her. Spare me this disgrace; do not let the world know that a girl brought up in the kitchen at Brackenside is my grandchild. I must confess that, even under the circumstances, bad, painful, as they were, I cannot imagine why you acted so with the child.'' " I wanted her to be good and happy in a simple fashion. I never dreamed that these events would happen." " I think," said the duchess, "that you should be willing to adopt your father's suggestion. It is by far the mcst sensible one.'' " I quite agree with it," said Lord Linleigh. " Then the chief burden falls upon me I have but to own to a private marriage, as your grace suggests. It is doubtful whether any one cares to inquire the name of my wife. I was but Captain Studleigh, and a Mrs. Studleigh is of no note. Even if the girl herself should question me, I should merely say that I prefer not to mention her mother's name." " It will be far the best plan. The girl has a Studleigh face; claim her at once, and let her take her station as your daughter and mistress of your house until you take Estelle home." " I think it will be the best plan," said the earl. " If I were in your place," continued the duke, " I should not go to the farm; I should at once return to Linleigh Court; and when you reach there, send for the farmer, his wife, and your child it will make far less sensation. They are honest people, too, and if you ask for silence they will keep it. It is not proba- ble that any one will ever see her again who knew her here. The farmer and his wife have shown good tact and good sense in keeping friends and acquaintances at a distance." " I am sure you are right," said Lord Linleigh. " Estelie, do you consent?" She was silent for some few minutes; they saw her face quiver with pain. Then she left her seat and went round to her father, and knelt down by his side. "Dearest," she said to him, "I owe you this reparation. The dearest wish of my heart was to hear my child call me mother. I renounce that wish for your sake I promise to do as you sug- gest. Will you, in turn, forgive me?" Perhaps he was glad of the opportunity; for, bending over, he kissed her face, and she saw tears in his eyes. The duchess came round and joined the little group, but even in that moment Lady Estelle felt that the full pardon of her stately mother would indeed be difficult to win. A FAIR MYSTERY. ITS CHAPTER XLVIII. AN IMPORTANT LETTER. A FEW days after the events descrilxxl in the previous chapter, ft paragraph went round the principal English newspaj>ers which created some little sensation. It was headed Romance in High Life," and ran as foli " It is not generally known that the Earl of Linleigh lias been married and lost his wife. The marriagt which took place when the young and gallant captain had little expectation of tho earldom of Linleigh wa.s in itself, we believe, a romance. "Whether the sudden departure of the young ollicer for India was 1 by the death of his young v> ife. we are not aware. As it was impossible to take his infant daughter with him, the child was left in charge of his wile's friends. We learn, on the high- est authority, that the young lady, who will henceforth take her title as the Lady Doris Studleigh, is a most Ix^autiful and ac- complished girl, who will be a great addition to the shining lights of society. The earl is about to take up his residence, with his beautiful daughter, at Linleigh Court.'' Considerable sensation d by this, but no one was in the least surprised. Captain Studleigh had been known as a great tlirt: those who rememl*?ml him as the .handsome young man of his day, smiled and said, "There, Hint is why the gay gallant never married. I thought there was some re;;- How nviny lich widow* smiled on him, and smiled in vain. They wondered a little when he had married, and all agreed that mo-t probably a nobody a girl with a pretty face; he cared for any other neither birth nor money, that was certain. The announcement caused no other remark, and was tten. If Lady Doris Slu - anything like would be sure to U- beautiful they hail al- . without xeepti.in. the handsomest family in Eng- land. She would be a great heiress, no doubt, and her debut was v looked for. It was, perhaps, a fortnight after that paragraph had been well discued. that another appeared. It was as foil "M.\i:i:l.v,r. IN IIn.H I. IKK. We are informed that a noble earl, who- ion to a n n in the fashionable world, will soon lead to the hymeneal altar the lovely and aecomp! daughter of one of our n> ry on" knew at once that the Earl of Linlei-h was m but who v. :ii.s|K-r: ti. tainty it lie had liked her. and had tried haid t<> he went a i gradually wore itself out Inthei. time str, . at the farm. ; snowy morning when Doris had been home some few days. She was growing impatient. T: waa o great from gay, sunny Horence to cold foggy England; from 174 A FAIR MYSTERY. that luxurious villa, where flowers and light abounded, to th homely farm-house; from the honeyed worJs of her lover to the somewhat cold disapproval of Mattie and Mrs. Brace. Mark had said but little to her. " You tired your wings, my bonny bird," he said; " I am glad they brought you back here." He did not seem quite so much at home with her as he had been. More than once Earle saw him look in wonder at tin lovely face and white hands; then he would shake his honesj head gravely, and Earle knew that he was thinking to himsell she was out of place at the farm. Mrs. Brace had said but littl to her; she knew it was useless. Earle had begged her to bo si- lent, while Mattie looked on in sorrowful dismay. Would Earl< never see that Doris was unworthy of him ? Of her adventures but little has been said. Earle told them that he had met her in Florence, where she was staying as gov* erness to some little children, and had induced her to come home with him that was all they knew. Of the story told to Earle they were in perfect ignorance. Doris had shown some little sense; she had taken the costly gems from her fingers. In any case it would never be safe to wear them again; they would attract too much attention. She told Earle, laughingly, that she had thrown her pretty false stones away, when, in reality, she had safely packed them where no one but herself could find them. Then, after the novelty of receiving Earle's homage again had worn off, she began to grow impatient. " I cannot stay here long, Earle," she said; " it is too terrible. When shall I hear any news T " Soon, I am certain," was the reply. " Do not pray, do not Erecipitate matters by any imprudence, Doris. Wait a few days mger." But the news came at last. On a cold, snowy morning, while the farmer and his wife sat at breakfast, they heard the post- man's horn outside the gate. " News ought to keep this weather," said Mark, laughingly; "it is cold enough." Mrs. Brace hastened to the door. There was a steaming cup of coffee to be carried to the frozen postman, who took it grate- fully, and gave her a large, thick letter. "It is registered, Mrs. Brace," he said, "and your husband must sign the receipt." Now, if there was anything in this world of which Mi irk Brace really stood in awe, it was of pen and ink. He could j)ii",v, KO\V. reap with any man; place a pen in his hand and an inkstand before him, and he was reduced to a state of utter im- becility. "Sign a receipt!" he said to his wife. " The man knows he has brought the letter; that ought to be enough." When he found it must be done, lie submitted to it. Then it was discovered that the only inkstand in the house was in Doris' room, and that young lady asked wonderingly what wanted ink at that early hour of the morning for. A FAIR MYSTERY. 175 " Surely my father is not taking to literature, Mattie!" she cried. My dear si-ter, when will you learn that it is in bad taste to be always sneering at our father?" was Mattie's ansu " What d-n-s he want the ink for? Tell me ':" "There's a letter a thick, registered letter seemingly a very important one. and the i ned." i why the mocking smile died so suddenly from Doris' face why she grew pale, and agitated, and unlike her- self. " I shall be down in one moment, Mattie." she said. When she was left alone she clasped her liaiids together. " It has come at la.^t!" she said " at ! It was ten minutes before she went down; then Mark had almost ! <>.< :vd iruiu tlie effort he had made in !ie re- ceipt tlie postman had departed and, like all simp people, Mark and liis wife were wondering from whom t: ter had come, and wliat it was about. I.)ori.s listened ((iiietly for a minute. Mattie was engaged in preparing tea for her Then Doris said: " Do you not think it would save all trouble and discussion if yon opened the K-tter '.-" Mark laughed sheepishly, and said: is right, you know." Then h> -he letter. It was not very long, and they saw a slip of pink paper fall from it. Mrs. Brace picked it up and saw that it was a check for fifty pounds. M'-anwhile Mark read on slowly and laboriously; then he looked around him with a btwild. it again. usly. Mark, waving his liund. . I have had many a hard pu/./.le in my life, but this is tlie hard< -t I - understand it. Either tlie man who v. : r I am I cannot tell which. 1'at: t letter aloud; \ t me see if it sounds as it n liently Ir.im li-r Inis! hands. N<> one saw the torture of suspense in Doris' : Brace read aloud: "Tlie Earl of Linh-igh pr< >mpliments to Mr. Mark rant him a :Iy to we Mr. : glad ii Mr. l',r. will start withou: : It 9 alao with him I m>l ( i- aid alxmt it s.'ii I for Larle." Tlien he was struck by th> vssion of hid wife'* face. She bent down and whispered 176 A FAIR MYSTERY. "That is it!" he said, with sudden conviction; "that is itf Heaven bless me! I never thought of it; send for Earle." 'Is it anything of any harm to you, father ?" asked Mattie, anxiously. " No, my child. Doris, you say nothing." " What can I say? You are a great man to be sent for by a mighty earl. What can he want us for ?" "It has come at last!" said Mark. " Well, thank Heaven, we have done our duty. I sliall not be afraid to face him or any one else." Then Mark sat in silence till Earle came, when he dismissed the two girls from the room, little dreaming that Doris knew far more of her own story than he did. " Read this," he said, placing the letter in Earle's hand, " then tell me what you think." Earle read the letter attentively. " I think," he said, " that this concerns Doris, and that you will most probably find the earl is either her father, or that he knows something of her parentage." " I expected it," said Mark, with a deep sigh; " and Heaven knows, Earle, I shall be thankful to get the girl off my hands without any more trouble. She frightens me, my dear boy she does, indeed; she is so unlike the rest of us. I am always won- dering what she will do or say next; she is out of place here al- together. It will be a relief to me." And honest Mark wiped his brow with the air of one who was glad to get rid of a great burden. " My wife has more sense and better judgment than any woman in England," he continued, "and she thinks he will turn out to be Doris' father. Where is the mother, I wonder ? What do you advise, Earle?" " I advise you to do exactly what Lord Linleigh says. Start at once, and take the ladies with you. The matter is "evidently pressing, or he would not write so urgently." " I must go, then; but it is really a trouble, Earle. I can get on with an honest plowman or a sensible farmer, but with lords and ladies I am quite at sea. My dear boy, I dread them. I shall never forget what I went through with the duchess. Of course I know about all mankind being sons of Adam to begin with, but I like my own sort of people best, Earle." " I do not know that you are wrong," was the reply. " Earle," said Mark, suddenly, " will you tell Mattie about this affair when we are gone? I know she will feel it terribly; she is very fond of Doris, and neither her mother nor I have ever hinted it to her." " I will tell her," said Earle, gravely. " Now let me do what I can toward helping you. I will drive you to Quainton Station; you must go to London first, and from London to Linleigh. It is in the south of Kent." " I believe that you know every place in the wide world, Earle,'' said the farmer, admiringly. In a short time they were all on the road to London, while Earle, left alone with Mattie, told her the whole story, and had the satisfaction, for once in his life, of seeing genuine surprise. A FAIR MYSTERY. 177 CHAPTER XLIX. " WELCOME, MY DAUGHTER, TO YOUR FATHER'S HEART." LIXLEIGH COUKT stands on the southern coast, where the south' ern sea k -hores, and the fertile lands yield sw ( fruits and flowers. It has not the stamp of antiquity which makes some of the fair homes of England so celebrated. The archi; .otof the grand old Norman tyj>e; it is of moerfection. The journey had been a comfortable one, thanks to 1 He had seen that the travelers went first-class, which, notwith- .Mg the lii'ty pounds, would never have occurred to Mark. of comfort, liberally fed \\\ f the printed remilations looking liim in t: 1 forbidding any sucli enormity. "When they r \u-ierl--y station, tl.- with on the panels a smart coachman and foot man aw:n- . Mark look'. I : mdeur of the j'.lfair i him; while 1' .-d into tl.' with linty air and grace of one v.-ho had always 1> to such luxuri -!ro\e t!irou.'h the rich Kentish scenery until t ; 'lark tir-i _ht >i the tall tow.-rs of the Court from between ti;- out in " This is a magnificent place, Doris. I think it is even better than . " ]: -itine pnlacea, you would .not think much of "\Vliat.-ver happer. :ip her mind not ' . gratiiieil j>ride. No s\v r humilit - :iunarcli la thro:; her. No grat: 1 glorious v;ifts; norwwlvetomakeothen tiling but a sudden e! liioii. a v.iin, i-elf-^lorioiw tion.and contempt for the li this ia my father's house," she mused. " I have yet to sea 179 A FAIR MYSTERY. why he has lived in this affluence, while I have been brought up as a farmer's daughter ?" The two who were watching her wondered what brought that rapt expression to that beautiful face. They littla guessed the nature of her musings. " I wish this was all over," said Mark, as the carriage drew up at the stately entrance. " Only Heaven knows what we have to do now." Doris laughed, a low, rippling laugh of perfect content; then the great hall door was flung open, and they saw the magnificent interior, the liveried servants, the shining armor, and Mark's heart sank within him. Then he recovered himself a little, and when he looked around him, they were all three standing in one of the most magnificent halls in England. A servant was bow- ing before them, and Mark heard him say: "My lord is anxiously expecting you; will you come this way ?" They passed through two or three rooms which, by their splendor, completely awed the farmer and his wife. Mark's shoes had never seemed to be so large and so thick as when they trod on that velvet pile. The wondrous mirrors, pictures and statues dazzled him, the quantity of ornaments puzzled him; he won- dered how one could possibly move freely in such over-crowded rooms. " We cannot all be earls," thought Mark, " and I am not sorry for it. I am more comfortable in my kitchen than I could be here." Mrs. Brace followed with a pale face. She wondered less about the externals, and more what they were about to see. When they reached the library, chairs were placed for them. " My lord will be with you hi a few minutes," said the servant, and they were left alone. "I cannot help tumbling," said Mrs. Brace. "What have we to hear ?" The words had hardly left her lips, when the door opened, and a tall, handsome n.an entered the room. They saw that his face was pale and agitated, and his lips trembled. lie looked at the farmer and Mrs. Brace, but not at the young girl who stood near them. As yet his eyrs never met hers or rested on her. Ha went up to Mark with outstretched hands. " You are Mr. Brace," he said. " Let me introduce myself I am the Earl of Linlcigh." " I thought as much," replied Mark, anxious to do his best. " I have done what you wished, my lord brought Mrs. Brace and Doris with me." The earl held out his hand in silent greeting to the farmer's wife, but never once looked at the young girl. Then he drew a chair near to them. " I must thank you for coming." he said. " You have been very prompt and attentive. I hoped you would come to-day, but I nardly dared expect it." " We thought it better to lose no time," said Mark. " You did well, and I thank you for it. I have something of A FAIR MYSTERY. 179 great importance to say to lx>th of you something which ought to have been told y. You, perhaps, cau almost gm - Mark nodded, while his wife sighed deeply. "Twenty years ago," continued the earl, " 1 was a young man, gay, popular, fond of life, an officer in the army, and the younger son of a noble family, hut poor. You do not know how B man of fashion can be. I was very popular every house 111 Ixmdon was open to me but I knew that I was sought for my good spirits and genial ways. As for marriage well, it was -s to think of it, unless I could marry some wealthy heiress." He paused for a few minutes, and Mark shook his head sadly, as though he would say it was indeed a wretched state of things. " 1 speak to you quite frankly," said the earl. " It might oe possible to gloss over my follies, and give them kindly na: to say they were but youthful follies, no worse than those of other young men: I might say that I sowed my wild oats; but I come of a truthful race, and f say I was no better not one-half as good, in fact, as I ought to have been. Then, as a din. thcr follies, I fell in love, and persuaded the young girl I loved to marry mi 1 privately. That was bad enough, but I did . When we had been a short time married, we quarreled. Neither would give in, and we parted. It matters little to my story who my wife \\as, whether above or below me in station, whether poor or rich--sufhYe it to say that we p; : ; :ne time after I left England a little daughter was born to her. She still kept her secret. This little child she conlided to the care of a servant. The servant must have known you or , of you. lor she left the littl-' one. as you both know, at your door, and you took her in. They wrote to me and t< they had done, far a\\ay in India. I was helpless to inter- fere. Then I lost my wife; but the child continued with you. I innde no etT'Tt to reclaim her. 1 do not .- -o\ermy fault, believe me. Tbe truth is. to a soldier in India a i . "f this child source of embarrassment and i t<> me. I had not thn means of Mipportin i" the house of Studleigh should be supported, r-o I did what >eems so fatal! always leads to bad consequences--! let circn drift along as they would. The end of it was that as years went on I almost forgot the child's e\i-t"iice." Hut the mo; .nderingly, " always came the same.'' The oarl looked up quickly. "Yee -oh of course that was attended to," he said; but hia face flushed and his eyes fell. " To my great surprise." he continued, " I found myself, by a chapter of accidents. Middenly raist d to an earldom. I an of Linleigh, now, and that is a very different matter from Icing simply Captain Studleigh. The daughter of c.>pfiin Stu.. might always remain unknown: the daughter of the Karl of Lin- leigh has a* title and wealth of her o\\u. You understand the difference, I am sure, Mr. Brace?" 180 A FAIR MYSTuttY. " Yes," said Mark, " I understand." " One of the first things I turned my attention to, after my accession to the estates, was the daughter my wife sent to you." He looked nervously at the farmer and his wife, still never looking at Doris. " Well, my lord," said Mark, " we have done our best by her; she has had a good education, and she is clever. The money sent has always been spent upon her. We love her very much, but she is not one of us, and never could be. So that it is some- thing of a relief to us to give her back into your own hands. Doris, my dear," he continued, turning to the beautiful girl by his side, "it is of you we are speaking. You are not my daughter, my dear; my good wife here is not your mother; but we nave been very fond of you since you were left a little helpless baby at our door, in the cold darkness and pouring rain." The girl's face turned deadly pale. It was no news to her this secret which poor Mark never dreamed she knew; it had long been no secret to her. She caught her breath with a low, gasping sigh. " You have been very kind to me," she said " very kind." " Poor child," said Mrs. Brace, gently. "You see she loves us after all, Mark." Then, for the first time, the earl turned slowly to look at his daughter. They could all see fear as well as anxiety in his eyes. At first his lips quivered, and his face grew deadly pale; then gradually every other emotion became absorbed in admiration. He came up to her and raised her face to the light: then, as the two faces looked at each other, the wonderful likeness between them became apparent. " Nay, daughter," said the earl, gently, " no need to ask Mark Brace if this be indeed my daughter. Her face tells the story she is a Studleigh. She seems like one of the family pictures come down from its frame. Welcome, my daughter, to your father's heart and he-rue!" And as he spoke, the earl kissed most tenderly the lovely, blushing face. CHAPTER L. "ONLY ONE OTHER PERSON KNOWS MY SECRET." THEN, with the gallantry that was always natural to him, the earl placed his daughter "in a chair. He turned with a smile to Mark. " I was a coward," he said, " for the second time in my life. I was afraid to look at her; now I do not see how I can look anywhere else. How am I to thank you? You have brought me the fairest and most graceful daughter in England!" " Well," said Mark, with an air of great consideration, " you see, my lord, we had nothing to do with her grace and beautv; but my wife has certainly done her best to teach the young la-Iy little tidy ways, and such like." " I h> she haa le 1 * uni them," said th earl, kindly. " Mrs, A FAIR MYSTERY. 181 Brace looks as though she could teach all goodness. And this is* my daughter! Child, how like you ar .in very glad, papa: am I not like mother, too?' >." he replied, gravelv, "not in the least. Thank Heaven for it!" When they heard those words they thought that ho had c.-r- tainly married beneath him that Ills marriage had not turned out happily. " There are some necessary legal forms to he gone through," said the earl, " and as l>u.sinss is always disagreeable, it will be veil, perhaps, it' we settle that at once. My lawyer is in attend- It will Ite nec.-s>ary for you and Mi>. Hrace to make an affidavit stating that this i.s indeed my daughter, the infant under vour charge." " That will he easy enough," said Mark. " If some one does the writing. I will sign." Lord Linleigh laughed: Mrs. Brace looked a little scandalized at the very free-and-easy speech. The earl said, laying his hand -ingly on the girl's shoulder: " This becomes a \erv important ln- l.-.mjis lighted on the toilet-table; the room looked the very pieti. luxury and comfort. The maid greeted her with a most re- spectful courtesy. " It' you please, my lady, the housekeeper desired me to re- main here at your service." " Draw thai easy-chair to the toilet-table." said Lady Doris; ' find me a footstool, and give me from my box there a book bound in yellow pa; Her orders were obeyed with a quickness and dexterity that amazed her, imj>erious as she was. Now." said Ixidy Doris, leaning back in her chair so as to enjoy the fire and bright pearly light. " you can brush my hair; but be very careful 1 am very particular over it." It was certainly a sight to be seen, that long, rippling golden hair, bright as the sunbeams, soft as silk, line, abundant, full of natural waves. The j^irl looked at it admiringly as it hung over her anus in a great shower. " It really does seem a pity to sleep in it," she thought " If it were my hair I should like to take it off at night." When suilicient of that ceremony had been gone through, Lady I >oris turned rund: " Will you go to the housekeeper and say I should like some wine and a bunch of grapes, if she has any ':" r l he maid complied. The lnni-- M anxiety my lady, snit a bottle of linest Burgundy, with a bun L rapes that \vere teniptiii',' '-nough. Mym>- -beautiful as an an 'he maid, "but hhe knows hov.- to I;>k alter her own < > do all 1; ; the lion- what else have they to do? Hut when you have lived as long as I ; Emily, you will know how to wait upon people without making comments ujxm them.' 1 The maid returned to the room; her lovely young m: Bat reading by the fire. What shall I do for you in the morning, my 1 that I am not ca!l-d too early; let me ha\ :ist after I awake, and see that tin- wal r of my hath ib both wurmed and jM-rfui; Emily opened her ey.-s in wonder, but thought it bi I no more. She contented herself by think, Studlei-li kn< \v how to study her own com: I> th-re anything mor. to-ni^ht. my ! 11 Nothi: the reply, giv.-n with a smile that won the maid's heart forever and ever. Sh- ' room to rnako hrr r<']~ " So beautiful, kind, and gracious; but ," thorough lady no 184 4 FAIR 1TT5TEEF." nonsense, no freedom a lady wno looked as though she would keep the whole world in its place." And the servants crowded round her to listen and admire. Lady Doris was impatient to be alone impatient to lock the door between herself and all human kind, in order that she might give some little freedom to the emotions pent up in her heart. She had controlled herself so well; she had won surprise, ad- miration, and wonder by simply refraining from expressing any of the three. Now no curious eyes were gazing at her. no curi- ous ears were listening to what words in her triumph escaped her. She locked the door, then stcod before the large mirror and steadfastly looked at herself. " All this is mine!" she said. " I have every wish of my heart at last! I have luxury such as I never dreamed of magnificence suited for a queen! I have a title that makes music in my ears I I have one of the noblest earls in England for my father! Ah, how near I have been to losing all this; even now I might lose it if that terrible secret of mine became known it would he taken from me. My father would forgive me many things, but never that." She stood quite still; the color faded from her beautiful face; a cold chill seized her. " How foolish 1 am," she said. " What need have I to fear? Only one other person knows my secret, and he would be the last, I know, to make it known. If ever he attempts it, he shall die!" Then she laughed; but there was something dreary in the laugh. " I shall never see him again," she said to herself; "and if I did if he declared that he knew me I should look quite stead- ily in his face and say swear, if necessary that in all my life I had never met him before. I am Studleigh enough to have nerve for that. Who was my mother, I wonder ? Some one of whom the earl is evidently ashamed; therefore she can nave little in- terest for me." CHAPTER LI. A NOBLEMAN'S GENEROSITY. NOTWITHSTANDING all the kindness and hospitality that the eaii nad shown to Mark, it was some relief to the farmer to know that when morning dawned he was that day to return home. The grandeur of Linleigh Court oppressed him; he longed to be with his laborers and his cattle, at woik. The earl took breakfast with th^m; Lady Doris was not down " she was tired," the maid said. " 1 was afraid it would be too much for her," said Mrs. Brace. " I am sure, my lord, the more I think of it, the more wonderful it seems." " Yes, it is quite a romance," laughed the earl. But neither he nor those with whom he spoke dreamed how that romance was to end in a tragedy. A FAIR MYSTERY. 1*; The morning being fine, though cold, the I th'-:n to visit the confer vuto; : ids time Doris had comedown, ana was i 'in them. While they were going through one of the 1. rvatories. Lady Doris snddenl _:ht of tin' Indian plant she had admired so much at Downsbury < 'astle the plant with scarlet hells and sweet, snhtlept n'unie. She hastened to it. an. I clasped a spray in her white hands. " That is like the face of an old friend," she said. " \Vliy ':" asked the earl, amused by the action. " 1 saw some flowers like them at Dowusbury Castle," she re- plied. The earl looked keenly at her. " Downsbury Castle!" he said. " I know the Duke of Downs- bury. What took you th-T.-. 1 >. " " What takes half the world every where?' she replied. "Curi- osity. I wanted so very much to see the interior of a castle, and to see if the people living there reallv led fairy li And what did yon think ':" lie a>ked, still in the same voice. " I liked it very much; hut. papa. I like Linleigh Court better it is nioi-.- Italian, with sunshine and llowers everyw : saw all the llowers at Downslmry Castle ':" he con- tinued, in the tone of one who asks a question. " Tea, ::nd Ix-autiful enough they were; but I saw something . the llowers, papa," \Vhat was that. Dor. : -lively I remember the whole of the name I saw the Laxly Estelle Hereford, only daughter of his serene and mi ;hty highness, the Duke of II',' laughed, but there was something forced and unnatural in the sound. "I know her," he said, trying to speak calmly; "they are very d>ar frie.-ids of mine. \Yhatdid you think of he- It v rful how lie learned to appeal to and rely on the judgment ot this fair young dang! "1 tii"!; hi ]., r p. rf.-ctly lx>autiful, perfectly graceful, " Tame, child! "What do you mean?" ' It was such a novel and n< t over-pleasant sensation for him to hear a mother :ue" by her daughter, although it wad done in supreme ignonu. " I cam: . -ord, papa, if :and instinct. ; !. n . 1 ...-: 1 I.- t much; bn - ne about love and i:. .11 ha\u :" murn.:; rl; tin n li- . '.: " How an e.xa-. B, in alarm. " I am 186 A FAIR MYSTERY. "That is right," said the earl. Even to himself he did not own how the introduction of Lady Estelle's name had startled him. Doris hastened on among the flowers. Lord Linleigh lingered behind, while he said to Mark and hid wife: "You are tenants of the Duke of Downsbury, are you not ?" " Yes," replied Mark. " Then I do not mind telling you, in all confidence, that you will probably hear or read something about Lady Hereford and myself which will please you." Mrs. Brace understood him at once. "My lord," she said, " I am so sorry that Lady Doris called her tame." He laughed good-naturedly. " She speaks her mind frankly," he said, " and that, at least, is a recommendation. Lady Estelle would only be amused if she heard it." " He means to marry her," said Mark to his wife, as the earl hurried after his daughter; but Mrs. Brace had the strangest ex- pression on her face. " Vv'hat is it?" Mark asked. " Surely you are not ill?" " No, I am not ill; but I will say this, Mark, it is a most awful world no one can understand it." "Do as I do, my dear; the world never troubles me, because I take no notice of it." But that philosophy was not in the way of Mark's wife. " Doris," said the earl, when he overtook his daughter, " I wish to consult you." " I am not a very wise person to consult,'' she replied, with a charming little smile, " but what little wit I have is quite at your service, papa." " My dear child," he said, " between ourselves, the 'Jtudleighs have never been deficient in wit, but there has hardly been one steady head in the whole race." "-That is deplorable enough. We must try to alter it," she said, laughingly. " To begin with. I will steady my own. What do you wish to consult me about, papa ':'' " I want to do something substantial and handsome for your foster-parents," lie said. " What shall it be ?" " A steam-plow for Mark, and a black satin dress for his wife that is the highest ambition of both." " Then jou shall present them those gifts. But I mean some- thing substantial, Wliat do you think of a thousand pounds as a dowry for his daughter, and a thousand to be spent in improve- ments on the far;: i ':" " I think you are very fortunate to have thousands to spare; and I think also that it is very charming of you to give them so much," she replied. Lord Linleigh looked wistfully at her. " Money could never repay such a benefit as Mark Brace and his wife have conferred upon me, Doris," he said. " I am an aristocrat, it is true; but I snail be more proud of reckoning that A FAIR MYSTERY. honest farmer among my friends than I should of calling a king brother.'' " That is a very grand sentiment, papa," laughed Doris. " It is almost worth printing in a book. I must confess 1 would rather have a king for my brother than any man for a friend. I think Mark will be delighted with the steam-plow. After all, what you are pleased to < all the benefit they conferred on \ <>u was not without its reward. Mark Brace was very fond of me he always said I made the sunshine of Brackenside." The earl lked amused at this fashion of making matters stiaight; but before they went away, he gladdened the hearts of the farmer anil his wife. "A thousand pounds!" said Mark, looking in the most IK-- wildered fashion at the check he held in his hand" a thousand pounds, my lord, to spend as I like! It is impossible it cannot bo true. I must not take it I have done notliing to deserve it" But Lord Linleigh greeted his scruples with: " You have done for me and my daughter that which few- would have done so well," he sai-1. "I did mv duty, my lord no less, no more; and a thousand pounds for doing my duty is an enormous reward." But his surprise was redoubled when, added to tin's, tli- insisted that he should take a thousand pounds for M. dowry, and vould not hear of ai. I. Then, indeed, the tears stood, warm and bright, in Mark's .-yes. and Mrs. I'.racu wept like a < hi!d. " A dowry for Mattie!" the brightest hope, the maddest dream they had ever entertained. Mattie to 1 fortune! Not that it would make her a wealthy heiress, but it would at least secure her from all want. Let them di" now, when.-. -ever H.-avt-n pleased their daughter would n'-vr Lord Linleixh could never forget the th.-mks that we: on him the gratitude, the warmth of emotion. " And now," gaid the earl. - one thing more that I wish you to do for me. It relates to my daughter's engagement with Earle M> ' him with an\ "V 'vlord my wife and I. It may not peri -h tor !: : is mv la-iy; h;:t if \ .u \ven to search the wide > 1 any <>;., \vh-i loved 1 . It will l>e but a poor chance for :ny lord, i -If." '. "It is al-otil that i. You v irn; tell him fr.i i me. that consent <-an rat sent! Tell him a No that 1 will do ; i his fortune." Mrs. Brace look.-d at him wit'. -val. " My 1<>! 'lion, " they speak truth- fully when they call \ ou :< noble man." Lady Doris, proud of her name, her fortune, her position, did 188 A FAIR MYSTERY. not feel quite so pleased when she heard this. It had been all very well when she was Doris Brace it had been all very well in Florence, when Earle had become tiresome, she had been compelled to repeat her promise of marriage, and pledge herself to him over and over again; but there had been a faint hope in her mind that when she was once with her father, under the shelter of his roof, he would never allow her to fulfill the en- gagement. She never dreamed that he would chivalrously exact its fulfillment. Still, she was wise enough to be silent, and not say what was in her mind. She had learned that great lesson women so often fail in when to be silent and when to speak. When they were once more alone, Mrs. Brace expressed her great sense of the earl's kindness and real goodness. She thought it so noble of him that he should wish the engagement to con- tinue. " It would break Earle's heart to lose you," she said. " When you went away abroad, I mean I thought he would have died." Lady Doris raised her head with the lofty air natural to her. " You do not understand," she said. " The earl could not break his word, or persuade another person to break a promise. Noblesse oblige /" " Ah, my dear," said the kindly woman, "you are far ahead of nie I never did quite understand you you are clever and learned; you have speech of your own that I cannot follow: but however great or grand you may be, you will never find any one to love you so truly as Earle does." "I am sure of that," she replied, then turned hastily away. She was growing tired of hearing of nothing but Earle. Surely they were all in a conspiracy, all plotting for Earle. Yet, de- spite her impatience, she owned to herself that all the love she had to give away was given to him. CHAPTER UI. " BE KIND TO HER, AS THOUGH YOU WERE HER OWN CHILD." THE atmosphere seemed clearer to Lady Doris Studleigh when the kindly farmer and his wife were gone; she wanted nothing to remind her of what she chose to call that miserable period or her life. She was always vexed that the earl had sjK)ken so frankly of them as her foster-parents. There was no need, surely, for all the house to know that she had been brought up at a farm. She would have been surprised if she could have known the amount of respect that the servants, one and all, felt for Mark Brace. No person could know him without feeling for him the gn-atist possible liking; his honesty, the simple, rugged grand- eur of liis characi.-r, attracted all. She, who measured men by the len.uth of their pedigree and purses, was quite unable, .even in her own mind, to do justice to Mark Brace. He might be as chivalrous as Bayard, self-denying as Sir Philip Sydney, l.rave as the Black Prince, but, for all that, he was only a farmer. There fore it was a relief to her when he was gone. She felt more at ease in her father's house when they were gone. A FAIR XYSTERY. 189 When Lord Linleigh, after seein? them off from the station, had returned to the Court, ho sent for his daughter to th*' library. Now. my darling." he said, " it is quite Tim* we had a little serious talk together. How st ran. ire it rue t<> ! n-up daughter lijte you. Sifcwwn; 1 have so much t to you. To 1). _nu with, do you find yourself at homer" " I have never felt more at home in my life." she replied, calrnlv; "and I think it is because I am in mv ri^ht pla " Most probably so. Now, Doris. th> nil thinirs that yi. M want, and must have at < ;,-isiuii waiting-maid, and a wardrobe suit.-d t.. your [Mi-ition. l)o you "Yes; it is one of my favorite amusements." "That is ri^ht; you must ha\e a horse and groom; there will beacarri; vour disposal. Hut over your wardrol* we must have some advice. You will require everything, just as though you were being married." in," she replied, with a quiet smile; "bnt I do not think I shall need advice. I am quite- competent im> ' what 1 want." " But, my dear child, how can you be?' "You i.T_- i thai 1 .':ii out ;,,_,, \erii"--. and so had the O|H portunity of studving those things. Trust me and see. I shall OOCe t<- -Yi.idaiiic 1 rancois. the head court milliner, and you wil' i i. I am sure, with the result." " 1 shall lie delighted. I am sure, if that be the c tli" earl. "Then you will want jewels. Studleigh jewi ', e have the tinest jewels in tin 1 world." Why will they not do for me, then?" she ask. "Because they mu-t -.. to my wife. The family jewels are always the property <.f the reigning t'ountess of Linleitrh." I'.ut. papa. I her- - of Linli 8aid, with a little laii^h. " No. mv dear not just at present; but I hope that there soon will i His faced flushed sli.irhtlv. and he looked confused for a few : MtS. Then he " That is another of the thi' to ymi :i I on^ht, perh; that 1 think of marrying a^ain." There was a few minutes of dead si! di.l IMI like it: it \\a.- not \v 'i. She had antii : rt. 'I he earl conti' It u ill lie much happier lor me. I loris. and decideiily i for you. You labor under . ' t. al- though I acki to l \on niak- -(/ in \\orM, t- :ue little time in the society of a wt-11-trained woman of the \\.-ild." - quick enough to know that this wa.- jvrfectly ti " You are ri^ht. - ( ! the ailmis>iou p! . It will also be greatly to your advantage, 1> ontin- 190 A FAIR MYSTERY. ued. " When you make your debut in the great world, you will find the clwperonage of a lady essential to you. Still, my child, although there are many advantages for you, do not let me mis- lead you. It is not for your sake I am going to marry: it is for my own, because I really love the lady who will soon, I hope, be Countess of Linleigh." She made a violent effort to conquer herself. There was noth- ing to be gained, she knew, by opposition everything by cheer- ful acquiescence. She went to him and clasped her arms around his neck, and kissed his face. " I hope you will be happy, parTa," she said " I hope you will be very happy." " Thank you," he replied, cheerfully; " I do not doubt it, dar- ling. I think we shall all be happy together. Guess, Doris, who it is that I hope soon to bring here." " I can't guess, papa. I do not know the ladies of your world." " You know tliis one," he said, laughingly, while she, half- frightened, said: " How can I ?" " You have been to Downsbury Castle, have you not?" A sudden light came over her face, then she laughed. "Can it be Lady Estelle Hereford?" she cried. "Oh, papa, you will never forgive me for calling her tame." " I have forgiven you. Do you not think you will be very happy with her r" " I am sure I shall like her very much; she is so fair, so well- bred, so gentle. How little I dreamed, papa, on that day I was sitting so near to her, that she would be my step-mother that I should ever live with her. I am so glad!" She did not understand why his face quivered, as with pain. He drew the bright golden head down to his breast. " My darling," he said, gently, " you shall have all the love, the care, the affection that a father can show his child you shall have everything your heart desires and wishes for, if you will do one thing in return." " I will do anything in return," she said. And for once there was something like deep feeling in her voice. " I want you to be kind to this wife of mine, Doris. She is not very strong: she has been petted and spoiled all her life. Be kind to her as though as though you were her own child, or her own younger sister. Will you, Doris? Promise me th-it, and you will give me the greatest happiness that it is in your power to confer upon me." " I do promise." cried Doris. " I cannot say that I will love her as my mother, but I will be everything that is gentle and obedient. "Thank you, my darling! Only do that, and you will see what return 1 will make to you. There is another thing. Doris, I wish to spoak to you about. You heard and agreed with what I said to Mrs. Brace, that I wish your lover. Earle Moray, to ua- a* A FAIR MYSTERY. derstand that I shall consider the engagement hetween you binding as though you had always remained at th'> f:>: " You an- very kind, papa." she paid: hut this time there was no rinK of truti ffl in her \ ' It is hut ju-i. Itori-;. I shall make his adva: , the world my chiel' study. Money can he n you will in all probability have a lar;;e fortun- ':..ul 1 like the man you i in tin- v. From what you tell me of Earle Mora.. that - a man of gre.it talent. If so. then- ran ! little diffi- culty." He has something more than talent." said Doris, proudly; "he iius." " My ciear child, yon will know, when yon are as old as I am, that talent and industry are worth any amount of genius." " I am sure that he has industry. ; "Then, if he has industry and genius. his fortune is sure." said the earl. " as we have a Countess of Linleigh todo the honors, we must ask Earle Moray to come an Of all things, that wa.s what she desired most, that lie should r in her true place, surrounded hy all the luxury and mag- nificence that belon. >n. It was tin wirdi of her heart. H \\-e not ask him before then, papa r" " No: ti,. r.-. you the laws of etiquette and ceremony i. Until you have some lady to (/ annot in;,' p-ntl-'men visitors. Tliat will be one con- veni< ~ ; ie replied: hut the traditional Btep-motherirenefally interfere^ in the love all'airs ot the hou>. hold. llou -lelle will n.-\er interfere with mi " The i mkf of Itownsliury ,* to Paris tlii> \\eek." continued rl. " with the duchess and Lady Kstel! -t fol- lowing th' " That will lw )'. >r you. ] " It is really - ..rt t<> )ia\'- a daughter whom one irli matters. I want to marry as so, !, hat marrying a duke's dau^'li' ad.>us un- dertaking. iJoris. The amount of ceremony and form to I., through with if sonn-thii. J. I should not mind aUxit that: hut, you see, the great eml>arrassm<-nt is this tli.- di. particular, arxl he \\ould naturally think it : rl's death for me to make anv ^n at put'li* that is the dinVulty.' i ditliculty," said I > " All that would i could olitain ti. : to a xt weeK. I may lx- a month n< \v con,-. f aU, Doris what i witn \ou]r" " I can remain h : 192 A FAIR MYSTERY. " Not alone, my dear, not alone- -it would not do. I thought if ! were to ask that nice daughter of Mark Brace's she would stay with you; then I should feel quite at my ease." " I should be much pleased," said Doris. It woiild indeed be a triumph to show Mattie, upon whom she had always looked down, the difference that really existed be- tween them. "Then all our difficulties are silenced," said the earl. "I have often heard people say how difficult their daughters are to manage; but if they are like you, Doris, there cannot be such great difficulty." She laughed, wondering to herself if he would say the same in a year's time. " You understand, Doris, that it will not do for you to go into society at all just yet. You must neither receive or pay visits. No young lady does anything of that kind until she has been presented at court." " When does my presentation take place, papa ?" " If all goes well, I think next May. Lady Estelle or the duchess will present you; then you may consider yourself fairly afloat until then, solitude. You can spend the intermediate time in the acquisition of all kinds of little accomplishments; not that you are deficient, for you are a perfect v onder to me, The next thing to be done, Doris, is that you must choose a suit of rooms for yourself. I give you permission to choose which you will; and when we go to London, you shall go to Mantall & Briard's, the famous decorators and house-furnishers, and choose anything you like. It will amuse you during my absence to superintend the fitting-up of four rooms it will give me a fair idea of your taste." They went together through Linleigh Court. Until then Doris had no just idea of the immense extent of the place she was amazed at it. And the rooms were all so light, so sunny, so bright, she was quite at a loss which to choose. One suit de- lighted her very much four large, lofty rooms, with ceilings superbly painted, looking south, so that the warmth and bright- ness of the sun was always on them. The windows were built after the French fashion long, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, and opening on to balconies filled with flowers. The great charm to Doris of these rooms was, that the boudoir opened on to a bale-on y, and a small flight of steps led from the balcony to the ground, so that she could go from her own rooms to the gardens without passing through the house. " That is very nice," said the earl, " for young ladies who love the early dew and the flowers. Do you think it safe, Doris? Suppose you forgot to fasten the door leading on to the balcony ?" It was an evil fate that led Lady Doris to choose that suit of rooms. A FAIR MYSTERY. '3 CHAPTER LTII. A YOfNO LADY PLEASANTLY OCCUPIED. A FEW days afterward the Earl of Linloi^h, with his daughter, went to London. He had decided not to ^o to his own house, v. hich was one of the most Ix'autil'nl mansions in Hyde Park Hyde House. They were vrmjr simply on business, ami would hj end the greater part of their time driving from one store toan- r. Tlie first visit, of course, was to Madame Franeoi.se, to whom the earl explained that his daughter required, in one word, dful for a young lady of rank and position. It will take many hours, Doris," said the earl; '|such things cannot l>e hurried. I can leave you here while I drive on to my to transact some business with him. Rememl>er, 017 darung, you have carti' blum-lii' every whim to he gratified." Then he drove away, lea\iiitf her wiih Madame r'rancojse. H..\v forcibly it recalled to her the time when Lord Vivianne had d:>nc the self-same tiling. Truly," she laughed to herself, " history repeats itself . How little then did I foresee this." So little that if even in a dream she could have been warned of :t. she would never have spoken to Lord Vivianne. Never mind." she said to herself, with the light-hearted < of her race. Never mind, no one knows nothing v/iil come of it: hut it would certainly be a relief to me to hear that Ird Charles Vivianne was dead." The pity of it was that Lord Charles could not hear the re- mar!;: it would have given him a lesson that he would not have forgo; wondered what had brought to grave an afar of itii'iioverthe beautiful your BJ human to IK- envied, it was the young girl who had carte in' in her elegant establishment. She mu-t know what ;t, though, "thought madame. 11 l>re:uniir_' is use!. little knew Ladj i tag up to her with a bo< MIS in her hand, she \va.- i by the clear. : l.at ni'-t her own -by the p.-rfect ; . aere will U' some tew tliin. iid the . 11 will understand far U-tter than otlu rs in which I sliall , -If." 1 madame found tliat I.aiiy Studl.-i^h had a t.: Mititul far superior to her ..\\ti. were deli-htful to I), ,ri-. 'l U-autiful embroi.l. ry. i li purchases limit tlier as r> quality or tpiantr forgotten -tin. gloves. She mi^'lit a trousseau for her yuun^fst daughter. The . wa .M A FAIR MYSTERY. something enormous. Even madame, accustomed as she was to large accounts, looked slightly frightened. " My Lord Linleigh placed no limit," she said to Doris. " No, I must have all I require; I shall not return to town until the season begins," was the perfectly self-possessed reply. Then Lord Linleigh returned, and madame watched his face intently as that wonderful account was placed before him. " It takes four figures," he said, with a smile; " that is quite right, my darling. I hope that you have everything you want. To-morrow we will pay a visit to Storr & Mortimer's, the jewel- ers. These packages, madame, are all to be sent to Linleigh Court." Doris was in the highest spirits. She said to herself and it was probably true that no girl in England, not even a royal princess, had such a trousseau; but she had too much good taste to show any undue elation over it. When they had dined she said to her father: " Papa, you will not care to spend the evening here; it will be dull for you, and I cannot go out. Should you not like to go to your club '(" " Yes; but what of you, my dear?" " I am tired, and shall be very glad to take a book and go to my own room with it." " My dear Doris," said the earl, who had slightly dreaded the long, lonely evening, "you are a most sensible girl. If you treat Earle as you treat me, he ought to be the happiest husband in the world."" " I hope he will be, papa," was the quiet reply. And she won- dered what her father, the Earl of Linleigh. would say if he knew from whom she had taken her early lessons in the art of man- aging men. " If you want a man to be rer.lly fond of you, Doris," he used to say, "to feel at home with you, and never to be bored in your society, let him have his own way offer him his liberty*, even when he does not seem inclined to take it; suggest to him a game at billiards, a few hours at his club you have no idea how IK- will appreciate you for it." She had found the charm work perfectly in the case of Lord Charles, and now her father, too, seemed to admire the plan. "What would he say if he knew who had instructed her '? She went to her room. Ln.cly Doris never traveled without a pleasant little selection of 1;, ht French literature "it prevented her from forgetting the language," she said. The earl, inwardly hoping his wife would be as sensible as his daughter, went off to spend a quiet evening at his club. The day following was one of genuine delight to Laxly Doris. The iirst visit the earl paid was to the establishment of Messrs. Storr & Mortimer, there she was to select for herself what jewels she would. She had glanced once wistfully at the earl. "Jewels are not like dress, papa. It is a dangerous thing to me unlimited powers here." i:\fit .vr.sT, in.-, "Lady Doris Stndlei^h must have jewels lit tin.!; her position." ill. J)ivs> \\ears out, but jewels last fore So L.-uly Doris stood in that most tempting place, almost \vildcred. while sets of pearls, of diamonds. of rare cm. raids. of pair pink coral, then case afl.-r C8M Ot super!) rin.L>, were placed before her. She thought of those so securely packed in her box, and wondered what would be thought if their history could ho known. Slit- chose some magnificent pearls; there were none fairer, even in that place where the finest stone-; al>onnd. Tin chore a set of emerald, golden-green in tlieir l)eatitiful li-ht: a Bet of pearls and rallies mixed; rin^s until she had more than enough to cover the lingers of both hands; golden chains of rare' workmanship and U-auty; watch I value; and \\li.-n she could think of nothing else she could desire, she looked up in the earl's face with a smile. " That is not bad, my dear, fora beginning," he said, laughingly " not had at all." " You do not think I have purchased too much, pupa r" " No, my dear, you have not enough yet. 1 merely said it \\a.-i \ery well for a beginning." "What the amount of the bill was, or how manv fiu'in took, sin- never kne\v. The carl had said good-nal himself that it did not matter he had many thousands to spare. " Ti another place," he said; " we must go to Parkins & Gotto's. You require iiany things from there. You have a dressing-case, a lady's writing-table, and all kii. knickkna'-ks for your rooms." 'liie day following was spent at Mantall & liriard's, v 6 such orders i',, r the littiiix; up of her lour i as made even those gentlemen open ti wonder. Nothing was that evening, when they sat together, Lady Doria said t. fatli- i : " I wonder if, in all the wide world, there is another ^irl in my position." " What i " Why, it is a positive fact that I h.iv. ; , left :iiiied. If a fairy \\ 1 a*k me to try and lind lit, I could Tiot I have not " He |toO] ed (lo\Ml to kl-S the iK-ailtiflll ! " I am glad t<> hear it." he replied. I certainly do not think any one else could It had thought day. She had IH-CII \\itli tin -plow; she had clio li a shau 1 an.i for Ml that she knew \\oiild l.ruiK ; that I had dii prettv ornaiiiei.ts, fdne-- quick iiiui liad led her tu do tl it-be dilleivnt thing o 190 A FAIR MYSTERY. longed for the hour in which she should return to Linleigh; she wanted to see all the magnificent purchases she had made placed at her own disposal. The Parisian waiting-maid was found and one bright, clear, frosty morning they returned to the Court. " It looks like home," said Lady Doris. Her heart warmed to it, and beat faster with a thrill of pride. It was her own home, from which nothing could dislodge her! She had had one fright in London; and though her nerves were strong, her courage high, it had been a fright. She was driving with the earl through New Bond Street, when on the pavement she saw Gregory Leslie. There was no avoid- ing him their eyes met. His were filled with recognition and surprise hers rested on him with calm nonchalance, although her heart beat high. Then he smiled, bowed, and half stood still; but the calm expression of her face never wavered. " Is it some one who knows you ?" asked the earl. " It is some one who has made a great mistake," she replied. And then they passed out of sight not, however, before Gregory Leslie had seen the coronet on the panel. " What a mistake I have made," he said to himself. " I cer- tainly thought that was my beautiful 'Innocence.' How like her! It cannot be such an uncommon type of face, after all, when there are three now that different people have seen all so much alike. What would my ' Innocent ' do in an earl's car- riage? that is, if all be well with her; and Earle said all was well." She would not recognize him, for the simple reason that she feared to do so. He was a man of the world, always in London, familiar with all the little rumors at the clubs, and she dreaded what he might say afterward. If by chance she should meet him when she was with the earl and countess, she would recog- nize him, but not just then. " It was an unfortunate thing for me," she said to herself, "having that picture painted. If I had known then what I know now, it never would have happened. Mark Brace and his wife were foolish to allow it." But she had forgotten the whole matter when they reached Linleigh Court. All the packages were there, and she was as happy as a queen superintending the arrangements, the un- packing, the stowing away in beautiful old wardrobes made of cedar. Even the Parisian waiting-maid, who rejoiced in the name of Eugenie, owned to herself that not one of the great ladies with whom she had lived had a wardrobe like Lady Doris Stud- leigh's! Then came the day for the earl's departure he would not go until Mattie had arrive; 1. " You cannot be left alone, my dear," he said, so decidedly that Doris had not dared to urge the matter. Mattie came, and was delighted. She cried a little at first, for, despite all her faults, she had most dearly loved the young girl she believed to be her sister. The story of Doris had been a great trouble to her, and she had felt it bitterly ; but after a time A FAIR MYSTERY. 197 she forgot her grief in the wonder excite! by (he magnificence of Linleigh Court. Lady Doris was very kind to her: nothing of patronage or triumph was to 1 i;i her man: The first time they were left alone together in what was to Mattie the bewilder- .rawing-room, the I I re raised timidly to the fair " Doris." said Mattie,' " who could have believed that you were such a great lady alter all':" I had faith in myself, my dear," was the superb reply, " and that is a great thin.,'!'' CHAPTER LTV. " I MUST BEAR IT FOR HIS SAKE." THE great world did own itself to be surprised not angry, nor shocked, nor even vexed or offended, hut surprised. Ir bad n<>t : newspaper rumors for gospel truth. It had prided itself ].erior knowledge, and had seen nothing of the kind; but this tine spring morning it was taken by snrj The fashionable morning papers all' told the same startling the Earl of LinK-i^b was married, and married to le Hereford, the Duke of Downshury's only They had defrauded the fa.-hionable world of a -ran-! The marriage of a duke's daughter with an earl would naturally have been a grand si-ht .-n.-h a grand duk. . too. as his i of Downshury. Then private run;or came to the : told how it would have U-en impossible for then rated with any de-n f eer.-mony in I to the fa< t ih.it the late earl had not so very ] limnor added al><>, how, long years ago, when he 1 in, Lord Linlej^li liad been hopclo- '8 fair, proud daughter, and how, on 1. A ed his suit: how he ha I to!! them to iVris. would take ID nay, and had married 1 - in spite of all ol,- was one Minnilar though it where the marria.L'e had I" ! iom. .-who noti.-ed the thought it would b next day, then forgot all aU.ut it. The earl had ks, an-1 T^nly !>oris had some of ! 198 A FAIR MYSTERY. The suit of rooms were finished, and Doris had taken posses- sion of them before the earl returned. The fair spring was coming; already the cuckoo had been heard in the woods; the first sweet odors of spring seemed to fill the air; the green buds were on the hedges such a fair, sweet, odorous spring. It seemed to have touched the heart of Earle, the poet, and have turned his poetry into words of fire. He wrote such letters to Lady Doris that, if it had been in the power of words to have touched her neart, his would have done so; but it was not; and one morning, when the sun was shining more brightly than usual, when the first faint song of the birds was heard, Lady Doris received a letter to say that day the earl and countess would be at home. The earl gave many directions how his beautiful and stately wife was to be received; how the Anderley church bells were to ring, the servants be ready; how a grand dinner was to be pre- pared an hour later than usual, so as to make allowance for any little delay in traveling. " I trust everything to you, Doris," said the earl, " and I know that I may safely do so; you will keep your promise." He trusted well. Her energy and quickness were not to be surpassed. Every arrangement was made, every trifling detail attended to, and the astonished servants, looking at each other in wonder, owned that their young lady was a ' ' regular loco- motive " when she liked. Great fires were burning in the dress- ing-rooms, the bedrooms every place where she thought a fire would be pleasant. " The Countess of Linleigh shall have the three things that I like best to welcome her home," she said, laughingly. " What are those?" asked Mattie. " Warmth, light, and flowers. Those are three grand luxuries, Mattie, and if people either appreciated them better, or cared more about them, the world would be a much more comforta- ble dwelling-place than it is nosv." Lady Doris took especial pains over her own toilet that even- ing. The Countess of Linleigh was a duke's daughter, and her good opinion was worth having. She wished to impress her fa- vorably, and she knew thac she must choose the happy medium. She must not be too plain that would seem like rusticity: nor too magnificent that would be ostentation. " I wish now," she said to herself, " that I had never gone near Downsbury Castle: it was one of the most unfortunate things I ever did in my life. I wonder what she thought of me that day?" She did look exceeedingly beautiful when she was dressed. She had chosen a costume of pale lilac silk, with golden orna- ments. The silk was shaded by fine white lace nothing could have suited her better. The ripples of golden hair were drawn loosely together, and fastened with a diamond arrow: the lovely face, with its dainty flush and bright, deep eyes; the lovely mouth, so like the soft petals of a rose; the white, graceful neck, the polished, pearly shoulders, the rounded arms all made up u picture not often seen. Mattie looked at her in honest amaze. A FAIR MYSTERY. 199 " You are very beautiful; you da/y.le my eyes, dear," she said. " What shall you do with your beauty, Doris 1 .-" " Enjoy it," was the laughing reply. But Hattie looked grave.' " It seems to ine," she said, " that beauty such as yours is full of peril." " I do not see it," was the laughing answer. " Now. Mattie.^t is time we went to the drawing-room; in one half hour from this my lord and my lady will be at home." ***** Faster and faster they seemed to drive; and with every minute that brought them nearer, Lady Linleigh grew paler. " It is an ordeal, Ulric," she said, in her dear, sweet voice; " it seems to me that all I have gone through is as nothing com- 1 to this. It was very hard of papa very hard." " He meant it for the l>est, Kstelle, and we must bear it, love; it might have l>een mudi w. , Yes; Imt to hear her speal:, to he with her every moment of the ells of And Church, filling the air with rich, jubilant lie . L-.rd I.mleigli: " tliat is our home." ening to the joyous bells, watching the last gold ,. rn sky. no dream of trage i A di- turbed them. " Home at last ."-aid the carl, as tl really think, Kstelle, I am the happie-t m:ui m i lie looked v. iMI'ully at his \\ ! v darliiiL'." he wlii-: I itotlie li' my sake try to cheer np. D-n-t aaddeo the i.ai>|ue^t bour of mv lile." She made a violent elTort to her usual high and gentle emu and Balked with gj knew what took p! lovelier than the lovtliest dream of an artist. She saw two white 200 A FAIR MYSTERY. arms around her husband's neck, while a voice that made her heart thrill said: " Welcome home, dear papa welcome home!" " I must bear it." she thought. " for his sake." Then the beautiful face was looking in her own. Oh, Heaven! that she should bear such pain, such joy, yet live. A soft voice said: " Welcome home, dear Lady Linleigh. I hope you will let me love you very much." She felt as though she held her heart in her own hands when she kissed the white brow, saying: " I am sure to love you very much." The earl, who was watching her closely, saw that she had just as much as she could bear it was time to interfere; so lie took Mattie by the hand and led her to the countess. He introduced her in a few kindly words, and then Lady Linleigh replied: " I remember you, my dear, though you have probably for- gotten me. I saw you when you were quite a little child." " I do remember you," said Mattie, gratefully. Then Lord Linleigh interfered again. " Estelle," he said, " we are just ten minutes behind our time. You would like to change your traveling dress." She looked at him like one roused from a dream, hardly seem- ing at first to understand him; then she walked slowly from the room. Lord Linleigh followed her, leaving the two girls alone. " I think she will like me," said Lady Doris, "and it will be really a boon to me to have such a graceful, high-bred lady in the house. I shall study her, imitate her. Now, Mattie, does she not, as I said before, seem to move to the hidden rhythm of some sweet music T ." Yes, she gives me exactly that impression. But how pale she is, Doris, and her hands trembled. She looked as though she was going to faint." " She is not strong papa told me so and traveling has per- haps tired her. Do you think she will like me, Mattie?" The tone of voice was very anxious. Mattie looked up quickly. " You will say I am full of foolish fancies, Doris, but do you know I could not help thinking that she loved you; she looked as though she did. Her eyes had quite a strange light in them as they rested on your face, and the expression on hers was won- derful." " That is certainly all fancy," replied Doris. " I have only seen her twice in my life; it is not possible she can love me. Perhaps she thought I was not so bad-looking she admires beauty in everything, I know; she told me so herself. She mar- ried papa, I suppose, for his handsome face." " Hush!" cried Mattie, "you must not say such things it is wrong," She could say no more; the earl and countess returned, and the dinner-bell rang. During dinner it seemed to Mattie that, so fat from being mistaken, she was quite right the countess certainly loved Doris; her voice took quite another tone when A FAIR MYSTERY. 201 she addressed her, She fancied the earl noticed it too, and was d. When Mattie was near, and Lady Linleigh was arranging some presents she had brought home for the girls he said. 'The countess will l>e quite happy now; she is so fond of young girls, and she has two to spoil." " I don't think I shall spoil either of them," said his wife, with a happy light in her eyes: "they are both too good to b* spoiled." CHAPTER LV. "MY QUEEN ROSE OF THE ROSEBUDS." THE Countess of Linleigh sat anxiously watching the fair face of Lady Doris. All was going on well at Linleigh. The gentle, stately countess was already half worshiped there. The earl considered himself the happiest of men. One conversation had both pleased and touched 1-idy Linleigh. When she had Keen at home some days she fancied Mattie looked grave and almost Bad. She had been thinking seriously about the girl -whether it was ad viable to ask her to remain with Iidy Doris as friend and companion, or whether it would be better to permit her to return to Hrackenside. Theea.l had spoken of theii I/ondon in May. if they did so, could Mattie go with them? Would it not be rather cruel than kind to give her notio: accustom her to a life which it would be impossible for her to lead .- The countess saw Mattie walking one morning in the early spring alone, with a most thoughtful look on In r face, and she went to IJ.T. " 1 have been looking for early violets." said Mattie, glancing with a smile at Lady Linleigh. "in that pretty little dell Thorny I 11, Doris calls it. Theair is tilled with their I \t Hrackeiiside, at this time, the \ Mill of them." The countess laughed. "There is noplace like Kraclien- i-le. i- there. M. 1 No," replied Ihegirl. earnestly. " DOD6 l least it .seems BO to me. l-i ause 1 love my h"i :'ly." Then i.-idy Linleigh placed In; hand can shoulder. "Mattie." She 'aid. gently, "you were lookin. thoughtful a few minutes since. What were you thinking of T Home --and Karle.' was tin- frank rejl\. I.-idy Linleigh was half startled. " What about ; ;.- asked. Tli" In-own eves wen r Milly to hers. " Karl.- will' IK> so urn No on-' kno-.v s no one can i;: 'inot think what his life is without her." "But he will not !* without her I- " Did you not know that In- wa- cdimn^ h. T-- in i 202 A FAIR MYSTERY. saw a sudden warm light in the brown eye; and without a word, almost by instinct, the Countess of Linleigh guessed the girl's secret, and how dearly she loved Earle. " Corning here!'' repeated Mattie. " I am so glad!" " So am I," added Lady Linleigh. " I have the highest opin- ion of your friend Earle." She did not know how grateful those words were to the girl, who never heard Earle spoken of save as Doris' own peculiar property. "Her friend!" She could have blessed Lady Linleigh for it. The words seemed to have made that sweet spring sun- shine brighter in some strange, vague way the odor of the hidden violets and the sound of Earle's voice seemed to har- monize. " And you yourself, Mattie," said the countess, more touched than she cared to own by that unconscious revelation " would you be happier to remain here, or to go home ? You shall de- cide for yourself, and do which you will." " My place is home," was the simple reply. " I have seen my dear Doris happy. I shall always be able to picture to myself what her manner of life is like. I shall know that Earle is con- tent, being with her; so that it seems to me now my place and my duty alike are at home." " I think you are right, dear child," said the countess. She had read the girl's secret rightly, and knew that, from henceforward, for Mattie Brace, there would be but one conso- lation, and that she would find in doing her duty. " You would like, perhaps," she added, " to wait and welcome Earle ?" But Mattie remembered how many things he would require, what preparations would be necessary for a visit to Linleigh Court; and she divined, with the rapidity of thought natural to her, that she must go home and help Earle. Lady Linleigh was infinitely touched by the young girl's simplicity, her loving heart, her complete sacrifice. Even the earl wondered how it was that his wife showed such sincere affection for Mattie. Mattie went away, and on this morning, some few days after her departure, Lady Linleigh sat anxiously watching the face of the beautiful Doris. Had she any heart, or was she a true Stud- leigh 'i The countess had been thinking of her all the morning, for at breakfast-time the earl, with a smile of happiness, had given her a letter, saying: " This is from Earle; how he loves Doris. He is coming to- day." Lady Lmleigh's thoughts had flown back to the time when she sat with Doris in the conservatory at the Castle, and had argued so strongly with her on the point of love. She was disappointed, for the beautiful face did not brighten, no warmth came into the lovely eyes, when she heard the announcement of her lover's coming. " Coming to-day, is he, papa?" And Lad)' Linleigh, quick to judge, felt a sure conviction that the tie which bound Lady Doris to Earle Moray, gentleman and poet, was burdensome to her. A FAIR .Vr.ST/T/n*. 203 " Perhaps she is ambitious." thought the ronntos?; " it ir. that with her wealth and title she thinks a marriage with i tlilnT." A.<:ain she felt somewhir e saw that I-idy Doris took some pains to please her lovrr. Ik- v, rcacli Linleigh in tin- evening. AVhen tin- dressing-bell rung. Lady Kst<-He hastened her toilet, in order that she might do \\ ry t'ond of doing I a short time in Lady Doris* dressing-room, sin- in\ 866 the shining ripples of golden hair loose and unl>ui)d, she liked to watch the glorious face, and to see the gr;n elul ligure arrayed in dress of titling splendor. There were times when 1-idy Doris herself wondered at the great tenderness of the duke's daughter. " As fate ordained me a step-mother," she would say to her- self with a smile, " I cannot be sutlicit-ntly thankful that she likes me so well." On this evening Lady Linleigh started with surpri- tomed as she was to the girl's beauty, it had u-d to her .iking or so graceful. I^niy Doris had ind. i her- as to charm the eyes of her lover. A little cry of admiration canie from Lady Estelle; it escaped her without her knou !<,. I.-id\ Doris looked round with a Musli and a smile, and nodded .iceful h<-ad. I am heing pin-tical. Lady Linl'L'h," slio said, lauglii- :.nd 1 am bride. \oii There \va* tlr ion of mockery in ; and laughter. Imt looking at her. the con: I find n> fault. The tall, ur rich white lace: the white, rounded arms wen- liare to the shoiil- d'-r: tlie gra-'ful neck was ch>p.-.| l.y n-ither diamond nor on the wliite lin-a-t a diamond gliti' golden hair, with its >liiniii r : \\a\> aiitifully the little , like pink sea-.sht-IK . -ntwiiied in the golden hair sh-- lotjked lii. e-pirit of love, beauty " Tlien you iilea.-e i n, aa she kissed "the fair I . rtaiidy." was tlie c(X]uettish reply. "I havi- no thought of failing, eif M the earl sto (M l an : a few moments in unit miration of his dau. ,. -linens; thr-n hi-shut Lady Linleigh that he did not understand, be always attributed it to sentiment. Then in her calm, high-bred fa>liu>n welcome to Linleigh; she spoke to him several times during dinner. That dinner seemed to Earle more like a dream than a reality. Win-never lit looked at her he thought of Quainton woods and the strange stoi > >he had told him there, the truth of which Keei i ied only kn'o\\u to ! .;.! hii.i. lie wond. would speak to him about il if she would allude to it i WaV. lie II;K! never seen IP carried out her commands. Alu r dinner .. r on that point was at an end. I' L the ooantem, " sing some of your pretl <'hiis for ikN. Mr. Moray, \\ it [ \,,u look over these ski-! d\ I While Doris' rich voice filled tho room, and i with the sketches in his hand, bhe, feigning to be interested in i I have never had .1 olinnco to tliank you, but I thanl now, with all my heart, \\ith gratiti: (.'an vou understand ho\v grateful I am to you, Earle Moray T There was a jirettv. musical lingering on his name which charmed him. lie looked into the proud, iimply: 206 A FAIR MYSTERY. "A man might be proud to give his life for you, Lady Lin- leigh. I am happy to think that it was in my power to be of service to you." " You will keep my secret always, Earle?" " Always, Lady Linleigh, as I would guard my life or my honor." " Even after you are married, when it will be most difficult to keep a secret from Doris, you will keep this you will never let her know that I am her mother ?" " No; you may trust me until death.'" he said. Then for some minutes there was silence. Lady Linleigh was the first to break it. " Do you know how I shall try to reward you, Earle?" she asked. " I think less of the reward than of the kindness that prompts it," he replied, gratefully. " I shall do my best to further your interests in life to help you to reach such a position as shall please Doris. I will hasten your marriage by every means in my power, and I will love you as though you were my own son. Do not look so grateful; they will wonder what I am saying to you. You understand, once and for all. I shall never allude to this again." The next moment Lady Doris was laughingly accusing the countess of having asked her to sing, in order that she might talk at her ease. "We are quite a family party," said Lord Linleigh. " Earle, do you play billiards ?" " No," he replied, " I do not." " Then come at once, and let me give you your first lesson. No man can hope to succeed in this world who cannot play billiards." Doris went into the billiard-room to see the first lesson given and received, while Lady Estolle pondered over the same problem did Doris love Earle, or did she not ? On the morning following the earl and the poet had a long conversation. It was a fine spring day, with the odor of early violets and the song of the birds in the air. " Come out with me, Mr. Moray," said the earl; " we can talk more at ease under the broad blue sky." Then, as they walked through the stately domain, the earl talked more seriously than he had ever done before. " Some men," he said, " might object to seeing an engagement of the kind fulfilled. I do not. When Doris, as you knew, had no name, no home, you would have been proud to make her your wife; she, in her turn, should be, and is, I do not doubt, proud to reward your love. Now, it would be very easy for me, Earle, to imitate one of the fathers in heavy comedy, and say: 4 Take her be happy; here are fifty thousand pounds and my blessing.' I repeat, that would be e:isy, but it would be an in- justice to you. I prefer that you shall make a position for your- self, and win her: you will be happier." "Yes," replied Earle, "a thousand times happier. I love hel so dearly pardon me, my lord so dearly, that I would work, -i r.\rft MYsrrnY. as Jacob did, seven years to win her, and, localise of my love, they would seem as onn day." " 1 will take your fortunes in hand," said the earl, " as I t<>ld you before. It would he easy to give you one; but I will you what is far better the means of making one. I will : you in such a position that it shall not lie in the power of any person to say, when he hears of my daughter's marriage, that she had made a iinxnllini,c<-." "I thank you, my lord; my deeds, my life shall thank ^ said Karie. earnestly. "You h;\e already," continued the earl, "made for yourself some reputation as a poet: now tell me, have you ever turned your attention to politics?" The young poet's faee glowed again; it was so sweet to him, for her dear sake, this high hope of fame. "I have studied the leading topics of the day." he replied, stly. "1 know you have the gift of eloquence, and my tirst effort on your behalf shall be that you IK- returned a member for An- derley. The late member died a few weeks sine.', and I a: peatedly asked to put forward a candidate. You shall be that candidate, Karle Moray, and you shall sueeeed. When %ou am M. I', for Anderley, we will talk of the next step." I cannot thank you," said Earie, breathlessly; " it would t*j quite useless for me to try." " In the meantime there is an appointment in I/mdon, in the civil service, \aeant. and I think my influence can procure it for you. It will bring you in an income of - ight hun- dred pounds per annum. The expenses of the election will, of course, be mine." iiis hand to his head with a bewildered expres- sion. " I think," he said, "I must have had a fairy godmother." ..nius is a tairv go.lmother." said the earl, laughi: " We shall all l>e very happy, Karle. ]; young to marry yet; a year or two in i!,e -n-at world will not hurt her. I do not think anything will you. " I am sure of it, my lord. I have full faith in my 1 That \. : iWd Linleigh wrote to I/nulon. ppointment of which he had spoken. It wa of him that more than once during the course of thai . in" he laughed to himself for U-ing sentimental. 1 should have done better." he thought. " to i young man something 1; inv di !<> marry." Then, again, lie would reproach himvlf with the th' his heart would warm with the consrioii>i.. and KI lion. It would have been impossible, even had ! kept the household in ignora:. He had not ! body of c. c.ic interefted in hi* wooiiig. Ue waa uui- 208 A FAIR MYSTERY. versally admired; the susceptible portion of the establishment declared that he was as handsome as Apollo, with a voice like real music, while languid footmen and knowing grooms de- clared him to be the " right kind of- gentleman." The Lady Doris had said little, but she had watched him with jealous eyes. If he had failed in any little observance of form or etiquette, she would never have pardoned him; if she had heard even the least hint that he was not perfectly well-bred, that he was not accustomed to the manners of good society, her angry resentment would have known no bounds. As it was, she was flattered by the universal praise and admiration. Earle might have lived with dukes and earls all his life. It never oc- curred to him, this terrible distance in rank; he did not think of it. As he once said to Doris, " He was a gentleman a king was no more." She had half anticipated feeling ashamed of him; she found, on the contrary, that she had ample reason to be proud of him. The earl told his wife and daughter what he hoped and in- tended to do for Earle. He almost wondered that the countess should be so pleased; her face flushed and her eyes filled with tears. " You are very good, Ulric," she said, very gently. He fancied that it was for her daughter's sake that she felt pleased. But there were no tears in his daughter's beautiful eyes. " I am a deal of trouble to you, papa," she said. "It is not enough that you must have a grown-up daughter, but you must also provide her with a husband! It is rather too hard on you." " But, Doris, you you love Earle?" he said, anxiously. " Oh, yes, I love Earle. It is a thousand pities, though, that he has not a ready-made fortune and position it would save you so much trouble." " My dear Doris, there can be no trouble for me where you are concerned; you know how anxious I am that you should be happy. You will be happy with Earle ?" " I am one of those singularly fortunate people, papa, who are happy anywhere," she replied. Then, seeing a very discontented expression on his face, she hastened to add: " Remember how often you have called me a true Studleigh, papa, I find it more in my nature to laugh than to sentimentalize; indeed, under pain of instant execution, I fear that I should not, could not grow sentimental. At the same time believe me no one could be more grateful than I am to you about Earle." And with that the earl was forced to be content. She sat down to the piano shortly afterward, and he heard the gay voice sing- ing of love and flowers. He looked at her the same puzzle came to him. " Has she any heart?" he asked himself. That was a question which no one yet had been able to aii- swer. " Earle." said Lady Doris, as they sat together in the morning- room, " do not read any more to me. I always tell you that A FAIR MYSTERY. 200 mi'ling poetry aloud to me is a waste of time and of talent. I want you to talk." The next moment he had closed the book, and was sitting on the little ottoman at her : " 1 am only too delighted," he said, " It is not often that my beautiful queen wishes to talk to ine.'' " Your lieautiful queen wishes to know, Earle, what you think of my lady ?'' "Sly lady!" lr ! wunderingly. " Yes! try nnd not be dull of understanding nothing tries me o severely as that. My lady! I mean, of course, the Countess of Linleigh. What do you think of her. I " I think she is very kind, very beautiful, very stately, ami very charming.'' " I agree with you; but do you not think that she is rather sentimental :" " I hardly know. Why. Doris? 1 ' " She has a fashion of dropping into my dressing-room at all hours, of taking this long hair of mine into her hands, and looking as though she would lain kiss it, of kissing my face, and talking about you." "That seems very natural. Doris, and very kind," he said. "Wh'-n >he talks about you, Karle, the tears << me int eyes, and she is so eloquent about love. Do you know what I fancy sometin ." he iv|>!i<-d, " I do not." "You need not look KO strangely at me; hut I do fan times that when -he was young, perhaps she lnvcd someone like me, who is de;:d. What do you think. Earle r" " It is ,l>le. darling, I should be BO kind to her. Doris, wera I in vo'ir pi i "I am kind "I never interf'Te: I let her do ; with me. I am sure, Earle, it is not possible to be any K *han tliat." rn.YPTFR LVir. THE YEARMMJS OF A M<>T!' ;:T. TETE appointment was secured. It wa- hardly pr-> the Karl of l.inleigh should ask anything from t and be ret'u."-d. 11- was the rising man of th- day, ami tin- government was anxious for his support. He had great in- ' fluence, and it was all \Vhen. therefore. I special applicrition forthisd: . it was :, on all sides that it would be m-.-t unwii rle uas made p< -rle.-tlv hnppv. 'I Inin- dred pounds a year did I su< h a gieat r thing to him M the fact ing was firmly otabli.-hed, and that BgU him Ii, his simplicity, he often wondered how it was that httl paragraphs continually appeared in the i.-.idin.- duy ab..ut him. One time it was to tl 210 A FAIR MYSTERY. generally known that Earle Moray, Esq., recently appointed to the royal commission service, was the poet with whose last work all England was delighted. Agaiii, that Earle Moray, Esq., the poet, intended to contest the borough of Anderley. He found himself continually mentioned as one of the leading men of the day, one to whom the eyes of the country turned with hope. Earle could not imagine how it was, and in his perplex- ity he spoke of it to Lord Linleigh. " If I did not know that it was impossible," he said, " I should imagine some one was always sending little paragraphs to the newspapers about me." " It is the price of celebrity," said the earl. " A man who wishes to advance with the public must always keep himself be- fore the public eye. You would be surprised how famous these little paragraphs, as you call them, have made you already. People often ask me about Earle Moray. You will have a greater name than this some day, and you will wonder how you have acquired it." In the meantime he was wonderfully happy. He was not to commence his engagement until the middle of April, and the earl insisted upon it that he should continue at Linleigh Court. " Lessons in social life are as needful as any others," said Lord Linleigh. " You cannot do better for the next few weeks than spend as much time as possible with Lady Estelle. I will introduce you to the chief magnates of the county; and so you will be acquiring knowledge of one kind, if not of another." The next great event was a visit from the Duke and Duchess of Downsbury to Linleigh Court. The duke had long desired to go, but the duchess, prouder than himself, constantly refused. At last curiosity prevailed. Lord Linleigh wrote such glowing accounts of his happiness, and such descriptions of the beauty of his daughter and the happiness of his wife, that it was not in human nature to keep away any longer. Then, indeed, was Lady Doris puzzled. The countess seemed to have but one anxiety; it was not for herself at all, but for Lord Linleigh's daughter that she should look beautiful, that they should admire her, that she should make the most favor- able impression on them, seemed to be her sole desire. The young beauty was highly amused at it. They were talking one morning, and Lady Estelle held a long, shining tress of Doris' hair in her hand. " I hope," she said, suddenly, " the duchess will admire your hair. Doris." " Do you. Lady Linleigh '/" was the reply, with a little raising of the eyebrows. " I am not very anxious about it mvself." My darling." said the countess, impulsively, "do not say that. I want my mother to admire and to like, even to love you." " It is very kind of you, Lady Linleigh, but it is very improb- able. I fancy that I remember her grace. She is very tall and stately, is she not? with a proud, high-bred face not handsome at all, but very aristocratic?'' " Yes," said" Lady Estelle, faintly, "that is she." A FATR MYSTERY. 211 "Then I am quite r-nro, dear I.adv I.inleigh. she will not likf 1)10. I must have Lid when sou paid that n:em- cnihle vi: it t<> llr.v 'at I n iinsntuT her much i than I remember you, and I am quite sure that she loo!.. ii sh" would li!. "But, Doris," said the countess, earnestly, "you in make the duchess like you. You will try, will you n.v dear':" "Will you tell me why, Lady Unleigh?" asked the young girl. The countess grew pale and agitated. "Do it to please me, niv darli;; I want her to like you do it for my sake Will you. Do- The girl laughed a low, rippling laugh, that had no music in it. "I will do anything. Lady Lanleigh anything to plca.se her, but if my own mother \ v ev<- living, provided that I loved her my- self, I should not he very a.:.\ion>. for any one else to love i !y Kstelle drew hack wi'h something like repulsion in her "You are mistaken: yon car-net .judge. It is only natural that we wi:-h e\ery one to love and admire \\liat we love ourselves." I). iris looked at her with laughi'ij: " I cannot see it. I should like evry one. for instance, t mire Karle. hut I do not < are ahont :uiv one loving him." I-uly I.inl'-igh sat in silence foi s/>iae minutes, then looking up. she said. We will not argue over it. mv donr child: will promise to be very nice to the du i trv t.. u i;i her lik- ily, I promi.se. I.-idy Linleigh. Te!l me. is the duchess a lady of great ini| "\ : ie has much infl-i- soci' " Then I will do all T can, not only t.. make 'u- like inc. hut to k favorably of mt-. " Shall you l.e piea.-c.l. then. ill ,-ir I-idy Linleigh ':" would h- . If, "I'll -i deep sigh, that it 9 iv nohle scTitiment, an;. mind. Appc-al to her vanity, hi-r inten >t. In r anil.itioi -urc to find MM 'ring chord. Appeal to any ,:t;irk according to the sea I have to sail on." -he promised to sliow all deference, all homage, all *v,-pect. She did so. The duke admired her In-yond everything; ho thought her one of the most beautiful, most graceful, one of the cleverest girls lie had ever met. But the diiclie.-s did not like her; she had never forgotten her first Impression, that the girl was both vain and wanting in goodness. She tried to like her, to make the most of her beauty, her talent, but there was no real warmth in her heart toward her daughter's child. Karle, on the contrary, won her honest liking. In her own mind, al- though she knew that Doris was tin- daughter of I/ord Linleigh, and the descendant of the Hen-turds, she thought her inferior to Earle Moray. So this stra< hold remained until the time drew near when the earl thought of going to London. The Duke of Downsbury had promised to do his best in help- ing to forward the fortunes of Marie Moray. He by this time had recovered from the shock his daughter's story had inflicted ,MI; still, he considered it best, for many reasons, that the ; should l.e kept. Lady Doris wondered often how it hain : that she was so gr rite with the duke. He made her costly and beautiful presents: he liked to ride out with her; . >vcd watching her beautiful face. Your daughter is unique," he said one day to Lady Estelle, and her face jjreu white as she heard the words. My da . be repeated. " It seems so strange, papa, to hear that: no one has ever called her ' my daughter ' before." How the gentle heart yearned over her. the proud young beautv, in the tiush of her triumph, never knew. She looked upon 1-idy Linleigh's gr- r her as rather tiresome than otherwise": it was annoying to her that she should 1 ,ing, and that the countess should study so atteir .cry look and word. More than once she spoke impatiently of it to Karle. and wondered that lie looked so gravely at ! " It BOOM to in,-." she cried. " that ,-\ l.ady Lin- it deal more than they study me." She wondered why it was that the fair, proud face \<, SO tender for her; why the calm eve- ;dwa\- re-ted on her with a lo\ ing light: why the voice that never \aried for Ot and grew so lo\ ing when shaking to her. < >n<-e or t v. ic- it red to her that if her own mother had been living, she COOld not have shown greater affection for her than did Lady Estelle Linleigh. (HAPTKR LVTII. H a May day! li!:' one of tho-e that t ; scribed when t own sunshine, a murmur of heaven's own music, a foretaste of the golden glories of summer which were soon to shine over the 214 A FAIR MYSTERY. land. A May day, when, in the green heart of England, the hawthorn was budding, the perfume of violets filled the air, the cuckoo remained lord of the meadows, the wood pigeons began to coo, the butterflies to coquette with sweet spring flowers a very carnival of nature. London had never looked so bright or so gay. The queen had thrown off the black mantle of sorrow, and had come forth once more to gladden the hearts of her faithful people. She had opened Parliament, and a series of royal fetes had been an- nounced that cheered the whole city with the hope of future prosperity. Trade, commerce, literature, and art were all en- couraged; as all drooped in her absence, so they all revived in the gracious promise of her serene presence. There was to be on the third of May a grand drawing-room. Great excitement was caused by the announcement that the Countess of Linleigh and the Lady Doris Studleigh were both on this eventful day to be presented, the countess on her marriage, the Lady Doris as a debutante. Rumor was very busy. There was nothing to wonder about over the countess she was well-known for many London seasons; she had been a belle and a reigning beauty, she was married at last to a popular nobleman, and would doubtless take her place as one of the queens of society; she would give brilliant fetes, head the gayeties of the season. Hyde House would doubtless become one of the most fashionable resorts of the day; but there all sensation about her ceased. With Lady Doris it was different; more curiosity was felt to see Lord Linleigh's daughter than his wife. People heard that she was a regular Studleigh, and the memory of the handsome, debonair race was still living among them. In the time of Charles the Second there had been ladies of the Studleigh family whose names were proverbs for beauty, wit, and recklessness. Strange stories were told of deeds of fun and daring that in people less noble would have been called crimes. And now on the great world always a little blase, a 'little tired of itself, always athirst for novelty a new star was to shine a Studleigh, with all the fatal, witching beauty of her race, and the inheritance of wit that was always pointed. Rumor said she was the loveliest girl on whom the English sun had shone for many years. She would be wealthy, too, for Lord Linleigh was rich. Expectation was for once fairly aroused; then, too, there was something of romance about her story. The marriage of the handsome, popular earl had been a private one; the LadyDoris.it was said, had been educated in the strictest retirement. People were impatient to see her and pro- nounce their verdict. She was to be presented by the Duchess of Downsbury, whose name was a guaranty for every good quality. The eventful day dawned at last. Lord Linleigh had been somewhat anxious over it. True, his daughter's fate in life was fixed he would not have had her engagement with Earle Moray broken on any account yet he desired that she should receive all the homage due to her rank and her beauty. No word of her A FAIR MYSTERY. 215 engagement had been made public: that was by Lady Lin! advice. " Give her all the time possible, all the liberty that her 1 can desire, and then we shall see if she reaJly prefers i the world." she said to her husband. Though he lauuhed at the advice, he owned it was -ood. On that May day e ly Doris' dj ne of the | ;:i all London. The suni lored blind, and fell on the shin:: . Lady Doris \>as arravrd in full court linly DOthing could havr suited h.-r bctt' r. The Ouk had insi-teil 011 presenting her with a rna_ nionds f> . she won- them now i',, r (!: time. She stood in all tin- splendor of her marvi ! rich costume, smiling at herself in tin- mirror. " I do not look much like Doris 1 farmer's daughter, now," she said to he, Then Lady Li: red the room. 1 could not i. until I had seen you, and knew whether y..u felt nervous or Something like a smile of con:- beautiful lips. " X ;dy Linleijj-h! not one whit," she replied. if I were about Ifii. 1 to a h..ndsoiue \ who wair " When i J,, I ,ij,i nervous. I thought of it for i .ad." " \\i and 1. ;nlei-h, cloths her as a ment even tin- n>y;il fare lighted up with admiration ai queen's eyes fell on her. \Vords more kind th;m usual from the royal lady's lip-, ai: ! her In-art heating hiich with tri- umph, her position secure, tin- I,ady Doris passed from that cious presence, lv.cn as she stood bending low Ix-fore the 1 1 she said to herself that she should be a favorite at court, il' looks promised anything. The Duchess of Downsbory was well pleased with her \ l>rotcgee. " Mv dear," she said to her, when the ordeal was over, " what- ever else j'ou may lack, you certainly have plenty of nerve." Lady Doris raised her eyes unilinehinj, r h to her grac " Different people," she said, " give other names to the quality I possess. Your grace calls it nerve the Studleighs call it courage." \\ ell," said the duchess, grimly, " I will call it courage, t you have plenty of it, Lady Doris." "I have no doubt." was the smiling reply, "that as I go through the world I shall need it all." The duchess knew that in a pa '-ven she, well versed as she was, had no chance with lidy I loris. In on. she was pli-a-'-d at her granddaughter's success, althou-! disliked so much calm self-|M>ssession in one s-> \i>nn^'. But the earl saw no drawback, he admitted lion one \\asenraptured with the : ry one praised her, spoke of her wonderful beauty . and complimented him on ing so peerless a daughter. Hi- heart l-:.t high with pridi r once did he \vi-h her en.^a.u'ement \\ it broken. He saw I^idy Kstelle ai din- ner, and then lie wondered at the {>alenc of i,. ._ de- pression of her .-pirita. .-lie." In- said. ;:ently, " what is t)ie m; It seemed as though i through tin- 6 gates of her sorrow. Sin- rai-e 1 her eyes to las ; .ini,' with ! " I am ungrateful, Uh ; id. "lam wicked contented. 1 M-e my darling so beautiful, yt I cann--' and clasp her in my arms. 1 cannot say. 'Child, how 1 r- in \oii, for \oii are mv own.' " "NO, TOU cannot say that; but you may l>\e her and be OS kind to her a- you will." Tli- -hook her In-ad sadly. You do not mid ate by nature, and I can see that my love ai. I do hot repii. :ne. rlric. do \.ni not ?" Love her? x > Uy he did; how could ho hel] all the same, he did wish 'that I -idy Doria wou Id sliow greater . tliink wl have heard of him is true." " What is that'.'" asked the Honorable Charlie I " I wa-^ told that he fell in love at r all irtieulars, but I was told that he compk-tclv lost his : lie never had a heart to lose," said one. ho was the lady .-" a-ked another. " I do not kr i^in. but A hole atfair \\ -I), others that she was Flo; idled him, and he ha> i since. He uaea to boact that no \M.man had iiim. I lielieve that lie fam ie.l he \^a.^ irre- i>tible. I'.rlui)-, h. not like ! . the H"I: " I should not x: U]x>n him. 1 1> l::i- cerl linl Why not call :i follies the ri^-ht name, lie \:.^ I : ruined more h than any man of his ap if he has something nirn." Which was all ti hy i-ord \ he w:. He thought but litlie over wliat hud been aaid about Lady Studleigh. 220 A FA IK MYSTERY. " Men were always making idols of sonle woman or other," he said to himself. " If they choose to go mad in crowds over the handsome earl's daughter, let them; I, for one, shall not join them." It had been a great blow to him, the loss of Doris. That one love was the master passion of his life. He had not intended it to be; he had only thought of her at first as one whose beaut} 7 was well worth the winning. Afterward, when her strange fas- cination, her wonderful grace, her marvelous talent and wit had bound him fast in her chains, he gave her the one great love of his life, none the less fierce and passionate because he had had many love affairs. While they were still at Florence, he had made up his mind to one of two things, either to be true to her all his life, and spend all his life with her, or to marry her. As his love increased, his scruples died away; he would marry this beautiful girl, whose coldness had a charm for him that nothing else ever possessed. His love grew fiercer as she grew colder; he had made up his mind that she should never be parted from him that he would slay any one who tried to separate them. When he found that she had left him, many long months did he spend in searching for her. He had quite decided what to do when he did find her. If any one had bribed her to leave him, the crime should be most dearly avenged. He would tell her that he was willing to make her his wife, and then he would marry her. " Marry her!" he repeated the words to himself, with a bitter laugh. He would have done anything, have slain her and killed himself, rather than leave her again, or let her go out of his life. She would, of course, be delighted to be Lady Vivianne; it was not likely that she would refuse such an offer. He sneered at himself for being willing to make it; he sneered at himself for his own great, overweening love. He hated himself because it had won such power over him because it had humbled him even to the yoke of marriage. " I shall be the first Vivianne who has ever done any tiling of this kind," he said to himself, yet all the same he resolved to do it. Having wrought himself up to this height of heroism, it was humiliating in the extreme to find it all in vain he could find no trace of the girl he intended to marry. Whether she had left him in a fit of pique because he had not married her, whether she had gone away in a sudden access of sorrow and regret, he did not know. He was only sure of one thing she was gone. Had she left him for any one else, or in one of her sudden caprices ? She was capricious enough for anything it was just one of the things that she was likely to do. For all he knew, she had been near him all the time; she was quite capable of that. He knew that to her his long search, his fever of anxiety, his despair, would only be a comic entertainment; yet, knowing all this, judging her as he did, believing her to be capable of almost anything, still he could not help loving her with the whole force and power of his soul; it was the influence that a A TAIR wicked woman does obtain at times over a wick nd it router than any other. Hi- came t Knu'l;::; 1 at la^t. despairing to hear ar-. iirr al.rond. He ar.-m-d to hiirs. If that be should certainly -.1 <>t it: a far.- hk, remarked anyu h. re; he should h.- .f tins KO!- beauty, \\ A as one so Italy. He had l.c.-n in London now for some nothing, and was jnix/.l.'d wliat to do in-xt. \l> of looking for her there, in tin- upju-r \\-orl i no idea, not even t! the reiirnin;: >t;-.r in any oiher world, lie wnil.i her before this. \Vithhis minds. soul toss!-u .if lnve, h.- nail n<> ( any < ait Lady N' 'onld not sur | In t :ne I.'idy Studlei^h which the fa.-liionalle world liail long been a '-was the queen of t! Hyde House was the t: ir re- iiion: to be admitted there was t. .-etc then ircle; to be unknown ti known t<> '. It v '..-Id two su-'h Coui: 1 ilei^h. The count. :md hi of tli Another fi w famous ] some. Mid than iV to She liore her triumph with a certain K r "" \voiiderfs liu-lx-ss. a- tin- \ ill woidd have h h. u at the ^reat aiiin nit of adminit i. .11 n.Ii-M-d Laly .^ lei^li >li"\\ - n.. Im . it that the whole of th.- r--y.il <-ir--le s.-enied {> ! the proii'l nit v \v itii ^r.-;it fa' tions to a r, ,\ .il con prine-^.. man . tin- I . 'il the li .1 failure. " That jrirl has h said tiie earl, lanui Tl My dear l"i: I think a great 52 A FAIR MYSTERY. deal to move either her heart or her head; both seem, to me equally safe." " You always sigh when you speak of Doris. "Why is it, dear f" asked Lord Linleigh. " I cannot help wishing that she had less beauty and more love," she replied. '"There are many perils in this world perils of soul and of body but I think the greatest of all is certainly the perils of beauty." "I think you are right," observed the earl; "but we must hope, having escaped so far, she will escape the rest." CHAPTER LX. DORIS AFFECTS A LITTLE CURIOSITY. " You are not looking quite so well as usual this morning, Doris," said Lady Linleigh. " You are nervous, too; you start at every sound? What is wrong, dear?" " Nothing," replied Lady Doris, " but that I did not sleep well. I had a most unpleasant dream." " What was it ?" asked the countess. " About Italy about some one I knew, I saw there. Only a foolish dream, and I am foolish to mention it." " Of all people in the world, you are the last I ever should have imagined to know what being nervous meant." " I am not nervous," replied Lady Doris, quickly. " It would annoy me very much to hear any one say so." But though she indignantly denied the fact as being a very discreditable one, she looked pale, and the laughing eyes had lost something of their brightness. She started at every sound; and once, when a violent peal from the bell sounded through the house, Lady Linleigh saw that she dropped the book she was holding. .Much did the countess wonder what had affected her fair young daughter. Yet it was such a trifle, such a foolish dream that had caused tier to stop for one moment in her career of tri- umph, and look at the possible dangers in store for her. She dreamed* that she was walking in a pretty wood near Florence, when suddenly the tall trees began to assume the most grotesque shapes: huge branches became long arms, all trying to grasp her, leaves became fingers trying to detain her. No sooner had she ehuled the clutch of one giant arm than another was stretched out toward iier. In vain she tried to elude them. Then she heard IKT own name called out in a voice which, with a strange thrill of fear, she recognized as Lord Vivianne's. Then she saw him stanuing underneath one of the giant arms, and he held a long, fehkiiug knife in his hands. " I have been looking for you for some time," he said; "now that I have loan 1 you, I mean to kill you, because you were faithless to me." She tried to escape, but the giant arms clutched her, the fingers ciasped round ln-r. the shining steel flashed before her eyes, and she awoke awoke to feel such fear as she had never before known. A FA JR MYSTERY. She took herself to task for it. s ,-, s ) lllU | ( | come, that She ha-i i jt hk.'h ' altered position he would know her? It most improbable. Suppose that she m.-t him ii where it was mn-t |, r ..l,ai,i,. thev \\-ouI.i troduced to each other as strangers! \\YII. lierve enough, nou^h. to look at Inn, ai nix.,- him. Sh.. would, at tin- wor.-t. solemnly su.ar that I, ken, ami he well, for his own sake, it blethaJ he would dare to mention tlie terms upon whirti had live.l. Nothing hut shame and dislike of all ^ could follow such an avowal on his part. It would ,1. thousand times moiv harm than L ' Si 1 need not tVar." sin- >a;d to !.,T-.-lf. I have no reason ii it' I should meet him tare to face to-'. She did not fVel tin- I. ' or remorse for in r her lost innocence, her fair fame, her soul hut little yet sin- would have ^iven much this wron-, n, : "iiK r , hut 1 of it mi^ht In- unpleasiint. In the hri^ht heaven of IUT full content cloud: to the full k'lory <1 her ino>t hrilliant triumph it one drawback. All! if they knew if the royal hearts that l< . 'idly toward In r cv.-n dn amed of w'hat she had i ; dr.-am <>l court favor. If the inno. ,-nt \ou- Jiad pro!' iMicli liking for In i the horril.le trnti words! Wliy, if the liarnlxime earl, her lat'..i-r. dn-a' lie would ,M-jid heradritt at onc-! She (-lini.^j-'ed her white shoulders and t. NVhi" married, her fortui tiled U|HIII her then it would not n : m Ii. 1' all ditlieulti'-s. she held up -tly at them. ialler. weaker lin^-- .obbcd a rnan of his aid to ln-rself. "I : ,t Comes, I h.i ample in hi-tory that I should know how to f..li And indt-vd it won .,-d l,a a ^r--at rlimu-r i and iluk- HI jirinci Of lyOIllloll Wl'l It wa- l>.rd l 'h.irt. r u hi merit;. 1 him if he had C'hai Ii I^i. i him. so that sh<- distm. tly 1 the ijuestion ai. " Lord Vr\i.i i,o earl, hiiu." 234 A FAIR MYSTERY. "I had forgotten," said his questioner, " how long you have been absent from England; of course you would not know him." " It seems to me," said the earl, laughing, " that a whole gen- eration of young men have come into fashion since I left the country. I do not recollect having ever seen Lord Vivianne. Why do you ask me ?" "I heard him say how anxious he was to be introduced to you," replied Lord Charter. ".I shall be very happy," replied the earl, indifferently. She had listened at the very first sound of that name which she had grown to hate so cordially; all her attention had been fully aroused. " Now for the Studleigh courage," she said to herself, and she listened. The color did not fade from her beautiful face; her lips never lost their smile, nor her eyes their light. When Lord Charter had finished his conversation with the earl, she turned to him in the most winning manner. "Vivianne, did you say? What a pretty name! Is it En- glish?' "Yes," he replied. "Most ladies admire the name and the bearer of it." " Is he a great hero?" she asked, her eyes bright with interest and innocence as she raised them to his face. " Is he a great statesman ':"' " No," was the reply; " I am sorry to say he is a great flirt." " A flirt!" she repeated, in a voice full of disappointment. " I thought you meant that he was some one to be admired." "So he is admired, for his handsome face," replied Lord Charter. She repeated the name again, as though she were saying it softly to herself. " Is there a Lady Vivianne?" she asked, after a pause. " Not yet," was the reply: " but from what I hear there is a prospect of one." Then he laughed a little. " You are a stranger among us, Lady Studleigh: you will hardly understand that, at one time or another, almost every prominent man in London has been jealous of Lord Vivianne." " Indeed! He must be a paragon, then." There was something of a sneer in her voice, but he did not perceive it. "Not exactly a paragon, Lady Studleigh; but I repeat it a flirt." " And he is to be married, you say ? I should not imagine the lot to be a very bright one for the lady." " You take things very literally, Lady Studleigh. I cannot vouch for the fact that he is going to be married, but there is a rumor afloat that \ 'e all enjoy very much. It is that, after flirt- ing half his lifetime, Lord Vivianne is caught at last.'' She tried to look politely indifferent. Great heavens! how her heart was beating, how every nerve thrilled, how intense was the excitement! She had not known how frightened she had been at the idea of meeting him until now! A FAIR 1/r.sT; "I am afraid," said Lord Charter. " that you do Tin I :i my friend." "Yes, T. do. To whom has he MIIT. :idd. d his liU-rty at No one km-- r, given with an air i that would at any other time have jrr.-atly amused I.. : " There is a niyMery al>out it. Ird Yivinm-.e hasl ..... us]*'! Rome little time in Florence, and thnv it is supposed lie tVll in love with a prinee-s in dis^ui.-e." ;.ite thf Studlei.tjh eoura.Lre and her own strong ' could not pn-vt-nt h.-rsrlt' from Krouin^ pah-: IH.T I 1 .iid with a tt-rriMf t-ar: tin- li^lits st't-m.-d t" .-wim in on-- :.!! with ;i \ ii.leiit etfoi: -It'. 1 lorviMv." sln> r. In- went far enough alield for ms - . Wl - t!i' jirincc.-.-* dis^u, !t may he all nonsense. 1 have In-ard many ditT.T. that his heroii.- 1"' l>irtl. Mtioii. 1 cannot tell; I only know H,,\v her ' as she repeated th 'rds. it r \Vhy. that l.\e. or something !>, lias quite cliai al; now he is gloomy, sullen, and 1-a.i t his say that he'beemed to be alw. ,' for aoine otie." The beautiful face, in spite of all her . "1 for someone! What " Perhaps the lady refused him. Perl. -ted him, and I : little dreaming h'-w truth. h:id heen to t;avi- h.-r 1 ild not h ; Than, r went on liant he knew, and she ) did not knou lie WM Ba; ] uorld, this I/>: " " f V,,,i will say so wh.'ii ,, was mistress of h- d: her h. M a ; Lord < ! . rnier lover, he eoiild j.rai-- '' it the wor worldly I' ,011 would h:r- a momeii' As he looked at IK. ' l - lk ' r e f** " 226 A FAIR MYSTERY. sweet smiles that played around her perfect lips as he listened to the low, musical voice, admired the high-bred simplicity, the innocence that was a charm, the utter want of all worldly- knowledge Lord Charter said to himself that he had never met such a wonderful creature before; while she congratulated her- self on the impression she had made. CHAPTER LXI. "I MIGHT HAVE BEEN SO HAPPY, BUT FOR THIS!" " SHALL you go to the opera to-night, Doris?" asked the count- ess, as they lingered over a cup of chocolate. " I think do not imagine I am over anxious I think you require a little rest, dear. You are new to this life of excessive excitement and gayety." " I find it very pleasant," said Doris, \vith a smile. " So it is; I do not deny that. But, remember, I am a veteran compared to you. I have been through many seasons, and I know the fatigue of them. Take niy advice, and rest a little if you feel tired." " I do not think I could rest," said Lady Doris. And there was something sad in the tone that the countess had never heard before. She looked anxiously at her. "That is what has struck me," said Lady Linleigh. "Your face is flushed, your eyes are too bright: the very spirit of unrest is on you. You have done too much. Do you know that every time the door opens you look round with a half -startled glance, as though half-dreading what you will see." "Do I? How absurd! It is siinply a habit. I have nothing to dread." " Of course not; but it seems to me rather a pity for you to get confirmed in nervous habits while you are so young." Lady Doris laughed, but it seamed to the countess the ring of music was wanting in the sound. " I shall correct myself, now that I know," she replied. Then Lady Linleigh crossed the room, and laid her handa on the golden head. She bent down and kissed the beautiful face. " Do not be annoyed that I am so uneasy over you, Doris; J love you almost as though I were your own mother." The low voice trembled, and the calm eyes grew dim with tears. " My own mother?" repeated Lady Doris, and for once some- thing like the music of true feeling sounded in her exquisite voice. " You are too young, Lady Linleigh, to be quite like my own mother: you are like an elder Bister to me. I wonder if things would have been very different for me if she had lived, and I had known h< T'.-" "Different?" asked the countess, eagerly. "In what way could they be different ?" " I wonder if she would have been fond of me if I could have told her all my girlish follies and troubles ? I have an idea that no one can be like one's own mother." A FAIR MYSTERY. The soft, white arms tightened their ela-p round the fair neek. " 1 ' the countess, p-ntly, " eould you nut t I am your mother, and talk t done to 1, Tlic lovi-i M raised with an an h ^\.>. l>.;tr I>ady Linlei^h." was the i alizinR. l>id you think [ should not know what to say to my own mother were sh I > not take any n< . idle woi "I i on Id never, even in m\ ...u in m\ ]-la<-e. I have a shrewd idea that my liand.some JKIJO n>; ;ty K'irl for liei ier of a nullity duke. A trin--- t- leiirh. youi opera- I iuu>t ^o to it. It is Ernani ' this the nui-.ii'." ile will x r o with us, of Co item. Slie liad nnrlasp.d her arms from i pme ov.-r to the ttttle writing-table, U-ating ba<-k I; witli a strong liand. " Ve>," laughed I^idy I .rle will p ]ipular man. 1 am not <|>; not to U- j.-aloiis of him. Tin- Man-hioness . introdu<'<-d him to I^idy Kleanor ynHterday, and .. .111 to be a ' mo^t promiMn^ youn- D [y Lanleigh laughed at the p<-rf.-rt mimii-ry of voice and nt. I see no one to compare with Earle." she K:I " and I think von are a \- "To iell the" truth, and with Ear;. .id. miietly. as in ^IXN! sooth She even won.. rx-lf, I. ut "the truth was ahe was v .itely fond of E;irK. The secret of it u as that he WB8 8O CCl that >lie I the weaker, liad r. passed on, and . ashamed of her lit". any d'-.itli: rather t Mljiletely His grand soul obtained an awon.: she ^ with Inn.. to 1, ..i~-- he had <-oni|i; ildli-i.uh : tlian i;o costume of blue velret u 228 A FAIR MYSTERY. lace, the color of which made her more than everdazzlingly fair. The white arms, with their glorious curves, the white neck, with its graceful lines, were half shrouded, half disclosed by the veil of white lace. The golden hair was studded with diamond stars; a diamond cross, which looked as though it were made of light, rose and fell on the white breast. She carried a beautiful bouquet, the fragrance of which seemed to float around her as she moved. Was it a wonder that as she took a seat in the box, all eyes were directed to her? A beautiful woman is perhaps one of the greatest rarities in creation, but in the hands of a beautiful woman there rests a terrible power. As she sat there, the light gleaming hi her jewels, the golden hair with its sheen, the blue velvet and the crimson of the opera box, she made a picture not easily forgotten. The countess, gracious, fair, and calm, was with her; Earle, his handsome face glowing with admiration and pride, stood by her side. The earl was to join them later on in the evening. It was a brilliant scene. Some of the fairest women and noblest men in London were there. Lady Doris was, or seemed to be, engrossed by the stage; she affected the most sublime and complete, unconsciousness of the glories of admiration; she was thinking to herself, as she was always thinking lately: " Now, if he, Lord Vivianne, should be here, should suddenly come and speak to me, I must affect the most complete uncon- cern and indifference." While her eyes were fixed on the stage, while so many were looking at her, some with admiration, some with envy, that was the thought which occupied her. The dread, the expec- tation of meeting him had been strong upon her ever since she heard that he was in London it could not possibly be otherwise. She knew herself to be the beauty of the season ; he, of course, as an eligible man, would mix in the same circles, and they must meet. She was brave enough, but there were times when, at the bare idea of it, the color faded from her face, leaving it ghastly white; great drops would stand on her forehead; she would clasp her hands with a cry of agony. If her attempts at evading him were all useless, if he recog- nized her and insisted on the recognition, what could she do ? The question was, could she deny having been in Florence ? No amount of prevarication could alter that. Suppose only imag- ine if he should betray her. He might be a gentleman and keep his secret; it was certainly within the bounds of possibility he might keep her secret; but, remembering his character, she did not for one moment think he would. He called himself a gen- tleman and a man of honor, but he had not scrupled to take a mean advantage of her youth and ignorance, her vanity and folly. What a triumph it would be for him now to turn round and laugh at the lovely Lady Studleigh, and say that beautiful, admired, proud, and lofty as she was now, she had once been con- tent to be his companion. What if he told all this as a secret at first, and the knowledge of it spread slowly, as a social leprosy A FA IR M ': always does. What should she do? Or what should she do ? "How ni:id I was!" she cried to herself <>\ " how foolish, ho\v Mind! I ini^ht have been so \\-.\\~\ this!" It w;is til-- skeleton always by her si.-. hor cour.! trench, there were ti: hopelessly oeat her down. Then tin- thought <: shield. If he says one word against im nnot kill him. said to in rseif over ami i :. " I will ask 1 dud with him. and he will slay him!" But for this, how unboundedly happy sin- would h. how victorious, how triumphant! Who, looking lovely face, with its calm. hi-h-hred air, would ha\ that the heart beneath was torn with though 1 atnl even revenue that should lead to mi: 1 " My darling!" .said the voice : Jn-st in her "Doris, I shall l.e jealous of that music. 1 so of ton. and you ha\e n>t In ard '1 lie e\ es she rai-ed to him had no shadow in them < ril.le thoughts that tille ne\i-r once taken In rather his p;lass, from your f:: A cold thrill er her. as though a^h" fallen over her- a cold, terrible chill, a shudder ' not repress. Her o\\n ipiiek, sii'-tle in.-tim-t told lier that it was he. The moment she had dreaded h;i : illcii at I He was looking at her; the next step he \\ould U- sp her. Now for the Studied!. the reckle^-nesv, that defied tate.thi-bol.il,, fortune! A minute to collect, to control that t-rrilil. then she held up her (lowers \\ ith a smile. You,"! lip'iit to-ni-i,t he said: " you hare not told me t! Miire my IMHUJI "There is but 'li' I always admir, UK to you. Your :' a h\ ; drawing the trit-j- ; lonKi rie.-iiiiiiij; knife in; with on- taking t!; t-iijoy "ne more moment with all; I i. , \.,i, ; ^ Vlarling, wl., 230 A FAIR MYSTERY. heaven, or the shining drops of the sunny sea, you will be able to understand how much I love you not until then!" CHAPTER LXII. "I HAVE SEEN SOME ONE LIKE HEE." ONE moment, only one, she kept her fair face in the fragrant blossoms one moment, to taste, perhaps for the last time, the sweet draught of love one moment, in which to curse the folly, the bitter, black sin of her girlhood, and to moan over the im- pending evil. Then she raised her face again. Surely some of the sweetness of the flowers had passed into it; it had never seemed to Earle so tender or so sweet. "What were you saying just now, Earle, about a glass, or some one's eyes never being taken from my face ? If my gram- mar is involved, it is your fault." " I cannot imagine who he is!" cried Earle. " We have been here nearly an hour, and he has never looked at the stage I do not think he has heard one note of the music; he has done noth- ing but look at you earnestly." " Perhaps he admires my jewels or my flowers," she said, co- quettishly. "It is your face," said Earle, impatiently. " What do men care for jewels or for flowers ?" " Who is he, Earle V Where is he ? Is it any one I know ?" " I should imagine that it is some one you know, who is wait- ing for some sign of recognition from you," said Earle. " You cannot fail to see him, Doris, in the center box on the second tier. He seems to be a tall, handsome man; he wears a white japonica. His glass is turned straight upon you." " I cannot return the compliment and look fixedly at him," she said, " but I will take one glance at him, and see if I know him." Calmly, slowly, deliberately, yet with the fire and hate of fury burning in her heart, she laid down her dainty bouquet; she took up the jeweled opera-glass, held it for a moment lightly balanced in her hand, then, with a calm, proud smile, raised it to her eyes. Oh, heavens! that the first glimpse of those dark eyes, looking fire into her own, did not kill her. Her heart gave a terrible bound; she could have cried aloud in her agony, and have died; but the Studleigh nerve was uppermost, tin- Studleigh courage in full play; her hands did not tremble, nor her lips quiver. Quite calmly she looked, as though she saw a stranger for the iirst time, and even then a stranger who did not interest her. She laid down the glass, and turned to Earle, with a smile. " I do not know the gentleman; I have not seen him before." At that same moment he who had been watching her with such eager interest made her a low bow. " He appears to recognize you," said Earle; " he is bowing to you." She did not make even the least acknowledgment in return. A FAIR .Vr.sTA'AT. " He cannot knov, aid, calmly; " In- is mistaken. I h;uv never Been him lx-e IK- must hi- eithir v. ry dull <>r foolish to in: :. HIT darling, fur any or.* le. " I -i w another f;i< met and forgotten, lie kind, and ^ive him some little acki viii^ a^-aiii. i.is 1'aee. " Lady Studleigh returns no Ixm-s from ? haughtily, and Karle felt himself r.-huK At Sir Harry Durham the hox to pay hi.5 i-' if ho !:nc-vv tho gentleman in the renter box. who ume the japon : "Know him!" said Sir Harry, lau-hin-h do every one knows him. That N I/.nl t 'liarle> \ i\ ianne." Tlie familiar name Ml upon her ear* like a death-knell. 1 repeated in surpri.-e: " Ix>rd Vivianne! I liave lieard of him of' I never sa%v him Ix-t'ore. I ! ly heard some rn, storv about some love affair." "Earie," interrupted I-idy Doris, do you think I^i!). said it BO earn- Karle looked at !: r in utt.-r M'.'iider. "I am tii .' y.UI, II" love I. lit \ 1: in th. that I ean thank y.u \." it." H,,w would you thank me pn-jH-rly f.-r i: nhew .ly. I UMuld eoiint the numlM-r of letters iuti , :V ki-^ej, a.- there aif lei ' ,e said; common |K-.,pl.-. but ladie.-..! '' "* Then 1 h..p.- you will not be a lady of fashion n. said 1 The opera was o% . to set- if her M he WM ! earnestly at her. 282 A FAIR MYSTERY. " Perhaps," she thought to herself, " lie is waiting to go out when we do." " Shall you wait for the ballet, Doris?" said Earle. Wait! She would have waited until doomsday to have avoided him. " Yes," she replied; " I should like to seethe ballet." Then she asked herself if she had not done a very stupid thing in trying to defer the evil day. He would speak to her, that was (evident; perhaps it would have been better over and done with. He had still to wait during the brilliant scenes of the ballet. She sat, as it were, with her grim fate in her hands; she talked, she laughed, she played with her flowers, coquetted with her fan, she listened to love speeches from Earle, she exchanged smiling remarks with the countess, yet, all the time she was per- fectly conscious that he sat silent, immovable, his burning glance fixed on her face, never for one moment releasing her. Some friend joined him, of whom he asked a question. From the quick glance given to her, she knew that it was of her they spoke asking her name in all probability. What would he think when he heard it ? Surely, he would say to himself that he was mistaken: the Lady Studleigh and the girl who had been so dazzled with his gold could not be the same. She was right in her Conjecture. He had asked her name, and learning it, had been bewildered. When he first saw her first caught a glimpse of her face his heart had given one fierce bound of tii imph. He had found her; there was not such an- other face. He had found her; he knew the graceful lines of the figure, the shapely neck, the sheen of the golden hair, the beautiful face. At first he thought of nothing but that he had found her. Then doubt came to him. Could it be Doris? this lovely, high-bred lady in the sheen of her jewels and splendor of her attire? Besides, how could Doris be in that box, evidently one of an august circle; the gentleman talking to her had a star on his breast. It could not be Doris; yet he knew who so well? the graceful bend of the proud neck, even the pretty gesture of the little white hands. It must be Doris. Who was the gentle- man with the white star on his breast ? Who the calm, graceful lady ? Who the young man with the face of a poet ? He could not solve the enigma, but he would find it out. If it were not Doris, then it was some one so much like her that he could not take his eyes from her face. A friend joined him, no other than Colonel Clifford, who laughed to see him sitting with that intent look. " So you are doing what you said you never would do," he said. " What is that?" asked Lord Vivianne. "Joining in popular devotion," was the laughing reply. "Clifford," said Lord Vivianne, "do you know that girl the one with diamonds in her golden hair, and white flowers in her hands?" Colonel Clifford laughed to himself. " Yes," he replied, " I know her. She is the Lady Studleigh, A FAIR the hnmlsomp earl's on!v daughter. Lord I . the U-lIe. I.ady Studleigh! that Lad not 1-elieve yon I rannot U-li. " It is a -rival j,.;- , nnt know the Ivirl of Linleiijh? Tin- other lady \\ith i' countess. She was tin- Duke of Downshur. " That Lady Studleigh! Iran: I "Perhaps. 1 said the eolonel, laughingly, " we shou! some Borer OOndusioa if you w..ul:iy tliiit 1 : li.-r i U- am r.-plicd. li;:.stily. " S<> tliat is really tlic >oim^ U-. ; just at present I/>ndon is losing i: "You art- ri^ht. If you woiiM lik.' :m intro-lnrt ; earl, my hrotlu-r is here; he knows him well, think of : . !i? Ki'i*>rt h. beautv ':" What do I think of her? I will tell y. have spoken to her. not ! " YOU are ditlicult to pi- Lx-s not please I I f.innot help thii Hardh : it omraon type of fu- may have done not." !-d dearly lo\. nne in a l>-tter t-ni|>'r. lie would ha< inanee of the earl's i: wan lit up in a very different |Kiti"ti he did not t-ll him. 1 that not until I/ord ( 'harle>'hear the >t>ry that would have snlvud many of his don II'- >.it :ird wat.-he,I her. sometimes tit v that he < ould have eall- ,ld \' so foolish a> t<> imagine he had ::i Ixinl Lirdei. from tlie heautiful fa--i-. li- the \ -i.at of 1>< i .ould hear In r .H|*-ak, he would be a thousand He waited until he saw them leave th,- I- 80 OB to 1-e in the dr. her. ho wmld H eold. my d dra\\ i 'I , . . ;ii warm. that he\\:i.-, , -lose to her. I him: - where he cou! Her fac- was shaded and 234 A FAIR MYSTERY. Once she looked around, as though curious to see who was> near her; then her eyes met his quietly, coldly, without the least light, or recognition, or shadow of fear in them. She looked at him for one half moment, indifferently, as she glanced at every one else, then looked away again, leaving him more puzzled than ever. CHAPTER LXIII. LORD VIVIANNE PERPLEXED. IT was no wonder that when she reached Hyde House again Lady Studleigh should look ill and exhausted; she had passed through a severe ordeal, and no one but herself knew what it had cost her. " One more such victory," she said to herself, " and I should be undone." She lay back in one of the lounging-chairs, while Earle has- tened to pour out some wine for her. " You look so tired, my darling," he murmured " so tired. I wish we were away from this great London, out in the fresh, fair country again, Doris. Why, sweet, there are tears in your eyes!" She looked so wistfully, so longingly at him tears in the eyes he had always seen so proud and bright. She bent her beautiful head on his breast, longing with all her heart to tell him her terrible secret, her dreadful trouble, yet not daring the least hint. " They are tears of fatigue," she said " real fatigue, Earle." " I wish I were Earl of Linleigh for ten minutes," he said; " I would forbid you to go out again, though you are queen of the season and belle of St. James'." "I should obey you," she replied; and then she bade him good-night, not daring to say more, lest she should say too much. She wanted to be alone, to collect her thoughts, to look her danger in the face, to gather her forces together, and prepare to give the enemy brave battle. It was a wonderful relief to her to find herself alone. The worst had happened she had seen him, he had seen her; he had looked in her face, he had watched her intently, yet she felt quite sure he was not certain of her identity he fancied that he knew her, yet could not for certain tell; so that the worst, she believed, was over. It might be that he would talk to her, that he would try every little ruse and every possible maneuver, but what would that matter? She would defeat him again with her calm and her nonchalance, just as she had done this time. Then he would assuredly give it up, and say no more about it make up his mind that he had been mistaken. So she comforted herself with vague ideas, never dreaming that each hour brought the somber face of tragedy nearer to her. The next day wag the Duchess of Eastham's ball, one of the best of the season one to which she had looked forward as a A FAIR MYSTERY. 235 crowning triumph. A nijrhf- ^disap-eeablethoughl . v tl kin fate, all contributed to make IKT thr.m !llll(1 th .;, oppressed her. When she joined til,- earl : m .l OOO mornimr he,- tar,, had regained it. I Rhone like stars. her lips were wreathed wr ; Ue shall have a , Jl( , u leigh. "Ihearthe^sthaiu Uillis consi,| t .n.,I tl ., the all the elite of London will be then Then Lord Vnianne is rare to ! tin H. r spirits rose with the emereenc-y. "I will l,, to herself; " I will dazzle him so rompk-i-Iv m t: magniflcenoe that lie shall n.,t .fare .-v.-n in th..u-'ht t. as.- in-- With the Doris he kn-w." . ShesjM-iit son,,, hours of th.'l.rifrht. sunny in. .ruin- in th.-t smiling to her-,,. if. as >h.- thnu-ht rresh air an. 1 exerci . ,,in^ a l.rilliant I.I I alter lunch, ami spent some time in t in- .jewels and llowers. so as to form a : maid she saii: e, 1 want to U- th,. U-lle of the iM-lh-s to-i inii^t e\,-rt all your skill." The pn-tty I'ari-ian M,.'l v/ith her head on on,. the ta.-e and I. had to ad. ' What kind of mv ladv wi-h? Shall it I- brilliant '.-" nd 1,,-idy Stndlei-li. laiiphii: -. " 1 nili.-ent as a -plv. did then- :i|,j \ ditlieiilt v wh,-n d for the l.all. She )IH>! a siiperli dn --> of white I flowers, the flFeet of wlijeh WlW gOFgeOII times, and in certain lights. other-, like u i clasped with a diamond neck I diamond ear ria."s hun- from the pi- diamonds and sapp: :ied on 1 Jirms were l.ound \\ ith diamonds in her hair. K\,-n her tl They wer. ' white l.lo.-v,,,.': golden IM-HS. nie wonden-d why the In-antil'ir lnx and earnestly in the min Mty came mt" li-ht colored her d - examine .Id product- on oti,. evidently that patr. tiling 1,-vs lott\ thai; :: light say of her, who uuuld d 236 A FAIR MYSTERY. Just as she had foreseen, she was the belle of the ball. The Duke of Easthara selected her for the opening of it, aiid the evening was one long ovation and triumph for her. Yet, though flattery and homage were all round her, she never for one moment forgot her chief object, which was looking for Lord Vivianne. She knew by instinct when he entered the room; she saw him look round, and knew, as well as though he had told her, that he was looking for her. Now was the time! Her face flushed into rarest loveliness; her eyes grew radiant. She had the world at her feet to-night. Let him come and do his worst; she could defy him. She saw him go up to the Duchess of Eastham, who listened to him with a smile, then they both looked in her direction, and in a few minutes were standing by her. She never betrayed the least sign of fear. He looked curiously at her. The light flashed in her jewels, but the diamonds lay quite still on the white breast; the golden bells of the flowers never trembled. In a few smiling words the duchess introduced Lord Vivianne to Lady Studleigh. She bent her graceful head and smiled. He begged to know if she had yet one dance to spare, and she an- swered " Yes." He listened attentively to the voice; it was cer- tainly like that of Doris, but he fancied the accent was more sil- very, more refined. " It is very warm," she said, looking straight in his face; " I should like an ice." " Quite a happy inspiration," he replied, and they went away together. If she felt the least tremor of fear she did not show it; she laughed and talked quite gayly to him, with the simple inno- cence of a child, not shrinking even in the least, while his eyes looked deep down into hers, as though he would read every thought of her soul. If she had shrunk from him if she had shown the least fear if she had avoided his glance, refused to dance with him, he would have had more reason to suspect her; as it was, he was fairly bewildered, and more than once he called himself a simpleton for his suspicions. The bright, fear- less glance, the child-like smile, the frank gayety, would have puzzled a wiser man than Lord Vivianne. " I will try her," he thought. " If she be the girl who went to Italy with me, I shall find it out." He offered her his arm, so that he could feel her hand tremble, if tremble it did. He began by admiring her bouquet. " You have some very rare flowers there, Lady Studleigh," he said " white blossoms with golden bells; it is an exotic. Is it Indian or Italian ?" She looked at him with a frank smile. " I am very ignorant," she said. " I love flowers very dearly, but I never made them a study. Long Latin names frighten me." " Yet it is a beautiful study," he said. She laughed again. " I believe, honestly," she said, " that if I knew, for instance, A FA 1 1! MYSTI tlw Latin and Creek na: lovely flower. with its win,],* history, I .-InniM not enjoy it l:tlr :;s iniicli as I do now. That is a mystery t<> in,-." "Do you like ; '. quii-klv. "I can hardly tell; I think 1 shouM if I i He looked into the very depths of lu-r eyes they were as clear and open a* the day. You arc too frank to care fr>r rn\ " Yes, frankness is what I/>rd Uiilei^h calls one of my fail- \\ hy is it a failing?" he a>ked. "Because I carry it to excess. I have an unfortu- of saying whom I like, whom I dislike, what I car what I do not care for." That frank alxtndon was not much like the Doris he had know-n. "That is very nice," lie said; " I wish I dare . i are likely to like i. I will tell you when I know mor.- of you." wasthe reply. I have a fashion _,- my liking, which I am quit little n'ltri '." "Have you ev-r Ix-en in Italy'-" he asked, watdiin^c her in- tently :us 1 If there had U-en tin !nr. if het droojx'd in the le.i-t fr.>m 1 :ld have said unil you!" As it was, the only expression on her face was one of inm In It;.! i my education He made no reply, hut must indeed h.-i- :aany thin. rs Ka yt ' 1'im the impresM juic ilmcwt with a sim- plicity. H. had hut one resource, one more , ask, and l-aflled in that, he I(M wittt to tUnh gaaed " Lady .- have and have been good friends. 1-; it There was n. lier fa<-e nothing i arm liave ;11. I tliink I should have ix-inenil It was not in London we met." he said. \ not L.-I- Lin- Indeed, I apologize most .-; lembering you." 238 A FAIR MYSTERY. " It may be only a fancy," he said. "But if you knew me, and knew that I ought to recognize you, why did you ask for an introduction to me V" she asked, wonderingly. "Because I was not sure," he replied, gloomily. " I am not sure now I am bewildered." Then when he saw the surprise on her face deepen into annoy- ance, he said: " I beg your pardon. I did know some one once who was like you oh, so like you! some one who made me very unhappy. That is our dance. Lady Studleigh, smile, that I may know you have forgiven me." She smiled, and they went away to the ball-room together. CHAPTER LXIV. A TERRIBLE TRIAL. " EARLE," said Lady Doris, "it seems so long since you left me." She was standing in the ball-room with the countess. Her late partner, Lord Vivianne, had gone to fulfill his engagement elsewhere. " It seems so long," she repeated. And Earle, who knew every tone of her voice, detected some- thing unusually sad in it. His face grew bright with happiness that she had missed him. " I saw you dancing with the gentleman who admired you so greatly the other evening," he replied. " You seemed so inter- ested in his conversation that I never dreamed you would miss me." " He has tried me so, Earle," she said, gently. " Before I can enjoy myself again, I must go somewhere and rest for a few minutes. Where shall we go ':" Earle silently placed the little white hand on his arm, and led the way to a brilliantly-lighted conservatory, where the rippling of the fountain mingled with the songs of tamed birds. There was no one else in that spacious fragrant place. .He drew a chair to one of the fountains and placed her in it. She drew a deep breath of unutterable relief, as one who had passed through mortal peril and escaped it. Looking at her, Earle saw that her beautiful face was ghastly white: the eyes she raised to him were dim and shadowed with horror. " Earle," she said, with a faint attempt at a smile, " I do not look much like the belle of the ball now, do I ?" He was full of concern. "Not much," he replied. "What is the matter, darling? what has made yon ill ''. I have thought so often lately that you looked ill and unlike yourself." She tried to smile, but the expression on her face belied the smile. " I never did faint in my life," she said " it is an achievement quite beyond me but I feel much inclined to do the deed nw. Earle, fetch some brandy for me." .1 FAIR M\ " Brandy!" 1 r, my dar brai " Wine t:t-tes lik- M. " I v is all tin all lire! t<> make quirk! [ have to dance with Prim-r- r i. I WOllM not he -een looking I'' 1 do not like leaving ilc. No one will eome here." sh" --aid impati. ntly. tin- Kli>ir d'Amor' waltz i: . miss US. Go qu: Earl U-nt down and kis w. t<> l!i.' buiTVt, ))<>un-d x)iiit> brandy in a small ;;lar- to h.-r. Sli.' sat ji:-t U In- liad lTt her- tin- v fallen listlt-s-ily by her sidf. th- white Mo^Siinis with ' lav at IP-: trie thought -' one . had I*-' --,'gle- id. ^fiitly. drink this l.-ar." . d h.-r h.'ad and drank th. kt-d at }. color slo\\ lv ri-turnrd to h-r I 1. ^,rl-." r, for tin- ' take to drinking." ifiere was aomethi mge in her manner t almost frightened. I)., in. i talk in that fashion, my darl t endure to 1 t lips li,. Utter Ml'h Wo! She lan-hed; her lips were quite red now. and there was in 1 ' 1 e;ui Ullderstai)' 1 l.r" " Yes, bright as the morning star." " Now for Prince Poermal and some sugared German compli- ments," she said. And they returned to the ball-room. The prince, all smiles, all gallantry, all devotion, came up to claim her hand. Earle watched her as she danced with him; she was all smiles, all brightness, all light. She talked gayly, she laughed, and the prince appeared to be charmed with her. Earle wondered more and more. Was it possible this brill- iant, beautiful girl was the one he had seen so short a time be- fore, white, cold, and silent, as though some terrible trouble lay over her. He saw what universal admiration she excited; how many admiring glances followed her; he saw that in that brill- iant assembly there was no one to compare with her, and he wondered at his own good fortune in winning so peerless a creature. Yet he felt that there was something strange about her, something that he could not understand. Her spirits were strangely unequal; one minute she was all fire, animation, and excitement, the next dull and absent. He tried to account for it all by saying to himself the life was new to her new and very strange and it was only natural that she should feel strange in it. Later on in the evening, when the brilliant ball was almost over, Lord Vivianne sought Lady Studleigh again. " I am going to ask a great favor," he said; " it is that I may be permitted to call. I have had the pleasure of an introduc- tion to the Earl of Linleigh." "1 shall be much pleased," she replied, indifferently so indif- ferently that he could not possibly tell whether she were pleased or otherwise. " Shall you remain much longer in town?" he asked, deter- mined to keep up a conversation with her. " I hope so," she replied. " I think London is incomparable; I cannot imagine any other life half so delightful." " You should see Paris," he said, looking earnestly at her. " Yes, I should like to see court life in Paris. I was there as a child, but. as a matter of course, I have no knowledge of French society. I was too young to know much about it." A PATH "You must try 1o spend some time t! about French snt.-i.-ty that we do not iiii.l in En-land. " She looked as politely indifferent 60 to offend him, hut cnou-h to r,how liim that she f.-lt n. interest in the conversation. He could not tind delaying any lon^.-r. hut lie left her with the .1. see her aLcain as soon a- "The hall has lieeu a l.rilliant success," said the earl. " 1 ! you enjoyed it. I)..; "Yes." she replied, " I liked Prince Poermal, and I Duke of Eastham, hut I did not lik.- all my partir Lord Linleiirh laughed. " Tliat is hardly to he supposed," he said. "If it rude question, which of them did your ladyship dislil. "Dislike is too strong a word. papa. 1 did not care . Lord Yiviaii'ie: he tired me very much. How can peopi mire him ':" "You do not like him:" s,,id t!:.- earl. " I supj)O8e it doe much matter, hut I am rath.-r sorry. He^.. ke a great fancy to me. and piv^.-.l me to try shiM.tin^ with him. li do not like him, I shall not." She laughed. " There is no need for that, papa: it does not quite follow because he i- not to my taM.-. he is not t<> \ " No: hut he spoke of calli: ud did li. mi- undcr-.taiid that In- %\ i^h.-.j to ] on visiting terms with " Why not ?" sh>- asked, indolently. " If you do not like him. I >orN. I >hould never case to see him inside our doors." " I do not like him as a part-i>-r. papa: perhaps ;i.s ;i the house I mi^ht like him very well n u itli s and -oi]qiIimrnts." "Perhaps lie \\;is \ery much charmed with earl. laiiL'hin^ly. "I must say. i. doire to in- on intimate term- with me than he did. him to dine on Thursday the Hi-hop, and we shall see if lie improves upon i " He seemed to me very |xilit<' and plea-sin^." .said the count- ess, quietly. Anil then they spoke no n -;mtly. She had n Fort, hi-'ii \\.-is talking to hi- sumin^ a jiart, and to herself that the know : not heen alile : --nt had i felt this: she understood that esce in ull she said, in hi- own 242 A FAIR MYSTERY. CHAPTER LXV. " IF SHE REFUSES, LET HER BEWARE!" STANDING in the solitary splendor of her room, Doris looked round her with despairing eyes. Was it possible that this sin, of which she had thought so little, would be the means of drag- ging her down from the brilliant height on which she stood '-. What were those words haunting her? " Be sure your sin will find you out." Was it possible that her brilliant life, her tri- umphant career, her happiness, should all be ended by this secret coming to life? Would it be of any use throwing herself on his mercy, and asking him to keep the horrible story to himself? Bah! she hated him so that she would ask no favor from him not to save twenty lives! The only thing for her to downs to go on baffling him to treat him, not with unkindness, but with such calm indifference that he would find it impossible to break down the barrier to avoid conversation with him, and to nuirry Earle as soon as possible. Once married, she could easily per- suade her husband to take her abroad. She would keep out of England a year or two, and then Lord Vivianue would ha^e for- gotten his fancy. " There is one thing I must do the next time I see him," said the unhappy girl to herself. " I must tell him, in some way or other, that luy name is Doris. He is sure to find it out. I had better tell him." She went to rest in her luxurious chamber, perhaps one of the most luxurious in London, and in the whole of that vast city there was not a heart more restless or more sad than hers. ******* Lady Doris met Lord Vivianne next at a flower-show at Chis- \vick. It pleased the fair ladies of fashion to congregate there. The Duchess of Downsbury, the Countess of Linleigh, and Lady Doris, had driven together. It was a brilliant fete ; the sky overhead was blue and cloudless, the golden sun was shining, the air was filled with the songs of countless birds, and cadi laden with the fragrant odor of a thousand flowers. The charm of sweetest music wr.s not wanting; from under the shade of the trees came the clear, bright sounds. It was like fairyland. The earl had ridden down : Earle was prevented from going. It was there that, for the second time, she met the man who was fast becoming her mortal foe. There was a long, shady avenue of trees, with bountiful chestnuts in full bloom; the air seemed alive and warm with their fragrance. The duchess and IKT daughter had gone to look at some exquisite specimens of white heath: Lady Stiidleigh walked slowly down the chestnut grove. She heard 'footsteps lehind her, and thinking it was the duchess, she did not turn. Then the voice that she hated most in the worl 1 sounded in her ears. " (.rood-morning. Lady Stiidleigh; I esteem myself very fort- unate in meeting you here." Again he looked narrowly into her face, to see if there was the faintest trace of confusion or fear. It was calm and bright as .1 FAin 248 tl.oinornin- itself; hereyefl show nil smiles. [-morning ; n ^lv : .. , 8^ ^ ideal <>f fairyland alter this. I,..rd Yh ' What will it he'.-" he a> A t^wer-show. h is really VI how much I enjoy it." "PerhapH novelty add* to the charm," 1,. The most beautiful Oowen I hare ever seen art You i to Downsburv < 1\- stu.ll. she replied, with the frankest ui'i la-t year. I thought the Mowers very U-aiitiful." I 0006 saw a Mower." he >aid. M that 1 would defy all crea- tion to equal." DM you: For my part. I think them all U-autiful alike Have you seen the japonicaa I. " No. 1 have only just an : To himself In- added, '! -pairiii^lv: 11 I must IK- wron-. Si,.- eoul-1 n-.t IK? so frankly unconcerned Besides, how could the ^irl I tK.k to 1 i th me !* otudleigh's dau^ht- r ?" ' Did you like Downshtiry Ca-tle;" he a>ked. au'ain. i. lit I cannot say that I was ecstatically happv th. "Why not'r" he asked. "You ,,u^ht to "! ha: wli. She lati-hed a low, musical lau-li. "I do not think." she said, "that I was a great favorite with " \Vith the iliiehess- why n " For many ] -he did not h'L: i> hri^hter than I^idy l.inl iny name; she said it had th Your name? If I am riot presump' " I ' r-'plii-d. and si,. of most angelic inn *l)oris," he re|M'ated. "I i, cu the one a<> ! you." " Doris how :n the low. su . i him. " ! lislike til-- n-ii Me wji looking at her in a . warn no like; it must U- his D-ra. Tl Yet. if she were he had b-t not natural that she eoiil.j tion. that there \\as aiivthin i-d. 1 ha\e a theory of ' "and I think it the either an ungainly 1 had a senai- Me naiiu-. 1 should not :I1 of rajirice, at I am now." 244 A FAIR MYSTERY. He laughed, still wondering. Could it be his Dora, the girl he had learned to love with such a fierce, mad love the girl to recover whom he would have cheerfully laid down his wealth ? He would not have believed it possible, if any other man had told him such a story: he would have said it could not be, that it must be clear at once whether she were the girl or not: yet he was puzzled. If a kingdom had been offered to him at that mo- ment to say whether this was the girl he had loved or not, he could not have told. Still, he would try her, and try her until some incautious word, some half-uttered exclamation, some sudden look of fear would betray her. If none of these things happened, he would take further steps go down to Bracken- side, where he had first met her, and see what he could find out there. Then, as he listened to her, his faith was shaken again. Surely, if she dreaded recognition, she would be less natural, she would seek in some measure to disguise her voice, her laugh; but no one could be more frank or natiiral. Then a new idea came to him. If she were really Dora, as sooner or later he must discover, then he would compel her to marry him by threats; if she were not, he would win her love and marry her. Looking at the exquisite face, the proud eyes, all the mad, fierce love that he had felt for his lost Dora came over him. Then he was startled to find the laughing eyes looking at him with some curiosity. " I have heard of day dreams, Lord Vivianne," she said, " now I have seen a day dreamer. We have been through this chest- nut grove twice, and you have not spoken; you have been build- ing castles in the air." " I have been building castles of which I have dared to make you the queen,' he replied. " I should like to be the queen of something more substantial than an aii castle," she replied laughingly. " You do not know," he said, " that being with you, Lady Studleigh, is at once the highest happiness and the greatest misery." " I ought to be flattered at producing such a variety of emo- tion," she replied, with a laugh. " You would be serious you would pity me if you knew all,' he said. " Shall I pity you without knowing anything?" she replied. " No; but, Lady Studleigh, you are so pretty, so exactly liks some one I I loved and lost; you are the very counterpart of her her true likeness. I have never seen anything so marvel' ous!" " How did you lose her?" she asked. " Did she die ?" " No. To me it was almost worse than that. She, this lovely girl whom I so dearly loved, was beneath me in station, yet 1 worshiped her. She affected to love me whether she did or not, Heaven only knows. But just as I had made up my mind to marry her, because I loved her so dearly I could not live without her A FA Hi MYSTi sTu, disappeared went away out of my life and I have not seen hen dince. " Wll;lt n Straus . ,,];,.,]. indifferently. "a strange that you should t.'ll it to me. i/, r .l \ ' Because, In- cried, with .-udden | .. like herdo yon not see? You are so m could look in your face and cry out' i 'n mi- '.-' " Mir laughed a^ain. "Could you? How strange! I sliouid prised if you did." You are so like her. When I look at you uiv heart seems to me." H.T \iolet eveB, with their proud lh,'ht. looked into his calmly. "I did not think the i ,U>iit lo\..." ahe said; " m to h.-tve i,,<. " Loved 1,,-r 1 . hut I I as well try to imagine wliat the heat and th like, from seeing them pointed on --. ho\\ I . 'mi hearing me u-- the word love." " You should find her and tell her all ' And from the half-tire, i >saed the iM'autiful fact-, he knew .- the ti, " 1 am > -ari-hin^ fr her." 1 hot a ! her. 'i that I h:;\e l-nind 1 " That is well," she rej : " No. it is hardly well. When I am sure that I have di-. her to marry me; and i: h.-r ! 1 : her he'.' Tin me fn>m him with laughter : !il:e th< .rd. I shall U'giti to thn.k you If she !* i, lit. " what will she thii. Then he continued: " I ou^hl to :i; Studlei^'h. I . ' much like her. I l-.v.-d IP : l lose my life i ; my hojN- of wmi,. I'.ut how can you ma. at li.-v<- that he wa> mi-taken; l,u' found out who Earle was. ami tliat Marl. lover. >he could blind him no lone. ,-t liim 01 rare intervals, she mi-lit ha\c continued to mislead him. Had ' Brie met him casually in he could' deception until it was too late for him to injure her. Hut now tliat he war- cumin;.', a.- it were, into the v,-r\ heart of her I she liad less chance. If he found out aU.ut Karle. he would find out altoiit lier. Then well, supi>ose it came, tliis discovery that she di terribly, what woirld he do if -he < marry him V " Kill her." lie had said: Imt that \v -asily d< : li^'ht compromi-e and >f-ure her own safety by refu.-in^ to u Karle. "and marr\inK Ird Vivianne. He would k-ep lu-r then. People woiihl only say that she had ;! mind, and say that she \\ as like all the Studlei^hs faithless. HI. loved Karle with all her power of loving, and she h A'ivianne with an untol'J hatred. She said to herself that if >he had to save In r^ 'If from tin- t'rrilile death \>\ marrying him. she would not ,|,. it. She loathed him: she would have Keen p|ea~--d to tn.-irtl dead, or anything e!-e dreadful had liap]x-ned to him. for he had spoiled her life. < >!' \\hat use was all her wealth, her luxury, her ma-iiil'u enee .- Her life through him jiletely >poiled. I wi-.h he were dead." she s;l i,l to herself. . "The toil.- .m- around me: 1 shall She tiling her arms ;il...\e her head with a < 'A' hat lie to do? She IIIUM. lir.-t of ;ill. | [e\e!,t them 1; intf that ni.'-cli; not dine toe, -t her ;it h< holl-. evil to l,e illl!: the n -olden h-iir hack from her wl It I .11'. hut tell Karle, and let him aven-e i thought Then she wrote to him little n,.- she had a particular reason I'..- hint not t- iiim a reason that -he Uini! : but that >he h- . .n in the . nd a.-k for Ip-t ,ehim in I^tdy IJnK-iKh's U.u.loir. I M in hot I Take this note to Mr iid. At-r." "Oh.thi iietl the servant. " What there i- t to please them!" Still, lie did lUS IN -t. He note iu his hand, and \\aited for tli- i it. He . tomcd to tty little 248 A FAIR MYSTERY. any importance to them. He merely wrote in reply that he was entirely at her command. " You remember the old song, my darling: " ' Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me, Thou bast command of every part, To live and die for thee.' I will come later on in the evening and see no one but you." He laughed as he closed the note. " I wonder what pretty caprice possesses my darling now," he said to himself. The man who took the note back wondered at his young mis- tress, her face was quite white, her golden hair clung in rich dis- order, the white hands, so eagerly extended to seize the letter, trembled and burned like fire. " They must have had a quarrel," he said to himself, with a knowing nod, as he closed the door. " They have had a quarrel, and my lady wishes to make it all right again." It was a reprieve. She kissed the little note with a passion of love that was real. " My darling," she said, " if we could but go away together." And as she sat there a sudden memory of the time when she had run away from him came to her. She saw the old-fash- ioned garden at Brack enside; she saw the great crimson roses, and the sheaves of white lilies; she saw the kindly face of Mat- tie, and heard Earle singing: "Thou art my soul, my life the very eyes of me." Ah, peaceful, innocent days! Blind, mad fool that she had been ever to listen to Vivianne to let him tempt her to let him take her from the innocent, happy home! What had she gained? 4nd ah, Heaven i what had she lost? If she could but have foreseen, have known, how differently she would have behaved. " I am strong," she said, pushing away the golden hair with her white hands. " I am strong, but I could not live this life it would kill me." She sat for half an hour, thinking steadily, then her resolve was taken. She would tide over the dinner as well as she could, throwing him more and more off his guard. She would see Earle that evening, and tell him that she wanted their marriage hastened; that she was tired of so many lovers, and wanted to go away with him; that she was wearied of London life. She knew that Earle would be on the alert to serve her, he would manage it all. She had faith in his great love. Then she would tell the earl that her health and strength were failing her; ask him to take her to Linleigh Court. Lord Vivianne would not dare to follow her there. It was like a haven of rest to her. When the summer came, she would marry Earle quietly and go abroad. Then she would be out of her enemy's power; he could no longer hurl her from her high estate, or compel her to marry him. She would be another man's wife then, and it would be his place to protect and avenge her. .-i f.\u: M The ]>lan. rapidly i. rapidly -k--t< hed. was her only resource, her only safety. True, it would spoil her lil- triumphs that she now enjoyed would I In rs no \i woul . iie of the season, the i| auty and fashion. She must lose that part of her life which -he \ al- lied most the homage, the adulation, the bright m . and all through him. How her whole soul raged in burning fury against him! If lie had U-en lying there on the ground, her foot on his i she would not have spared him. She would have seen him die with pleasure. It did not lessen her anger and her rage that she had to talk to him. to smile, and (harm him. " If a look could kill him.'' she said to herself, " he should She longed t !> in Italy, where a hi. small sum, would soon have ended his life. She was obli_ soothe h-r anger, to still the liercc t-tn| calm her fears, to take an interest in her dress, to smile, to look sweet and winning, with the most vindictive hate in her h- Then she went into the little drawing-room. Lord Linleigh went up to her. " What a pretty toilet. Doris," he said. " White lace and roeea. Yoi; imply superb. Hut. ah, me! ah. me!" " What is it. papa ':" she a-ked. a> he laughed, gently. " Karle i.^ not coming, my dear. I am afraid you will be dis- np|Miinted. !! a liurried little note to say that it is nu- bia He i- busy aUmt I. a, you know." A few minutes afterward and I/>rd Vivianne. with a smile on ce, entered the room. Her tin;rer> clutched the tlowers she carrie >it by him and could not have been with you. You may think it a stupid, childish reason. Karle, but it is a true one. I was determined if I could not talk to you, I would not be annoyed hv seeing any one . He looked sliirhtly pu/./led. but. as he said to liimself, it was f her capri'-es why not be content ? " If my staying away pleaded you," he said, "I am doubly plea- Yet it stmck him as he spoke, that she had lost some of her animation and brightii' How beautiful you look in this light, Dora," he said. ""Why. fling, a king might envy me." One of the white, jeueled hands rested caressingly on the : head of the young ]>oet. He had never seen I > " My darling!" he cried, lus face Blowing with ii.s rapture of hap| My darling, you are beginning to I well at u " I do love \ou. F.arle," she said, and for some minutes there :i them. Site had a certain object to win, and >he w;us debating within i how it was to be won. " It is like a fairv tal ." he said. " V.'hy. my darling. looking at \ou I cannot Ite'lieve my wn good fortmi- woman in Kngland: you are noble. \.,\i are lii-li in -tatioi, have the wit. the grace, the QOble beating Of a i|11eell. 1 nothing hut the two titles you ha\e riven me. ! gentleman and II shall win vou for my v. ite. It i- -> wonderful Mionev could not have Imm-l to my side - a millionaire might lo\e \he in dreamy si-h: the firdi-ht shining on In r t flushed and treinu! irle." she said. "d. you renn-mber how I u a life like tlii-: lo> and perpetual admirali. 252 A FAIR MYSTERY. " I remember it well. I used to feel so puzzled to know how to get it for you." " Now I have it more than even my heart desired. You will not think me very fickle if I tell you something ?" " I shall never think you anything but most charming and lovable, Doris." " Well, the truth is, I am rather tired of the life; but I do not like to say so. I cannot think why it is; sometimes I think it may only be fancy, that I am not strong as I used to be; perhaps the great change has been too much for me. Let it be what it may, I am tired of it, though I cannot say so to any one but you." "The queen of the season tired of her honors ?" said Earle, kissing the sweet lips and the white brow. " I am really tired, Earle. Then, though admiration is always sweet to a woman, I have rather too much of it. That Prince Poennal is making love to me, the Marquis of Heather made me an offer yesterday, and Lord Vivianne teases me. Now, Earle, it is tiresome, it is indeed, dear. My mind, my heart nay, I need not be ashamed to say it are filled with you. I do not want the offers of other men their love and admiration." " Declaring our engagement would soon put an end to all that," he said, thoughtfully. But that was not what the Lady Doris wanted; she wanted him to urge their marriage. " Yes," she said, " we might make it known, but people would not believe it; it would not save me from the importunities of other men." He looked wonderingly at her. After all, it was a new feat- ure in her character this dread of lovers. " That is not all, Earle," she said, clasping her soft, warm fin- gers round his hands. " I tell you no one but you this life is a little too much for me. Before I had recovered from the great shock of the change, I was plunged into the very whirlpool of London life. Do not imagine I have joined the list of invalids, or that I have grown nervous, or any nonsense of that kind: it is not so; but at times I feel a great failure of strength, a deadly faintness or weakness that is hard to tight agairst a horrible foreboding for which I cannot account." Her face grew pale, and her eyes seemed to lose their light as 8he spoke. " I am sure," she continued, " that it is from over-fatigue. Do you not think so. Earle ?" " Yes," he replied; " now, what is the remedy ?' " I know the remedy. It would be to give all up for a time, and take a long rest a long rest," her voice seemed to die away like the softest murmur of a sighing wind. Earle felt almost alarmed; this was so completely novel, this view of Doris, who had always been bright, piquant, and gay. " You shall go away, darling," he said, tenderly. " But, Earle," she said, " my father and Lady Linleigh are en- joying the season so much, they have so many engagements, I cannot bear to say anything about going. " A FAIR MYSTERY. 2C3 " Then I will say it for von. I shall tell Lord Linleigh, to- mor- row, that vou have exhausted yourself, and that you must have a few weeks of quiet at Linleigh Court." " What will in- say. Barter " If I judge him rightly, darling, he will say little, but he will act at once; before this time next week you will be at Lin- "Do you really think so? I am so glad," yet she shivered , as slu- spoke. " I long to go to Linleigh, Earle. yet 1 have Mich a strange feeling about it, a strange presentiment, a fore- boding; sorely HO evil. no danger awaits me at Linleijrh Do you know, I could fancy death standing at the threshold waiting with outstretched arm* to c;;tch me." Again her voice died away with a half-hysterical sob. fie bent over her and kissed her. My darling, you ;ire fanciful, you are tired. I am so glad you have tru-ted me: it ishi-h time you were attended to. These nervous fancies are enough to drive you mad; the evil has gone further than I thought. Doris, my love, my sweet, it is only the reaction from over-fatigue that gives you these ideas, nothing what awaits you but a future bright as your own In-auty? "What shall I live for except to love and to serve and to shield : led suddenly, " do you know what I wish ':" A long shining tress of golden hair had fallen over her shoulders, and she sat twining it round her white lingers. 1 >o \ou know what I wish':" she repealed. No: if I did I should do it, you may be quite sure, Doris." " I wish that wi you and 1 were married; that I was your wife, and that we had gone far away from here, away where no one knows us, where we could I*.- quite happy, alone and : !er." " Do you really wish that. I>oris?" he asked. Her face flushed slightly, but her voice did not tremble. " I do really wish it." she replied. " If papa were willing wn would IK- married this summer, and we could go away. Karle. to far-off land; then when we had U-en happy for some time --we could come home again. 1 should have grown quit*! strong by then, and I should have found health, strength, and jx-ace. ail with you." There wa.s a strange mingling of doubt and rapturous happi- i his face. IX) you really mean this, l^ri-.-" he asked. " Would you the queen of the .season. the fairest oliject of man's worship would you give up all your triumphs, all your ^ayeti-'s. and i to live in quiet and solitude with me .-" There was a slight ! for one half moment; he w noble, so true. It was pitiful love for the o> ing of her own ends; but she must save herself she must do that. You maj I.elii-v.- me. Knrle." -!,. replied, gently; " if it could b. . 1 would far rather it w-f "Then, darling, it .-hall lie- my head grows dizzy with tba S54 A FAIR MYSTERY. thought of it you, my peerless, my beautiful Doris, will be my own wife when the summer comes. Why, Doris, listen! oh, listen, love! Do you know that I never fully realized that I was to make you my wife, though I have loved you so passionately and so well? You have always seemed of late far above me, like a bright shining star to be worshiped, hardly to be won. When I said to myself, that at some time or other you should bo my wife, it has been like a dream a bright, sweet, unreal dream. I do not know that I ever fancied you, sweet, with bridal veil and orange-blossoms; yet now, you say, you will marry me in the summer!" " That I will, Earle," she replied. " Heaven bless you, my own darling! Heaven speed the happy summer. Why, Doris, I can see the gold on the labur- nums, I can hear the ring-doves cooing, I can see the smile of summer all over the land! Mine in the summer, dear; Heaven, make me worthy!" " There is but one thing, Earle," she said; " I you will think I have changed, but I cannot help that I want a quiet mar- riage. It would please me best if nothing were said, even about our engagement, but if we could go quietl} 7 to Linleigh and keep the secret of our marriage to ourselves; that is what I should really like, Earle." " Then it shall be so, my darling! Now, do not give yourself one moment's anxiety. Shut those beautiful eyes and sleep all night, dreaming only of summer roses and your lover, Earle. I shall see your father to-morrow, and I shall tell him; he will be quite willing, I am sure." " You are very good to me, Earle," she said, gratefully. " How foolish I was ever to think that I did not care for you, and to run away from you, was I not?" "That is all forgotten, love'' he said, and she felt that she would have given the whole world if it had never happened. CHAPTER LXVIII. A CLEW AT LAST. THE morning that followed was beautiful. The Lady Doris felt more cheerful than she had done for many long days. Earle would manage it all for her; she should find a way out of all her difficulties. Lord Vivianne would not follow her to Linleigh; even if he did, she could foil him again and again. When once she was Earle's wife, she could defy him; it was not likely that she would fear him then. Her heart and spirits rose alike, she smiled at her own fair image in the glass; early as it was, a fragrant bouquet of wliite hyacinths lay on the toilet table, sent by some adoring lover wli.) evidently hoped that the flowers would say lor him what he could not say for himself. She smiled over them, inhaling the rich odor with delight, thinking to herself the while. " What a ]>po. Mole th.-.'t Mirrow or death sh. She >i!;i!ed to licrM-lf wl father. Yet. nearly an hour ] tlu-n, owinu r to str:: :. he could nut SJM \vliat hn'l " !>ori>." " I have heeii 1 :!k with L and I nuist have one with ymi i.'ier." " I will rememlier. p;r Tlien as tin- day was ^o iiuo Eiirle l>r.. \vjth him. 41 An hour in th" park woiil 1 !* so pl-M Audibly l.in!fi._'li tl Mine. 1 ' TI- \..is " I w:is (piit jiin.i irl." r lins erew jiale. ,-ind parted \\ith a L slie looked at him anxiously. ' III one Word. K;: " Yes." he reclied. " iii evei The!, I never mentioned I tld him tli.it 1 ! r-id that I ( elt .|iiile con .)iil6 A FAIR MYSTERY. the sky! Was the world ever so fair, love ever one-half so fair?" Suddenly he saw her start, and looking at her. saw an angry flush on her face, a bright light in her eyes. She was looking intently at some one who returned the glance with interest. Following the direction of her eyes,' Earle saw Lord Vivianne watching her most intently. There was a smile that was yet half a sneer on his lips, he was talking to a gentleman whom Earle instantly recognized as Colonel Clifford. " There is your bete noir, Doris Lord Vivianne," he said, "I see him," she replied, quietly. He did not know the hot impulse that was on her, he did not understand why she clinched the little jeweled whip so tightly in her hand. She would have given the whole wide world if she dare have ridden up to him, and have given him one stroke across the face with her whip one stroke that would have left a burning red brand across the handsome, insolent face! She would have gloried in it. She could fancy how he would start and cry out, the coward! how he would do his best to hide the shameful mark given to him by a woman's hand. In all her life Lady Doris Studleigh never had such difficulty in controlling an impulse as she had in controlling that. . Then she was recalled to herself by a bow from Lord Vivianne and a look of unqualified wonder on her lover's face. " Doris," he said, " my dear child, what are you going to do to Lord Vivianne ? You look inclined to ride over him." " So I am," she replied, with a smile. But the beauty of the morning had gone for her there was no more warmth in the sunshine, no more fragrance in the flowers and trees, no music in the birds' song; the sight of that hand- some face, with its evil meaning, had destroyed it all, had made her heart sink. Oh! to be away from him, where she should never see him or hear of him again. " I am tired, Earle," she said. " Tired so soon!" he replied. But one look at her told him the words were quite true. " We will ride back again, Doris. Tell me why do you dislike Lord Vivianne so much ?" " I am not sure that I dislike him." she replied. "You do, sweet; your face quite changed when you saw him." " Did it ? I do not like him because he teases me so with com- pliments. I dislike many people; he is no great exception." Earle laughed. "It is very unfortunate to admire you, Doris, if admiration brings dislike." They rode home again, while Colonel Clifford turned with a Btnile to his companion. " That looks like a settled case," he said. "What do you mean by a settled case?" was the irritable reply. " I defy any man to understand his own language in these degenerate days." " A settled *Sse means that, to all appearances* the queen of .-1 FAIR .Vr.s'77 the season, flu- ///. flatten d I.-, : with our youn.L.' A you who is 1. iii'l tin- words Do; , 11 My lo\er i> :i p-ntleman and a j At the time he had thought it id!-- i'ml>a-t. ir/ .ten her value in hi- '. it might have U-t-n '1 up with unusual interest. "Who is he, CliiTordr" he re[>ea! 11 I can hardly tell y.n. except ti 2>rnti't/i> an- . and oi the pul>li<: in K'-'"Tal, fur he is :. i-hanis: . , week." :le Moray! 1 am Mire 1 !. Men lla-li of 1 ' to illun. .ind. ; rle! Karle! Why that in her *leep. >he \. mi that Karle wiu ruining- il well. Creat Iha .Vhat is tlie ma" >i look aa i he Khost of my - Oh, what i So tliat is the 5 .1-1. Ian known wbo MT N.I. People say tha' f, ,,,. ;.,. ,\ i. one that lie was ashamed to own, therein in- roman What romance :" a.sked I.-r.l Vivianne. hunt M'ont 1-idy Id.ri-. The earl, wl < aptaiB Studlei -h married I.eju-ath liiii' ,ter to he hrou-ht up hy some Inn.: onsists, f Mipp' Ml e,.|.l|.: ;,,. nnfortuiK.te thin- for tli- the rl tmned ..ut i.. tffW,. graceful, int.Higent, and U ' 1 ilave it. hv heaven- ' ud ro ^ C9 - s j,..,.n bu .ud me and teacing i :hemornr inel. "Mj .ar in all mv life. I raw no t! lord Viviann. -ly. i"'t w, (1 to him now that ! -If lam right." he --.id t- him will humiliate her: 1 will low. I will rl,aiiK- plao - 1 1. 1 will K '.M!..WII to !'., d 'Vle kept hi. ur.l. Much to h-.ne.t Mark", Mirj.i. ..-. whn be 258 A FAIR MYSTERY. entered the house that evening, he found a fashionably dressed stranger, bent upon being very agreeable to his wife and daugh- ter. " You wil) be surprised to see me," said his M-ily lordship, " but I was passing through Brackenside and could not help call- ing. I am quite a stranger. Allow me to introduce myself as Lord Vivianne. You," he continued, holding out his hand to Mark, "are Mr. Brace." Mark replied in a suitable manner, then sat down, with a look of resignation that highly amused Mattie. If it would rain lords lie could not help it. Such wonderful events had happened that Mark felt he should never be surprised again. Then he looked in his lordship's face as though he would fain ask what he wanted there. " I had the pleasure once it is some time since of meeting your daughter, Miss Doris Brace. If she is at home, I should like to see her." At the first sound of that name, Mark was on the alert. This was just what they had cautioned him about. The earl had bid- den him beware of impertinence and curiosity. Mark had passed his word not to speak of Doris' history, and he meant to keep it. " Wild horses, 3 ' as he expressed it, would not have torn it from him. " Miss Doris Brace is not at home," he replied, grimly. ;< Indeed!" said the stranger. "I am sorry for that; I had relied upon seeing her. Perhaps I may be more fortunate to- morrow." " I do not think you will," was the reply; " she will not be at home." " Perhaps, then, the day after?" was the insinuating com- ment. "No, nor the day after," replied Mark; "she will not be at home she is not in Brackcnside." Now my lord had laid all his plans most prudently; he did not intend to compromise himself at all. If the whole affair turned out to be a huge mistake, as it might do, he would not say any- thing that could prejudice his cause in the least. No harm could possibly arise if he said that he had met Miss Doris Brace ; he had seen her at the Castle; and if hardly pushed he could quote that meeting. But the farmer was a very fortress he returned none but the most simple, vague, and honest answers, saying that she was not at home, she would not be at home, but looking most amiably deaf when any allusion was made to change or fortune. CHAPTER LXI::. LORD VIVIANXE PROPOSES A LITTLE DISCUSSION. " IF I may take the liberty," said Lord Vivianne, turning with his most amiable smile to Mrs. Brace, " I should so much like to ask for a cup of tea. I was anxious to see your dauirhter, so did not wait to take any refreshments at the hotel. It is a great disappointment to me, 1 ' A FA in MVXT; " ">' Mark. .juietly il ho\v many disap- pointments we have to 1 < Tli. . ;m.I Mrs. Uraee's ]\> ->rt wa praise of tin- excellent tea. tin- tiiick cream, tin- fresh - butter, ;in tin- handsome stranger whom Mark kt ; but when- could hi- ha\. of relenting in his %\ il. to her aUmt tin- milking anl - " Now, look he:v. r.itty." h -..,1. " : <1 > not mi-ail to break it. I told tin- carl that, i came, \vhu a.-kcd. IT what was want'-, nuiiie and -liould ncvi r IK- told, and it i.c\.-r >hall." I a, n .- ore, man: li.i-ic i ;.n h-- ut him." " (it-ntl'-nian -oli! Th.-rc. no\v. k ao frightened! I ii'-ver swore in my life, not even r \veathcr. I am in>< i n\\ . 1 man- i.e is. 1 do not deny that: but it I. matter. Why dots heroine here to talk, ha- it to do with him? It means mi^-hi.-f. 11- from here as \vi-f a- " You are ri^ht, Mark. "That is a sensible woman. Yet." added Mark, irony. " the si..-ht of his han . his tongue ma . to k. " 1 will." said Mr-,. Hiaee. " I I you have. Mark. Still he Iixiks -o \vi.-.!ful. I will "That is the best woman in as Mr-. I'.i i >t. II' Viviamn- knew ju.-t as well as thmiu'li Mark had told she was iron h-M .sin hoidd ! to talk ! v imitated her nioti .ng her father a. with his K"est. What a -rand old farm this is of ;. I n, . >nnds in -m -li Mark had mad ii|. hi- mind tol with some littl ditlieni' tempt. What d : d this lord know Of. A.bOT Ml, WBJ did he want to tlati.T Mark Hi I am ratlnr plea-^eil." .-aid tl near. i. without the :.-M-iit. I Mrmntedlh tunit\ -." t, and will try t- avail n. told I !''>'' * " \\ " Yes: and I resolved, if pouble. to see her again." Mark sat *ilcnt. 260 A FAIR MYSTERY. " I quite believed at the time that she was your daughter, but I have heard a strange romance since terribly strange. May I ask, Mr. Brace, if it be true ?" " No, my lord, you may not ask me at least, I do not mean that you may aak what you will, but you must excuse me if I do not reply. The fact is tliis if you ask as to the state of my farm, my balance at the bank, my hopes of a crop, I will tell you; but when it comes to the ladies of my family, you must really excuse me if I distinctly and plainly refuse to" answer one question concerning them. I am sorry to seem rude, my lord." But, like every one else who saw him, Lord Vivianne admired Mark Brace. He held out his white, slim hand to touch the farmer's sunburnt one. " There is no offense, Mr. Brace," he said. " You are an honest man, and I shall think better of all other men for having seen you. If you decline any conversation on the matter, it is, of course, useless for me to offer any explanations." " Quite useless, my lord; a waste of time."' " Then, thanking you for your hospitality, I may as well go," eaid his lordship, with a taiile." To which remark the farmer, not knowing what politeness re- quired him to answer, made no answer at all. Although he was baffled, Lord Vivianne could not feel angry. " It would be a straightforward world," he said to himself, laughingly, " if all the men in it were like Mark Brace. Still he felt that he had in some measure won a victory he had found out that, in connection with Doris, there was something to conceal. He went to Quainton and took up his abode for the night in the Castle Hotel. There he fancied he should be sure to hear something or other. Nor was he mistaken. In the billiard- room the conversation turned upon Earle Moray they were very proud of him, they said that Lindenholm had given to England one of her finest poets they boasted to each other of having known him, of having spoken to him; they talked of hs election for Anderloy; there had been no bribery all had been open as the day. Yes, he had been returned almost without opposition. They spoke of Lord Linleigh's interest in him. and then one or two or the v.-isest among them told how he was to marry Lord Linleigh's daughter, the beautiful girl who, for some reason or other, had been brought up at Brackenside. It was impossible to keep such a secret quiet; some few in Quain- ton knew, and others guessed it. Lord Vivianne listened without a comment, the veins in his forehead swelled, his face flushed a hot crimson flush, his hands trembled. It was a victory he had hardly expected to win. Then he muttered to himself something that sounded like a fierce oath: " She shall pay for it," he t. aid to himself. " Madly as I love her, I will not spare her. \Vheii I have humbled her pride, I will worship her and marry her; not until then. So it was she, all the time; she looked into my eyes without recognition; she dared me, braved me, laughed at me. She shall suffer. She is A FAIR MYST! 261 the most mn-rnificent an<] dauntless rr is -rand enough for a Charlotte Con: Heaven! how many girls would li. ' '(.'It I Would keep llr I will repay her!" Mis \\ ho),- .. .ul sv at mi.' time he ft It inclini Jiray and l>.-sc.-.-h her to love liim. t<> I..- time to feel tliat hf iiiu-t nphraid her with !; falsity, her deceit. Which M.irit w<>!^ Ftint clishonoratile tiling t<> threaten to hold . but. if she eoinpeiled him, he would do it. came into his mind, hut he wondered mueh. '1 Ileus of her father's M|rer--i<>|| I home must h .-! her uliil.- \itli liim. N" knew where he \\a.-; I. i it. It struck liim tliat w 1 left hi: not thou^lit of that l>ef..n': it \\ her, and she would ii"t !. found with him. Hut v. told her ''. that \\ as tin- \>\\7.;\ straight from Kn-larnl to Florence. Ti. the !:: /led. Me felt <|iiite certain that on the niornin- ' her o|-ra liox. and to jmrcha : it. ] I.- had left her l.\ the i ; Hnrin.u' that lia\e ! mild \-.- '.d Lroii^lit IT \ U'hocoiild that some on. Not i would have lieell ln> it I.e had found her \\ith nif." he !!. was K' ''< eiK-u^h. hut it ' ane had the skill i. 'II. !(, i tiiiii, d l.y thf arly train tim- then, he s;iid, to K ivf I ' when the earl and cmii: 1 hlK.lll.: lltfd tllli' |iiit- will: inatt.-r what it co>t h< WtMlld the plea ot ill li boll ;O,M| that th.-ir youn^ lads v. .erself quit.- sale; th.it uioriuiu' Emrta had pro 262 A FAIR MYSTERY. ised to spend with her, and they would arrange about their wed ding and the honeymoon that was never to end. She had dressed herself so prettily for Earle she went to the conservatory intending, there, to spend the morning with him. She walked among the flowers, singing in a soft, low voice to herself; it would all soon be over, she should so soon be away from London, where her terrible secret seemed to have taken bodily shape. She should so soon be safe in her own home in Linleigh; above all, she should soon be Earle's wife. " Earle's wife how he loves me!" thought the girl, "how true and good and noble he is, my Earle!" Then a shadow fell over the brightness of the flowers. She raised her eyes, believing it was he, and they fell on the smiling face of Lord Vivianne. For one instant she looked at him spell-bound, fascinated, as one sees a fluttering bird charmed by a snake. Her heart gave one great bound. " He knows me!" she thought, " and he is come to tell me so!" How he gained admittance matters not; how he bribed a servant, who afterward lost his place for taking the bribe, mat- ters not. He was there, and in the contemptuous insolence of his smile, in the expression of his face, she read that no evasion would be of service to ner. Still she did not lose her self-possession. "How did you obtain admittance, my lord?" she asked, im- periously. "Oh, "Dora, Dora! I have found you. Did you really think you would deceive me for long? I have found you; and now, if you please, we will discuss matters in a proper business-like form." CHAPTER LXX. THE PRICE OF A SECRET. HE went one step nearer to her and looked at her with an evil smile; his heart was full of passion half intense love, half furious anger. " You thought to deceive me," he said, and the breath came like hot flame from his lips. " You thought to blind and dupe me, but I know you now I have known you all along, though I could not believe the evidence of my own senses." He never forgot the regal grace with which she drew her slight frame to its utmost height, the anger, the haughty pride that flashed from her eyes. "I do not understand you," she replied; "and I repeat my question; when I gave orders that 1 should be denied to all visitors, how dare you enter here?" " It is late, Lady Doris," he said, " too late for that kind of thing now, I repeat that I know you to the rest of the world you may be Lady Doris Studleigh, to me you are simply the girl who lived with mo and .an away from me." She looked at him; if a glance from those proud eyes could A FAIR MYST1 w have slain him, he would have lain tha* II* continued: " Voii may deny it. JTO ealment, i t, l.ut it will he all in ami 1 know vc.it iVr wiiat y< y>u please, if you think it advisable t- wa-te v that it will U' in vain." SI,. she listened to tin- insolent v. identity from the \.-ry moment I sa^ " I watched you thru: i Her white lips opened, but all sound died away f : -he beard nothing. I have admired your talent for It i> ten thousand ].. 1 Wllllld IM- U.-, '.I. -lit. I XVa.s Hi It XV 1 hut half derehed. hy \ iniiic!.-i:::it: re him pale, beau i silent as a niarlile statue. " 1 have tracked \ou." he s;iid. triumiihant the whole story of TOOT life; i is a child enside: how you carried on a j-n-t! ".iir \\itli jHX't and gentleman, until I saw you: iiuxx- y. with me. in total i^noi. morning 1 left you hy tl. land, told \oii the tru hark here. 1 have : out ]' he could liave -i>ok.-n. -1 at Hracki-: is \\ ,rd> hack in lu> ! ill. hut th- You thoii-'ht then of . the true "iir hirth. .de \\ ith !!! all i' hi \ur lot a hrilliant >: e question, for a K iinar\ , no human founi. V h\ did \ -i i. i!d have 1 .should 1 "ii then and then from ail tk bound you to : She saw her mistake t! iHili.-v ht-r- . h\it it to know that 1 had oouie eiiiblaJic: of a geutleuian. * 264 A FAIR MYSTERY. notions of honor. There is no need to sneer, my lady: men do not reckon honor when they deal with what you were then." " I know it," she cried, with sudden bitterness, in a voice that had no resemblance to her own. " Why did you not trust me ! I cannot I shall never forgive you for the way in which you deserted me. Had you left me one line only one line telling me your true parents had claimed you, Doris, it would have saved all this." " I had not time." " Because you did not wish to make it. Even suppose that, to avoid detection, you had hurried from Florence, you might surely have sent me a line from England; even if you could not trust me with your name and address, 3'ou might have done that." " I see it now. I might, nay, I should have done it. Will that admission satisfy you ?" " There is nothing in it to satisfy me," he said, angrily; " you had no right to desert me as you did, to treat me as you did none in the world. Do you know what you cost me ? Do you know that I went mad over losing you ? that I searched for you day after day, month after month, hating my life itself because you no longer formed part of it ! Do you know that the loss of you changed me from a good-tempered man into a fiend ? can you realize that. Lady Doris Studleigh ?" "No,' she replied, "I cannot." ' "It is true. Fair, bright, frivolous women like you cannot realize a man's love they cannot even estimate it! And strange oh! strange to say women like you win strong, passionate love, for which the pure and noble of your sex seek in vain." Alas! that she had given him the right to speak thus to her that she had placed herself in the power of such a man! Oh! fatal, foolish, and wicked sin! Yet true to herself, true to her own light, frivolous nature, it was not the bitter sin she repented so much as its discovery. He drew nearer to her, and placed one hand on her arm. " Do you know, Doris," he said, " that when you left me I had begun, even then, to love you with such a passionate love that every pulse of my heart was wrapped up in it." She shook his hand from her as though there were contami- nation in his touch. " I did not know it. I do not believe it. You never loved me you have loved nothing on earth one half so dearly as you have loved yourself!" His face grew dark with anger. " Remembering how entirely you are in my power," he said, " I ask you, is it wise to anger me ?" "You never loved me," she repeated; " Earle loved me, and would have died any day to save my fair name! You never loved me, you loved yourself!" " I repeat it, I loved you with a passion so terrible, so fierce, so violent, it frightened me! I loved you so, that I would have lost wealth, fortune, position ah! life itself for you!" Her white lips smiled scornfully; that calm/ proud, scorn drove him beside himself. A FAIR MYST: sw " You have been some tiino in di "That is your ini- wearwhatl i i- true. know wh BO happy, so li-lit of heart on the d ' It was because my iox ;<-n down evening I find resolved uixm asking you to be my " 1 do not helieve it," UM Ctl " It is true; I swear it on tlu> faith ami honor of a gentleman. 1 swear it on the word of a man." " I should need a stronger oath than that," "I swear it then hy your own faUi ne,>, ai ceit; can any oath ! t than that '". < >n that \ery e\. I had resolv.'-d ui.ona.-kin- v< to make our union legal. I loved you so th. v, ithout \ She made no reply for one minute, hut looked Bb I'nn; t :en she said: "I do thank Heaven that I have U en tpft* of iH'corning your \\ , you wer. .injninion, he said. Her fare (lushed hotly at the \vordB. I have lost you, how Ion.- you think my l<-ve has ^rown le^s i-i tl ii I M S fadi 'i -old. if you i ;r own ma! do no J' mation; a thousand times no! It N a hum th-.t -Dora, you had K ! "M "Onc'e for all, l>nl Vivianne. ydu U>T OOei P int' : i will h,: ! til" flltl. I will never !. He Ian-he 1 e,,ntemptu.. It is no use, H"iM." ! cannot help enjoyin my trm: r "il? Ug h Ip it, l.ut. m i!y in a Bp . e^-ape, Kliakinu; his ii! t n-ii.1" | >n in natural I "' ' are I comparison, hu1 it i.i perfect! '"**" tint t!i that me: ,-,. 266 A FAIR MYSTERY. own you have me in your power, I own that you hold a secret of mine. What is to be its price ? I cannot buy your silence with money. You are a gentleman, a man of honor, having my fair name in your power what shall you charge me for keeping it ? I am anxious to know the price men exact for such secrets as those. You wooed me and won me, after your own honorable fashion what are you going to exact now as the price of your love and my mad folly ? I was vain, foolish, untruthful, but, after all, I was an innocent girl when you knew me first. What shall be the price of my innocence ? Oh, noble dscendant of noble men oh, noble heritor of a noble race. Speak let me hear!" Her taunts stung him almost to fury; his face grew livid with rage; yet, the more insolent she, the more deeply he loved her; the more scornful she, the deeper and wilder grew his worship of her. "I will tell you the price," he said; "I will make you my wife. Consent to marry me, and I will swear to you, by heaven itself, that I will keep your secret faithfully, loyally, until I die." "I cannot marry you," she replied; "I do not love you. I cannot help it, if you are angry. I do not even like you. I should be most wretched and miserable with you, for I loathe you. I will never be your wife." " All those," he replied, slowly, " are objections that you must try to overcome." " What if I tell you I love some one else?" she said. "I should pity him, really pity him, from the depths of my heart; but, all the same, I should say you must be my wife!" She longed to tell him that she loved and meant to marry Earle, but she was afraid even to mention his name. " I shall conquer all your objections in time," he said. " It is nothing to me that you say you dislike me; it is even less that you say you like another." But he" never even thought that she really liked Earle. Had she not run away from him ? CHAPTER LXXI. THE COWARD'S THREAT. " THAT is the first part of your declaration," said Lady Doris, with the calm of infinite contempt; " if I will promise to be your wife, you will promise to marry me. What if I refuse?" " You are placing a very painful alternative before me," he replied. " Never mind the pain, my lord; we will waive that. I wish tc know the alternative." " If you will marry me I will keep your secret, Lady Doris Studleigh, faithfully, until death." "Then I clearly,* distinctly, and firmly refuse to marry you. What then ?" " In that case I shall be compelled to take the most disagreea- ble measures I shall be compelled to hold your secret as a A FAIR .vr.sr: or: throat over you. if \ (rife. ] honestlv. that I will make you tin- laiurhins:-- Yii-.i fair, I" aiitiful, inn nit-ii shall lau-h at you. \vomen tu: th-' mo>t ron-^ler you out of tin- pale. 1 " ill tell the compel nir to do it. what I ti-11 the handsome earl, your fath r. u IH>M- roof in t! loii^.-r >h,-lter \oii." I \vill tell your proud. h mother the liau.uhtv .luch.-s wlio |.n-.-ut.-.| tin- niK'i-n lii-r-M'lt'. flu- who \aliu - u'a good name tio\c all worl-lly rank." You woulil !i tin- <-out: iuc that 1 srck to <|. It woiiln dishonorable thing any |M-I>IM roul.1 e; I urant that. Hut. it \ou .ln\e a man mod wtU love. \^h:it can lie -lo'r You coui|.ei n woiil-l not take it." She coiiltl not u'row paler; !; l, ut |. there shot one glance that i '-an- ^cr ami its tin-.' have struck him blind. 'YOU would not .-pare me." j-lu- xinl, "beCMlM it wa.s If wlio K-,1 me to ruin." " 1 l.^e \ou MI iiia-lly," he .-ai'l. " that 1 all " 'Have you thoii-ht." she I tlie world will ' I'am iniliT.-n-nt." lie said: " I ran- f>r I ooure ; ,/e that in -I. tliat you will make youi man I repeat ib.-.t nothing interest- iiininK > , ;;; u ;!:e :;':;.,, ,, '^he;:: 1 ::?';' properly too. It i !o,,l such a contemptible part; I I It; but ,.,,. ,n.-e aii-l for all oldfainil you; noth will make you happ\. I Will 268 A FAIR MYSTERY. is fulfilled; but I swear you shall be my wife. There is no es- cape no alternative; either that or disgrace, degradation, and ruin. Do not think I shall hesitate from any fear of ruin to my- self; I would ruin myself to-morrow to win you. You might as well try to stem the force of a tide as to alter my determina- tion." She saw that she was conquered; mortifying, humiliating as it was, she was conquered there was no help for her. She stood quite still for one moment; then she said slowly. " Will you give me time?" His face flushed hotly; his triumph was coming. A smile played round his lips and brightened his eyes. " Time ? Yes; you can have as much time as you like. You see the solution plainly, do you not? Marry me, and keep your fair name, your high position; defy me, and lose it all. You see it plainly V" " Yes, there is no mistake about it you have made it most perfectly plain," she said, in a low, passionless voice. " I quite understand you. Give me time to think it over I cannot decide it hurriedly." " What time do you require?" he asked. " I shall not be will- ing to wait very long." " It is June now," she continued; " you cannot complain if I say give me until the end of August." " It shall be so, Dora. Will you give me your hand upon it ?" " No," she replied, " I will not give you my hand. Come at the end of August, and I will give you your answer." " I shall not be deprived of the happiness of seeing you until then, Dora?" " I cannot say; I will not be followed, I will not be watched. I claim my perfect freedom until then." " You shall have it. Do not think worse of me than I deserve, Dora. If I had found you married, I would not have spoken, I would never even have hinted at the discovery; but you are not married, darling, nor, while I live, shall any man call you wife except myself." How bitterly at that moment she regretted not having been married! If she had known if she had only known, he should have found her the wife of Earle! " I have no wish to injure you, or to do anything except make life pleasant for you; but my love for you has mastered me, it has conquered me. You must be mine!" Such passion shone in his eyes, gleamed in his face, that she shrunk back half frightened. He laughed, as he said: " It is one thing, you see, Dora, to light a fire, another to ex- tinguish it." " Now, will you leave me, Lord Vivianne? You have placed the pleasing alternative very plainly before me; we have agreed upon a time until you come for my answer that will be at the end of August. Until then your own good sense will show you the proper course to pursue; you need neither seek nor avoid me." He bowed. A F.i If: MY8TB V09 n), < ;'!! lt ' I>< ';^ ulvSl: Objec inn t)iny |,r. go. Let me -iv,. v not to be trifled with; il yourseh MI any way legally out of i: o me. n..t only with jour fair name, hut will; jit 1 s she could not rontn.l. Jh- fanghed aloud. " I .shall .soon see that pretty spirit hmnhled," he said. "Good- morning, my lady." And the next mini;; .,'one. She stood f..r some little time w] id left 1,. fiery passion and anjjer Mir^in^ in her heart as a; mad. Ih-r fa<-,. Btuhed < rim-on with it, her .-yes flamed, twisted her white hands until tl dents in them. She hated him with siieh ai that she would ha\e 1 .11 :!;.-d ,, figure shook with-i: 1,,-r lij.s j... a low, .smothered cry. " I pray Heaven to curs., hir and a t-rrihle d.ati '-'n t< in. '-ould kill him!" In the mi^ht of lier \\ i n a tree. She rai-ed h.-r ri:-lit hand to h.-av.-n. "I BWea? I will never marry him," she said. threaten, punish, di^ra- |, I nwcnr I will never marry him. I will Im- position, nay even life i him and pay him for all he has m., She wa!i ami the , had j/ather.-d mid. : sinn. -I :h I pi !i\ was she BO hea oiint: when si she \v ill tor it. She had sla\ n; she had w e.ilth such had one <>r ih. ' the land; the had, abere all. the ' ishment for th Spa.e \\ as it ..f a: \Vliy. in all her lift !; nher tlie sini[ |i little prajW he had bMH usod to say with Ma uiuther's knee it wa all forgot- 270 A F^IR MYSTERY. ten. She knew there was a God in heaven, although she had always laughed and mocked at religion, deeming it only fit fur tiresome children and old women; surely there was more in it than this. . She knelt down and stretched out her hands with a yearning look, as though some voice in the skies would surely speak to her; then she could not remember how it happened, the fra- grance of the flowers seemed to grow too strong for her, the glass roof, the green, climbing plants, the brilliant blossoms, seemed to fall on her and crush her. With a long, low cry she fell with her face on the ground, a streaming mass of radiant white and golden hair. It was there, that, going in an hour afterward, Earle found her, and raising her from the floor, thought at first that she was dead. Great was the distress, great the consternation; servants came hurrying in, the doctor was sent for. The earl and the countess returning, were driven half frantic by the sight of that white face and silent figure. It hardly reassured them to hear that it was only a fainting fit. " Brought on by what?" asked the earl, in a fever of anxiety. " Nothing more than the reaction after too great physical fa- tigue," replied the doctor. " The Lady Doris looks stronger than she really is; the best advice I can give is, that she should leave London at once, and have some weeks of perfect rest in the country. Medicine is of no use." Lady Linleigh quite agreed in this view of the subject, and the earl declared impetuously that they should go at once to- morrow if she is better," he said, " I should not like such an- other fright." That evening when Lady Doris lay on the little couch in Lady Linleigh's boudoir, and Earle sat by her side, he said to her: " What caused that sudden illness, my darling ? Did anything frighten you ?" " No; I was only tired, Earle." "Tired! I am beginning to dread the word. Do you know what they told me, Doris V "No," she replied, looking at him with frightened ej-es; "what was it?" " One of the servants said she was quite sure that she had heard some one talking to you in the conservatory; but when I went in you were quite alone. Had any one been there?" " What nonsense," she cried evasively; time and experience had taught her that it was foolish to risk the truth recklessly. " I thought it was a mistake," said loyal Earle. " Who would be likely to be with you there, when you had reserved the morn- ing for me ?" She closed her tired eyes, and said to herself how thankful she should be when all this was over. A FAIL 271 CHAPTER LXXII. THE EAKI \TI.Y A -Si THREE days later tlicy \ earl \\ould hear of no opposition; hen;- incuts, sarrilieed all interest and | I lie .said, must lx- paramount with him, . wag. Thf druwhaek \vas that Karle could in.: two or three d.-n s. hut until 1'arli ,. ay f< >r \ < ;<- were amu W luitll 1< .'HI. " Thank Heaven:" !!. "Ah! know how I thank Heaven that our i-liild \>^ I id von e\,-r dotiht it, my lo\-ly, M-iiiini.-iit.il darling T Mid Lord Linleix'h. 1 w;;s M. 't ran; I was always nion- or le-vs afraid." SUM couir 10 Ugntiy "f 1 : '<>w >he weni ifle." "'I do not think the v, Karle."said Ird I.inl-'i^h; " ! : .iws her liiin." she will be very happy," .-aid I -he will he oil.- ot" !' I WMlilell jt'ii'l I am so grateful f.. r it. I'll, fere lit for tli" p'- \on noii.-e.i Illlleh t( have not : "Then it inii-t he my ' thoughtful, at tin .xtran-e j.lea h. (-..nneeied with that former l.u , not Ihii .11, th..,e PHN! peopleteein to !.- 1 "*] heli. Iioticeil whal hut I am j,,,r t i'O BCfc one^ Lwlj I-M.-1I-- w:i< ri:ht. dread the dainty color Hushed !> radiant. - more the bright, gay Doria, whote wU 272 A FAIR MYSTERY. charms had won all hearts. Lady Linleigh laughed at her fears, and for a short time all was happiness at Linleigh Court. Earle came down for a few days, and then the wedding-day was fixed. It was to be on the tenth of August, and when the wedding was over they were to go right away until Lady Doris had recovered her usual strength. It was not until afterward that Earle remembered how strange it was that she should have Imrried on the wedding; when he came to think it over, he found that it was so. It was Doris who planned and arranged everything; he had but acquiesced, he had not been the prime mover in it. So it was settled the tenth of August; not many more weeks of suspense and anxiety, not much more dread. Her revenge and her love would be gratified alike. She should be Earle's wife on the tenth; on the twentieth, when Lord Vivianne came, she should be far away with Earle to protect her; Earle to shield her. It would be useless to pursue her then; even if he did his worst, and betrayed her, she did not care, her position would be secure. Oh, it would be such glori- ous revenge, to find her married, after all his solemn oaths that she should be his wife, and belong to no other either to him or to death! " I will deceive him to the very last," she thought. " I will delude him until the very hour which sees me Earle's wife." She bent all her energies to this. It was easy enough to win from Earle a promise of total silence; it was not quite so easy to win that same promise from the earl and countess. She did win it, though. On that same evening that Earle left, a superb night in June, when the stars were gleaming in the skies, and the night air was heavy with sweet odors, Lord and Lady Linleigh had gone out into the grounds. The evening was far too beautiful to be spent indoors, and she followed them. They were sitting under the great drooping beeches, watching the loveliness of that fair sum- mer night. The same thought struck both of them as Doris came to them, that neither starlight nor moonlight had ever fallen on so fair a figure as this. Her long dress of white sweeping silk trailed over the long grass, she wore fragrant white lilies on her breast and in her golden hair; she might have been the very spirit of starlight, from her fair, picturesque loveliness. She went up to them, and bending down to kiss Lady Linleigh's hand, she knelt on the grass at their feet. " You are alone," she said, " the two arbiters of my destiny. I am so glad, for I have a favor a grace to ask." " It is granted before it is asked," said the countess. But Lord Linleigh laughed. " No," he said, " that would hardly be wise; we cannot allow that." She raised her face to his, and he saw how earnest it was in its expression of pleading and prayer. " Dear papa," she said, gently, ;i you must not refuse me this." " I will not, my darling, if it be in reason,'' he replied. A FAIR MV?T' "Enrle told nip that you and h. day for tin- tenth of August." she conti Lady Lmlei^h, I want y.m t.i promise that it shul! found secret I'roiii tin- whole world." " My dear !>>ris!" cried tin- counteas. " It is i|iiitt- impossible." said tin- t-.irl. " Besides. I see no rea- son for such a tiling. Why should you waul H " It is jtossible." >he .said. " I have U-fii with you lor to know that .with you everything is possible. done, is my whim, my folly . jf you will." " I really do not see " Ix-gan the earl; but she laid one soft, white hand on his lips. "Let me .-how you. papa. Let me hear your and vanouish them one by one." "To begin with your train of hridfinaids. they must I- vited." Papa, "she interrupted. " ! Mattic. m\ t \\<-r -.me. i, "Then the marriage ^ettlern- "They can kx ! with all |X)ssil)U- seen- say one word to your la\\ "But the bishop, and the i M\doarDori. possible, impracticable, ri'licm 1 am Mire that you will )* Anil something in her k the ,-arl will. Have yo nsihle rea-on for \-. nak. I>ori>':" he'-ai-l. Lrra'.t ly, lb. ion that ' somethin- strange i" hisdau-hter .ngback to him double f. : I ha\e my own fancy, pa; ;'fOe ..w tliat'l am so s.'.on to !, , * b think h<.w much of my oun way you have given me in this instance." "I^ther.l.. :.riric."s.nd Li.ly 1 be cruel i refuse ! I.Hl.'n to inv idea lir-t. papa. Tb shouM i'lcaaeyouitM me have it or not. I should like im ,,ne ,-\ anything about it in dintf t thi-n 1 shoul.l UkeEarleto comiiiK' for an ..r.lin:,ry v.~it: on the ninth, I should I willi.- . to t. II th. favo. M. prepared; earlv.-n the morning nth, I -ho.dd 1. the 'old churd, at Anderl. Linlei^h. it she will c. that j.rettv ,-hun-h. bnubtlv. jewels." i :l 274 A FAIR MYSTERY. with assistant ministers, no ceremony, no grandeur. That ia just what I should like, papa." " I never heard such an extraordinary idea in all my life," said the earl. " I do not know what to answer. I should like you to have your own way; but such a wedding for an earl's daughter is unheard of." " Yes; it is different to Hanover Square, miles of white satin and lace, bishops, bells, jewels, carnages, friends, and all that kind of thing. I know it is quite different; but let me have my own way, papa, please. Pray intercede for me, Lady Linleigh." The countess turned to her husband, " Let it be so, Ulric, r ' she said. He was silent. He would have refiised altogether, but for the uncomfortable suspicion haunting him that she had some painful though hidden motive, and that it was connected with that past life of hers, of which he knew so little; but for that, he would have laughed the whole idea to scorn. " My dear Doris, I cannot understand. Most ladies look upon their wedding as the crowning ceremony of their lives, the grandest event that can possibly happen to them the very op- portunity for a display of splendor and magnificence. " " I know they do;" she replied, gently. Then, as her hands clasped his, he felt her shudder, as though cold. She raised her face, and kissed him; she clasped her white arms round his neck. ' Papa," she cried, " although I am your own child, I have never been much to you ; the best part of my life has been spent away from you; I have never seen my mother's face; she is not here to plead to you for me. I shall have gone away from you, and altogether, you will have known but little of me. I hope Heaven will send you other children to love and bless you; but, papa, do not refuse nay prayer. In the after years, when I am far away, and perhaps a fair-haired son stands pleading where I stand pleading now, you will like to remember that you yielded to my prayer that you granted me the greatest favor it was in your power to grant." The earl looked down. Lady Linleigh was weeping bitterly. " You hear, Ulric!" she said, in a low, passionate voice; " you hear! She says she has no mother to plead for her! Let me plead in the mother's place! Do what she asks!" " I never did anything so unwillingly in all my life," said the earl; " it is unheard of, inconsistent, ridiculous in the highest degree; but I cannot refuse the prayer of my wife and child; it nmst be as you wih." He saw, even in the starlight, the expression of relief that came over the beautiful, restless face. "You promise, then," said Doris, "and you too, Lady Lin- leigh, that you will not tell to any creature living, except Mat-tie Brace, when I am to marry, whom I am to marry, or anything about it?" " I promise," said Lady Estelle. " And I too,'' repeated the earl, " although it is sorely against my better judgment, my will, my common sense, and every- thing else." A FMR .V "Never mind, ]>.".p;i," said Lady Doris "you hav<> made me anj>y." But even then, as she spoke, the tragedy was looming darkly over her. CHAPTER LXXIlI. THE COUNTESS BECOMES CURIOUS. " WE oiiu'ht to In- vt-rv iiuii-h llattered." -f lu-aven-si mornin- when :u\ury, when t alloy. Th.- sk . -i l-lue. \\itli"-. cloiid t<> ol^.-ure it; it 1 >o iniieli fur' i low-lyini; rloiiils toueh tlie earth. 1 he Mill \v a> (. ;.t warm witiiout in;. IIM- h.'at: and ; would r.Mjuire a |H,,-t t<- tell how 1-alnr. o\.-r the in-'adou-, laden with th.- breal liow it eanif in-i'i th.- \\.-. ,d> with I 1 : hyacil how it eame from tin-, lilv. with the ww. ,Mth (be coping < ring-doves, and the song ..t the lark. Nature wa P The earl and r.>unt-s had eome d 'TeakfMt win.L.ws were o f ..-n-thi- perfumed smfled, as among the 1< I'-arle to D He wrril Quite right," ^idilid in Thev Kinil. d aain. when. ! i i-'iir as the man > Dor, - 11 Udy LtaMc>. - IH.r,: - ,,; theligbtoftl iAtbe*) to her a ,.:UIK ' * 276 A FAIR MYSTERY. touched any girl's heart; written with the fire of a poet and of a lover. She lost herself in a day-dream, in a golden trance of happiness: it was coming so near, this wedding-day which was to bind her to Earle forever, and free her from all care. It was Lady Linleigh's voice that roused her, and she was asking: " What friend is coming who is coming, Ulric ?" " Lord Vivianne he does not say how long he intends re- maining. There is the letter; read. it." But the countess was preparing a cup of fragrant tea after the fashion she liked best, and Lord Linleigh, seeing that, said: " I will tell you about it, Estelle. Lord Vivianne says he shall be passing through Anderley on his way to Leeson, and he should very much like to spend a few days with us. I can but answer in the affirmative, I suppose." " Certainly; it will be a change for you; you have been very quiet lately; we can have a picnic and a dinner-party while he is here." Lord Linleigh glanced with a shrewd smile at his daughter. It did not seem to him wonderful that his lordship should be passing through Anderley; the only pity was, that it was all in vain. But he did not see his daughter's face, it was turned from him. The love-letter had fallen from her hands, the golden light had faded from the skies, the beauty of the morning had vanished; her face grew pale, her eyes darkened. Why was he coming? Whatever might be the reason, it meant mischief to her, she was sure of it. He had promised not to come near her until the end of August, then he was to come for her answer. What was bringing him now ? " I must bear it, I have to live it through," she said to herself, " no matter what it may be." In a dumb passion of despair, she heard Lady Linleigh ask when he was coming. " He will be here by the end of the week," said the earl, care- lessly; then he laughed a little. " Why are you laughing ?" asked Lady Estelle. " My dear Estelle, I am just thinking how eagerly you seized upon his coming as an excuse for a little gayety, ' he replied; " you who assured me so seriously you preferred quiet and solitude." Lady Estelle blushed. " I plead guilty, Ulric," she said. " It must be because I am very happy myself that I like to see every one else happy, too." They both wondered why Lady Doris was so silent. " It must be from sheer excess of happiness," thought the countess. Lord Linleigh asked : " Will you drive with me this morning, Doris, or would you prefer to ride or walk ?" "Will you go with me ?" asked Lady Estelle " I am going to Streathaw. A FAH: M' 'No, thank you. papa. Thank 1 am ointf to M>e:id the morniii;: in tin- ^ani. " That mean* writing . lei-rli. with ;i sinil.-. She did not contradict him: and Lad'. her and bade her-' wid-mnnii:,. ' lu\v U'autiful be yountr, happy. and in ! I'* iris went out. Then- was the shad. brilliant colors of a thousand Hou ..nd heard nothing slit- w;us full of despair. Why is In- romim:." slu- <-ri.-d. pa--i- nly thin.i,' wast. make with all her ]. ! leawirM before they had I to fade." Bin! why it was all sheer noMWg. Now when sin had found i, i h.-r lit- and iH.i-med it wh.-n its oonMaue hi-r, were li-adin^ her \- ui/r it for \\hat it v K 'n\ ir '"n!\ and if the same temptation came fc ., , I Vr with all her heart tl iturnedaa i ann . with in.-. "' ,V , ,", i . i know t- Who kn fr.im a soul? Wl. whi' I ' t '* k ' T * m * .huntHLrd. was K lad thai Jonewoul. JJg .,....,^ ""' hini in !l<1 ' ' ' , irwovdiitobM 11- found tin ' '' V'^. '.ul >ou look, I) ^ at pleiuing -uch fatidio YOUr- iied. ( y ..yes ltH> k most th0 ^ white, and the water-lilies in your hair-yon look li 278 A FAIR MYSTERY. " Before or after she had found her soul ?" she asked, w/th a mocking smile. He laughed that low, light laugh for which she hated him. " I have never quite made up my mind as to whether women have souls or not," he said. "T am inclined to think not; if they have, they certainly make queer use of them.'' " Lady Linleigh!" cried the girl, to the countess, who was just passing 'by, " what do you imagine Lord Vivianne says?" " I cannot imagine," replied the countess, with a smile. " He says he is inclined to believe women have no souls; or, if they have, they make queer use of them." The countess looked slightly shocked. Lord Vivianne gave one angry look at the spoiled beauty. " That is a very dreadful opinion to hold, my lord," said Lady Estelle. " Lady Studleigh is hardly just tome," he replied. " She tells you what I say, but she does not tell you, although she knows, what led me to form that opinion." The countess looked quickly from one to the other with a grave intentness that did not escape either. There was some- thing more than mere badinage in this something which she did not at all understand. Then Lady Doris saw that she had made a mistake in trying to expose him she must not play with edged tools. Lady Linleigh left them, not feeling quite satisfied. Why should he speak in that contemptuous manner of women, to a woman who was so young, so beautiful ? It was not chivalrous it was not even gentlemanly. And Lady Doris' manner puzzled her too; it was as though she wished to expose Lord Vivianne, to make others think evil of Mm. She could not for- get the little circumstance. " Yet it must be a fancy of mine," she thought. " They have so seldom met, they know so little of each other, there can be nothing but the most commonplace acquaintance between them." Still it made her curious, and she purposely selected Lord Vivianne to take her down to dinner, in order that she might, after a little diplomatic fashion of her own, question him. " How do you think Lady Studleigh is looking: 1 " she asked him, when they had a chance for a few quiet words. " She was not well at all when we left London." " I think her looking as beautiful as it is possible for any one to look," he replied, " and as well." ' ' I am glad you think so. It must have been a great privation for her to leave London in the very midst of the season, or, I should say, in the midst of a brilliant finale." " Yes; I do not remember, of late years, any one who created such a furor as Lady Studleigh," was his reply. " You met her often during the season?" " Yes, I met her very frequently; it was impossible to go much into society without doing so she was an unusual favorite." The countess saw plainly that if he admired her he was not going to say so; she would not be able to get at his real opinion. A FAIR .V 279 Vet the very caution of 1. eeeh. tin- guarded she was riirht in her half-fon \\-aa tomef unusual either <>n his p out. She would not de\ guests wer" nu The gentlemen n^ wimi' and from a fairylan " I wish we had Mime inr- inta to onuil.-t- tli' eiirhanf She went to tin- ] uited tli: room. Many wiio ver for^'<" white dress floating round h-r, the w; liair. a flush on thf Ix-.-mtiful fa--e. wh: out -ueh a strain of melody a- They who saw her tiieii, and knew what followed, get the picture. CHAPTER LXXIV. ALASTVAl AL. "THR ni-ht is so fine," iid tho earl. 'H? 1**$* would enjoy a short tii; '" 2r*? f moonli-ht : T ], I...rd \ i\: for: he .lid not think he rould U-;ir MKpenM much t-tett. !' tdl.-d with i-.pi,-. it h:nl lieenan ewy matu-r to in.-. 'iildnot :llt there ill tl. ilt. vowe. At SSSlSV^A' folio ."',',,!',!" ,'. nh.loMpk-. -h.t d ., ;'S. was ahocked to aee teare in U 280 A FAIR MYSTERY. " Thank you," she said, calmly; " I shall enjoy going out. Who could resist the moon and the flowers ?" " Then do not remain long. You look tired, and we must re- member you are not strong. Lord Vivianne joined them. ' Lady Studleigh has graciously promised to show me the fountains by moonlight. I will watch her faithfully, and at the first symptom of fatigue I promise you she shall return." Then the countess could say no more. She saw Lord Vivi- anne carefully draw the black lace shawl over the white neck and arms. 11 Not that you can be cold," he said, in reply to some ob- jection, "but, as Lady Linleigh says, we must be careful of you." And he smiled down on her with an air of protection and of appropriation, for which she in her rage could have struck him dead, and which made Lady Linleigh wonder exceedingly. " It is ten thousand pities," she thought, " that he does not know she is engaged to Earle." Then a new suspicion came to her, which made her even more uncomfortable. Was it possible that her daughter's passionate desire for secrecy had anything to do with Lord Vivianne ? \\'as her daughter afraid of letting him know that she was going to be married ? The very torment of the suspicion, faint as it was, filled her with dread. Then she saw the happy little group of guests on the lawn, she caught one glimpse of the white water-lilies and green dress as Lady Studleigh disappeared with her cavalier. " \V hat has come over me: 1 " said the countess. "I have a presentiment, heavy as death! What can be wrong? I shall begin to think I am growing old and fanciful. What danger can be near my darling ? She set herself resolutely to play at whist, but every now and then her partner saw her turn pale and shudder, as though she were cold. Doris and Lord Vivianne were out in the moonlight together, and alone at last. At lirst they maintained complete and per- fect silence. Lord Vivianne placed the white jeweled hand on his arm. She did not make the least objection; it was all use- less, she was in his power, and she knew it; she would not even ask the question that trembled on her lips, and filled her with despairing wonder what had brought him there ? She walked by his side, silent, proud, and uncomplaining. " My darling," he said, at last, " does not this evening remind you of Florence, and the moonlight on the river?" " If I am to talk to you, Lord Vivianne, and it seems I am compelled to do so, I must ask you to refrain from using such expressions as ' darling.' 1 will not answer you if you do: they are utterly hateful to me." " Yet I remember the time when they pleased you passing well. Do you remember, Dora, when I gave you a diamond ring ? You have diamonds now on your neck and arms, in your ears, and your hair. They shine like fire-rivers over your beaut i- ful figure; you are so accustomed to them that they have ceased A FAIR .V 2M to have any particular value fur you. Hi:' vour delight in tin- t " Women reineml>er their first diamond*, a* th.-y do their first Ion- mil". ^i In Florence. you used to walk with \*>\\\ these beautiful v hands rlaspei'l <-ver my arm. !> you reineinlMT Then sin- raised to his a face that, in md anger, he : forgot. "I will not permit yon to mention thoee -he cried. M They are hateful; f as with a reil-liot iron. I will not U-ar it. I would >-- listen to me I know tin pass through the infernal tirea than go to Florence He laughed. "I like to se,. you in a passion. Dora: ) have made a grand tragedy .pie, n. I d< :se you, heraiise, a> you know. I wish to make] IK) \ on know, can voii^uess. what ha "No. You have hroken our eoinpa. t in eonim^. I knti that '" Still it was the qn h **& P" and livni -'" I'-" 1 '"' nl hl> ^M wi her heartbeat f:*t. hut *\v \\.mld no! there wast ^ S}^5 wonder what has brought me here, Dorar he lt " h said "no one could be mow lam very indifTerent," she s B ' I will tell % < mine to aim!' " Thank you for tin- tin iid. " You drive me t<> tlii' . other rocour*. would fain IK- all th::t is kind and . i; 1 won, you: I would lay all that 1 I jou to take it. What would 1 not do to prove howd.., It is all self. \Ve will ha- ".est possible underst intf. If there he any manhood in - hhall hnve it in plain words. You quite understand t! 1 .should inarryyoii.it won': compelled me to do so: thai I .-hoiil. i ,ie your wife even more than I hat- and dt test .\s the days pas.sei"inply as a t.\ nint who ! understand all : "I will risk it." he replied. "1 -f regain- ing your love in time." The face she turned to him was pallid in it " You never would re is one way in which >v. .1111 my . nelld.-hip." His face' kindled at the \. " How, I)ora .' 'lell me h..u : ' liy -ayin- to me: ^ youth and! inn ine th- wroiiL,' that has l would do that. Ix.nl \ nianne, even now I should in. true liking." greatly. IxH.kin- at hn: li,ipui-i\' 'I a warm, soil haixl on i 1 ne\er thought to u- * I n. IM- kin.l to m.-, and He was temi :'" minute: In/ itk howt A-hoM beauty maddened i 1 would not rel.-.-tsc yu. lJura, I wo ined, tried to take fHA1Tr.Il I- . " ilEAVKN 8AVK KARLE!" \rorsTHt t i the flrrt tcnlay Not l...n^ -il the l -' ! 284 A FAIR MYSTERY. " No; not long," was the reply. " Everything is ready and waiting at Hyde House." continued the countess; " the whole of your trousseau is ready, and a more magnificent one was never designed." " I am more than satisfied with it," said the young beauty, " What time will Mattie Brace be here, Lady Linleigh ?'' '- About noon. I shall send the carriage to the station." ' I will drive my pretty ponies," said Doris, eagerly. " I have only used them once since papa gave them to me. She will be so pleased if I meet her." It is well thought of, my dear," said Lady Estelle. " Doris, do you know what I have done ?" " No, something kind and nice, like yourself; I know by the sound of your voice." " I have ordered a very nice little trousseau for Mattie dresses that will not be unsuited to her at home, yet will do for her to wear here. I shall be so lonely when you are gone that I thought of asking her to remain here. I shall miss you so much, Doris." " And I shall miss you, dear Lady Linleigh. I never thought when you came home to my father's house, that I should learn to love you so dearly." Lady Linleigh clasped her arms round the girl's neck. " Tell me one thing," she said, caressingly; "do you think I have been as kind to you as your own mother would have been ?" " I do not think, dear Lady Linleigh; I am quite sure," she re- plied. " It is an odd fancy of mine," said the countess, with a wistful smile, " but I have always been so fond of children. I have such a longing to hear a child call me mother. Doris you will have left me in ten days. Will you kiss me, and say, ' Heaven bless you, my own mother?'" " Of course I will. Heaven bless you, my own dear mother; you have been one to me. You have helped me in every little trouble and perplexity; you have been kind to me, without ceas- ing. Why, Lady Linleigh, your fa,ce is wet with tears!" " Is it, darling? I feel your going away so much. But we must not remain talking here. If you wish to drive to the sta- tion, it is high time the ponies were brought round, and I myself wish to see that everything is as she will like it in Mattie's room." The warmer days of the golden summer had passed away rap- idly; it was the first of August, and the marriage was to be on the tenth. So great and entire had been the secrecy preserved, that no creature in that vast establishment knew anything at all about it, the servants and every one else thought that Mattie was simply coming for her yearly visit; but that the wedding of their young lady was on the tapis, no one for a moment sus- pected. Lord Vivianne had not made a very long stay at Linleigh Court, matters were not very pleasant for him there. Lady Linleigh seemed suddenly to have grown very observant, and A FAIR MYSTERY. C^i he found but few opportunities of npeat impassioned, violent words on th answer, the rapture and tenderness ha face a hard, fixed look r-amr- in her oyee. "Let the worst come now," ahe said; "it will serve him right." She pleaded and prayed no mor* is well for him he could not read the tlu nights that were in ! poured out such a torrent f passionate words she bear them. After a time "I think we have U-eii i-;it i|uite Ion- enough, Lord N we will return, if you pl When they reached the lawn a.'ain. uh. re the L ! their attenila'nt r. sweet in he suddenly ti>ok her ri^ht hat. "I shall bop '. lii> mine, one day." In- said. She MKltehcd it from llllll with sudd. the trunk of a tree with ^a-h tliatheth' had broken it. "I will rut my hand oil. . "if you touch it again." He u i liv her veh, -n You d.. Indeed hate me, 1 >..r:i." he said, sadly. " I do. in.iris," Ivr ladyship cri<-d. " wl darling? S<><-! youha\. >f hl'xl "ii \mirdrw* and your hand! \Vh;.t ho* happened T She tix)k the white hand, with n Moeding broiae. Y\ p I* \vu Wliat is the matter, Doris? Lord Virianne, what is the mat- aw tliat he l,.ke.l .Ireadfullv Dear Lady Linl- f( , in , pemk. "1 was resting again* the there, and It!. y. "Lord \ivumne with y.ni." "1 . theac.-i/lent. ! her hand >.' \,,,i, m'ly thai had brokfii it. There of a. U 'TI, ..">kh,r .ndandg- divainniK how H had IH--U hurt ...KJ,,.-! v. After that 1,-rd Vivianne had H, y t'ic.n,sof ha-: 886 . A FAIR MYSTERY. half alarmed at the violence of the passion he had evoked; still no idea of yielding came to him. As he watched her, day after day, her beauty, her grace, grew more and more enchanting to him. It was not so much love as madness that possessed him; lie would not have relinquished his hold or have given her up to have saved his life. During the remainder of his stay the countess kept keen, un- wavering watch over him, but he had learned his lesson after what he had seen. How little she recked of physical pain, how careless she was of herself. He dared not venture to tease her; he felt that she was quite capable of committing murder if he drove her too far; he contented himself by saying to her when he was going: " It is understood between us, then, Lady Studleigh, that I re- turn on the twentieth of August for your decision." " It is quite understood," she replied, with calm dignity. " I hope it will be a favorable one to me, and I hope my re- ception will be kinder next time than it has been this." "You will always be welcomed according to your deserts," she replied. " I hope, above all. the poor, bruised hand will be better when I come again," he said, with a meaning smile, " and that you will not find any more snakes in those beautiful moonlit grounds." " It will be as well for the snakes to keep away," she said. When he went, the little current of gayety that had come with him died away all together. Lady Linleigh was relieved when he had gone; without knowing what to suspect, she suspected something; she felt like some one walking on the brink of a volcano; but when he was gone, and a few days had passed without anything happening, she felt relieved. She had not forgotten the incident of the hruised hand; although everything else might be fancy, that was not. When Lord Viviaune bade the earl good-bye, he said : " I have enjoyed my visit very much, Lord Linleigh; so much that if I should return by the same route about the end of August, I shall beg permission to repeat it." The earl most cordially assured him that he would be wel- come. And so the bright summer days had worn away. To Lady Doris each one brought a fresh sensation of relief. The tenth was drawing near. Lord Vivianne was still in utter and pro- found ignorance of all that was transpiring. She would be married and away when he came back; how she enjoyed the thought of his discomfiture. She laughed aloud as she thought of his impotent anger. " He may do as he likes then," she said; " I shall be Earle's wife. My fortune will be settled on me, and I shall defy him; if he tells his story then, he will not find many to believe him: Eaiie will not believe anything against his wife, I am sure. I must hrilie some respectable family to say that I lived with tin in a.-, governess in Florence. I shall conquer the difiicultiy when I am once married to Earle." A FATR 3fV5T7 1*1 '"hh was her ono haven of n-fu . k. her fo r from all storms; tlh the >*! fr ! U; well tin : : illi; her to <-onie : Itui BO de Id her what for. ;inro\v ! dark eyes : 111!>I. " So you have scut for me, I'lori-. Muttie;' " you. who mi-lit h:r. ladie> in the land r" Tlu n- would In- none that I love like you, Mattie. We were r-i for years, von ki. ii.-iit lor a little time. She sail to henwlf at first, that it she had known not have \voiild ratlnT ' i anything tha- md ti i.-!,. weeks alreac remen,!- ' W1 FW, 0: , ''., , H RM :..|,i-r She wn 288 A FAIR MYSTERY. lips. Without knowing whv, she said to herself: " Heaven sar Earie!" CHAPTER LXXVI. " I SHALL WAKE UP AND FIND IT A DREAM." 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, wlfo could touch her, what evil could come ~o 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. W.hile she 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 e-xcept 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 in- fluenced 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 Viviaime. So, welcome, bright, sunny day! welcome golden sun and gw^et 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. .-1 FAIR .VVS7V "'. " I r*-ally eaiint'! inywhere or do anything until I h.. "II Mat tie. "Tin speak: hut, >il. !!<. or : about. Lad] i >oris laughed. I am so an. had ever told me, si UK t-in'iil'1 IK- quite inditrereiit over rn lit-v.-d it." " I'.ut irlii/ an- you inditT.-n : ;md Is it hccau.sf you .:ryin^ui. marry in No," WM lli- n-piy. !.:it I a.sslll rli- than i: <>uld in. - ttrangv Tin- lifaiitil'ui I may t.-l! HI Will I! It", \vlio IH-VIT kn*-\v th' , ; who has alwavs L.-jit - :..- littlf children aroii' 11 you all ^ Th li " N Ifss. Matti-. I.'id- that * l-ontaill HIV ur,| Huu- kind I.'idy I.m! think I do not thil l:ni"-hin" r-jilv. 'I i k-.-luvuu. "ll" will be hen ,iir dn-~ littl'' every curve and 1. '^ l l ** 590 A FAIR MYSTERY. She throat, and a lovely rose nestled against tha white breast: it Vas relieved by dashes of blue, and the long, waving, golden lair was fastened by a single blue ribbon. No jewels, no court ittire, no magnificence of dress ever became her as did this; sha coked 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. "lam 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 sur- prise. " Why, my darling, if you are not free from care, who 18?" " 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 aui not sure that a soul brings happiness: those who have souls have the rebponsibility of sav- ing them." " Doris, you do not deserve to be happy, for you are not good," cried Alattie: and three days afterward she remembered the words with the keenest pain. But Tady Doris was unusually gentle: he bent down and kissed the kindly face. " I am not good, but I am going to try to be better, dear: it eeems to be ua'rt of my nature to say had things. 1 am not quite sure if I always mean them. Hark, Mattie: 1 hear the sound of carriage wheels. Earle isconiing!" The beautiful face grew white iu its intensity of feeling. Mattie rose i'rcm her scat. " 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, fol A FA IK MYSTERY. 291 beloved her su dearly: he found heaven in her face; aud 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 .ulad in her joy. Ix)ve is very delightful." he said, " hut. Doris, we must offer something substantial to a traveler; suppose we substitute cold chicken and Madeira. Then Lady Linleigh desired me I tl.at a most wonderful box had arrived from Paris, and she want'-d 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." lie said. " Nor ean I believe that I shall win her.' said Karle. " 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 ao countable for anything." Then they went together to lunch. Mattie knew that it was by Lady Link-lull's orders that the table was so gracefully orna- mented with (lowers and fruit; the pretty thought was like her They 3pent perhaps one of the happiest hours of their liv gether. Then Ladv 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 morn- ing by n-gistered letter. Doris, my dear, the box and its contents ;irs you shall unpack them"." Lady Studlei-h took the key and opened it. There were 1 of fine white wadding and tissue pajxir. One by one Lady Doris 1 the costlv packets in her hands and laid them down. There was a nridetnaid's costume all complete, a marvel of pink and white silk, with everything 10 match: white silk shoes, with little pink /os< ties; a white bonnet, that looked a- though a puff of wind would blow it away, and a costly pink plume: jj fan. jewels, all matched exactly, and Matties facegre>v radiant. 11 All tin's for me! Oh, Lady Linleigh, how ani 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 1 ><>ris." Iv Studleigh kissed her !' : 's face. "Mattie always looks nice," she said, "just as she always hapiiy and .. The pictur. t. I wish tliat I could put it into . II.' .lid. afterward into words over which all England wept. Then. for a lew minutes, the thfee Ladv Linleigh. Mattie. and Earle stood looking at her in silence. ih<-y hardly knew why. Then Earle said: " \\ that pretty veil again, it will be on the head of II IV heloxed wi'e." Then they all throe looked at the veil. ITeaven help him! he little dreamed how and when he shom _ain. If they could have had the faintest foreknowledge of that, the tragedy have been averted. Earle wy'nt away, and the bridal robes were taken to Lady boudofr. 1 ii. -y \\ill n< iliere." said the countess. "I will lock the door and k.-.-p tin- key; to-morrow it will not mat; And Mattie helped hei- poor, helpless child! place them r so that the shining robes might not be injured. It was Earle who proposed a ra;ul-le to the woods; dinner was r than usual. " Let us all thn-e go." he said. " Mattie with us. Doris; it may an." So it was settled, and they spent the remainder of that sunny, : her. u-ere .Bitting in a green, sunny dell, with the f. and wild !lower> springing luxuriantly around them, the tall -preading overhead, the little birds tilling the \voady I>oris had never been so happy; she had almo-t forgotten tin- dark iiai'kgroumi of sorrow and care. Mattie was happy, ;n so young, so loving, with their .d love, without rejoicing with them. ThN is like i ' irle. " 1 lo\v olte-i we have r in the woods there! And Mrs. Braee used to won- der h<>w the farms would ad'.am-e if tl, .1 well she miglit \\ -.d Maltie; "even when ' i tliought her thi' nu^t U-auti- ful. but ! -less of human J)ei: " Thank you." la . : y Studlei ' It i> altogether 1: '.: " if I had such a story. I *hoiild say it was untrtn-; I should call stidi :i story . d: yet, h- . the living, breatl.r in th "It is not such r. lerful hi-tory. Earli-," saiil I Studlejgh; " tli. ;.ri\ate n- i-hiNlreii .t up in i i their real n.-. man like you a genlieman and genii. ^impK own merit to be one of the magi.at.-s ot th> land." Then the sighed to herself, and her brightness was for one mo- ,294 A FAIR MYSTERY. nient 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 engr. sed, 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 V" asked Doris. " Mi-iam 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, 1 ' said the earl, indolently; " it is not much in my line. The engraving caught my attention a beau- tiful, 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 A FAIR MYSTERY. 2!>r> earl, "and life often seems to us, short -seeing mortals, to fail in poetic justice, althoiogh, no doubt, everything ta right and just in the sight of ll>-aven. Doris is growing serious over it." We tried her wedding-dress on this morning, but there was no lire near it. and no harm came of it." " 1 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 on-- jcrta of difference." How can it ':" said Karle, calmly; and they all remembered that conversation a few hours afterward. The ninth of August came, and Lord Linleigh, as they sat at i laughingly: " Now ! ;'>i\! 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 comprehen- sion. I promised to be patient, but it was almost cruel of you, Doris, to place mi- in si.ch a predicament. I suppose I must call the principal s.-r\ar.'s t Aether and tell them that Lady Stu< b to be married to-morrow, without form or ceremony of any kind. There will U- what the papers call a startling surpr. " \Ve have plenty to do," said the countess; " there will be no for rambles in the wood. I'lric. when you have made your announcement, will you go to the vicarage? You havearr ments to make there, and you must take Earle with you. 1 not spare Doris to him this morning." So the gentlemen went away. " It is a strange whim of Doris', this desire for secrecy," >ai 1 the earl, as they rode along. " I must confess I do not under- stand it: "Not in the 1,-a-t." rr -plied Earle. "she seemed verv intent upon it. I think. Lord Linleigh." lie added, with a laugh, " that I shall learn one thi " What will that he':" asked the earl. " Not to try to fathom the caprice of ladies, but to yield grace- fully : You are a wne man." said Lord Linleigh, with a look of re admiration; " that is the true .secret of wedded "While Lord Linleigh and r the vie where it renniivd some i e the e what ti e ladies \\.-n- w<- fully busy. The ne\ is Lord Linleigh had for- i I.i ly Stu- Heigh to be married to-morrow! and such a marriage :iony, no , all! I-ady Linleigh ha-i ofal! I hurried BO a^ t" penp ou 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 \ on to-morrosv.'' her warm, soft arms round the c ( v k. -i I,ady LiiiK-igh," she said; "you have 11 have made lion:.- \, TV liappy for me; ymi been like the deaic-t mother to inc. (iood-night ; may j ou!" Such unusual. such solemn words for her to use! The two fair touched each other. There was a warm, close emi then Lady Linleigh went aw; y. When did she forget that part- look on that I I -im jealous." said \ . >r<\ Linleigh. parting the branches and looking at his daughter. " 1 wanted the kill'!. i_rht. "What has my daughter to say to ni-r It is my farewell, al-o. To-ln . will be l_a Karle. I shall always love you better than any one in the world." " A ie. Well, I i. >ntent. That : -night, my dear and only child; n n s-eiid you a happy life." Tie. too. took away with him the memory of the sweet face and tender eye ry never to die. II rle. " I must be lenient," he said, "and give you young lovers ten 298 A FAIR MYSTERY. minutes longer. I shall be in the library, Earle. Come and eaioke 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, Mat- tie ':" she asked. "I know quite well that I shall not sleep; I do not feel the least tu'ed." 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 rot 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. Ac- cording to her usua.' custom, she locked the doer and took out the key, A FAIR MYSTERY. 209 The first room was her sleeping-room. She did not wait then*; it was t-iir 'iii 1 to! 1 Kugt n ie, her maid, not to wait fur : :e might be late. TJien came the bath and : t!u-y also were empty, although Ix'th were brilliantly lighted. She reached tin- boudoir, fitted for her with sudi taste and luxury. The lamp-; were lighted, and there, on tli-- chair wliere 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 01 ins 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 1 m before her eye>. 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. lay down upon the little couch, with a long, low sigh. It va> wonderful how tired and wearied she ielt. She had suffered such a fever, such a torture of suspense, that tin* reaction of feeling that she was in perfect safety at last v, as too much for ue a fever of unrest upon her. her In art beat with terrible rapidity, her hands were like fire, her eyes and lips 1 to bum as though they had been touched by h"am< 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 rea h! How he would r !_! It would serve him right. He might tell his then. who would believe him? They would all think it the bitter .lion 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 i"> 1 nervous and lonely to-night." half-debated within herself whether she should go back to Mattie or not. The sense of being thought cowardly d. 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 abie t> : took out her watch and looked at it; it was nearly mid- night. " There will be a pale bride to-morrow. 1. if I am not ep all night." She unfastened the door that divided the room from the spiral staircase leading t< the grounds. Th' limst hidden by dense green foliage and llov so nearly hidden HOOK, thought it dangerou <>uld have observed it. She went down to the grounds, it was so cool, Bo bright, still, and beautiful: the dew was shining on the _ the moon and stars were shining in the sky; there was .. odor of rare flowers; the night wind seemed to cool her i. 800 A FAIR MYSTERY. 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 VTVIANNE! 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 twen- tieth." 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 pal- lor 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; A FMlt MYSTERY. " Do not ring the bell: do not arouse them; I will talk to you now. Side by side they walked down the broad path together; in thoughts she had but one idea ii n liini away from the library window. Now," she said, bivathle I v. " let us talk here." Th.- moon was bright 6O pitifully bright, it tra shadows along the white stone: it seemed to rej. ire in the " \Vliat have you to say ':" h> urtly. " I can tel! why Iain here. " 1 have roine for your answer ten days ! the'tiine. because I have heard that you are going to pi ; I am here to tell Lorl Linleigh by wliat right I claim you as my wife: I am here to tell all whom it may concern what you have been t-> : Suddenly sin- remembered that the room Earle occupied 1, .-. What if . tempted by the beauty of the i , mid come to the window, and look out? What if th> b li,,ni,i 1: or see shadows? oh. what v. Ih r alarm heightened by seeing a light at one of the windows ite: whether it was one of the servants or not, she could not ti-11. but it alarmed i ,\li, remembered that she had fr. to the had but t:>, indeed! As we passed the door of I loi ton & Sons, from the very confuted way in which he looked at it. I felt sure that he had been inclined to enter in faet, that lie intended to enter, but would not becau.-e I was I instantly resolved that I would bailie him; so we walked together up and down the street. Each time he ] ::gly at it. I began to think that I had mined my vocation; I ought 1 live. At to his utter relief. I am .-:irc. Isai I ad:- "I watehed him. No sooner had I gone away, than he >hop. I said to myvlf, what could want there? what could lie want to buy that lie would not let ut into the shop after him. It >d where I could Ixtth h- e him without think Id. That was to hold you. m It would require !g riu- to make you all hi , would it not? He a:-kcd for the 1,,-st poor, deluded f Her white face and glittering eyes might have warned him; but they did not. "ii :dentlyh:>. he asked to see sotue pearl lockets, lid selected one, and asked 804 A FAIR MYSTERF. for a certain motto to be engraved on it. But he asked again when it could he done. They told him in two days. This did not suit him; he must have it in a few hours; lie 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 sus- picion 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 yoiii 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 tlxat 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 Stndleigh. You are to be mar- ried 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 lind that alternative, bad as it is, better than the fate that awaits j r ou 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 bo sur- prised 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." ^he 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 lor the earl in the morning; tell him the A FAIR .VVS7Y 305 tredding must ho deferred, that you have Lorn thinking m over, ami you have come to the conelu ur happiness If you do not like to stay here after .-u.-li :i ^nunl !v liim to take you abroad, or anywhtr-- tse. I will join you in a few weeks. Then ni'j wooing can begin, and ' marry >; She laughed a mocking, bitter, satirical laugh, that drove him half mad " i shall do nothing of thi kind," she said. " Now for your alternative.*' " If you refrs, I sliall go away now. To-morrow I shall re- turn, and. before the mar who is tc 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." sin- replied, calmly; " I accept the alternative; tell them. I cannot -mssrer for the earl and countess; what they will do is, of course, a mystery to me; but Karle will f. me. 1 feel quite sure of it; he lov< dearly, he will for- give me and make me his wife. You will have proved yourself a villain and coward for nothing." Karle will never marry you." he said: " no man in his H would, when he knows what I can tell him/' " I will risk it," she replied. " 1 ><> you know that it is even a relief to me that the worst is come? I dy not know what I have dreaded, hut I am quite sure of one tiling -yen will do your worst, and you have t<>ld me what it is. Let the sword fall: it ung over my head long enough. Karle 1.,- Karle is just as noble and generous as you are th" reverse. Karle is ing: lie will In hurt and an.ury, but when I tell him how vain I was. and how you tempted me. In- will forgive me." 1 know him: \ ou jud^e him by yourself. Even it h , pardon me at lii>t, if he thinks me lte\ond foriri ill he patient and humble, and wait. He will me a^ain in time, and my M>rn>w will purify me from my hin." A tender beautiful light came over h. r white fa- >und her lips. She raised her eyes fearle*- his. Y 'IP said, ' how little you can do. after all. Y<.u might kill me. but you could not U'lid my pride; you could not incline my heart to on loving thought of you." . Then ;. oil p ; o|-n shame and i he scorn and inocki".- of the world ':" \ :id: ' 1 i i must h . mii'-h. Lady Stndleigli." ' " I do, indeecl,' ,-,he replied. ;,'o woman ever hated man " And yet I love you." She turned from him with an aii of haughtiest indignation. He follow.) her. Suddenly i .1 upon the white glitter- ing bridal costume. 306 A FAIR MYSTERY. "What is that?" he cried, and his whole face worked with fury, indignation and auger. Before she couid 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 brida 1 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 be would not release it. "See," he cred, " how I serve your bridal veil! I would do the same to your heart, and his, if I coxild.'' His face was* transformed with rage, his eyes flashed fire, sud- den fury leaped from his heart to his lips, sudden murder sprung like a flame of fire that seemed to scorch him. He tore thfl beautiful veil into shreds, he trampled it under foot, he stan^ped 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 dre'W 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. " Po much for your veil!" he cried, with a mocking sneer. " Now for the wreath!" He took the pretty, scented flowers from the box, where lov- ing hands had so gently laid them, and crushed them into a shapeless, dead heap. " That will never lie on your gold en hair, my Lady Studleigh," he said. She made no effort to save the pretty wreath; his furious vio- lence 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 trim- mings of white lace, and he laughed as he tore it asunder, fling- ing it under his feet; then pausing to look on his work of de- struction 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 un- manned me ? why have you made me ashamed of myself ?" There was a strange glitter in her eyes, and a strange expres- sion on her face. " 1 did not mean to be so violent; you have driven me to ik .4 FAIR MYSTERY. 301 Nut that I regret destroying your wedding-dress: T would do it ovei 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 tin- ruin he had caused, partly at her. She seemed, stran.. say, almost to have forgotten him. She stood when- tin- light of the lamp fell on her disheveled hair and flushed face. The fragrant calm of the summer night reigned unbroken out- side, 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 Karle, whom she was to marry to-morrow- F.arlc. 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 prog- re-^s to tin- altar no matter if the whole world cried out, with its clanging, bra/en voice, thai she was lost, she would marry him! She turned to her enemy, with a flush on her face, a scornful light in her e; " You are but a coward after all," she said, "a paltry, miser- able coward! You can do me no real harm, and you cannot take me from Marie." " You did not always think me a coward, my Lady Dora. There was a time when* you delighted to sun yourself in m\ von have not always held aloof from me as you do now. I have held you in my arms; 1 have kissed your lips; 1 have won you as no one eK<- v ill ever win you. 1 like to look at yon and remember it; I like to dwell on my recollections of those old days. Ah! > our face flushes. Let me ki^s you now." Be hMtened toward her, trampling in his hot .haste on the torn f-hreds of the weddin^- mine to-morrow." It was all right. IK- laughed at himself for the foolish ami \\ent bark to 1, MM. lb- ; the whit. Spain _,' ii^ure of the wretched man who had oundly for some few hours, then the kindly sun woke him, warm. sweet ^rr i he his weddl 1 all siii^m^ in the trees, i ."le world fair ami sniih "My love -A ill lie mine to-day!" he thought. "Shine on, lay like this!" It would have ^laddc: ! tier's heart h:id she U>on him liend In-; ntly, and pray \ver down all i . Iiad arranged, in ;o her wishes, that no ;- dllle: mid not L.'(. down to meet them ;.' woul'l in ; ;r<-h. Inn Lml. lurb arnl the < rle, had It X'- room. I.. .ip with a charming smile on her gentle "E, rly, or the others are very late," she said. She went up to him." " I am glad to see you for one mo 310 A FAIR MYSTERY. merit 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 mes- sage was brought from Lord Lmleigh, 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 Mat- tie. " 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, 1 ' 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 er- rand. "While she was gone the carl 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 ehe 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 burn- ing there is a streak of light from under the door." " Then Lady Doris must have sat up very late, and has forgot- ten to extinguish them; that is why she is sleeping so soundly this morning. I will go with you and we will try again." A FAIR MYSTERY 311 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. Mattfo knocked. "Doris." r-he said, "you must wake up, dear. Earle is wait- It will he 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 IS nice." 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. "1 am afraid. Miss Bract,'' said the maid, "that there is something \vn > " What can be wrong? Has Lady Studleigh gone out, do you think, and taken the key of the room with her? If so. v\hy should she leave the lamps burning? Oh, my lady! Lady Stud- i! do you not hear i. :i Mattie began to fear! What had happened? She waited some time longer, hut the same dead silence reig!!> " What shall we do, M .-"asked Eugenie. Her face very pal as she >poke. " I am quite sure that there is really . omething the matter. Lady Studleigh must be ill. E I teteli the ( -Mm A \ i-ion of the lair, gentle face of Lady Estelle, with its - lips and tend--! nvd to ris-- I. .'tore her. "No." she replied: "if you really think there is anything wrong, you had heller find the earl. Hut what can it I my darling sister, do you not hear r \\ill you not unfasten the " I will go at once," >aid Eugenie. Mattie 1 >egged that she \ :.othing to the coin. The mai . i away and Mattie kept ' svatch by door. SI- : intently, hut then und, murmur of a voice: nothing hut .ire of Ian me from underneath. In >pite.>: sell' the dead -ilence !ii_:hteiied her. What could have haj>- I? Even if Doris were ill she could have rung her l>< ; o|>ened the door. There \\a-s little likelihood of her heing ill: it wa> not many i . they had parted, and then >he \\ the l->t of health and spirits. The e-irl came <|iiickly down the corridor. "What is the matter. Mattie :" he a-ked. in a loud. ch"Ty voice. "] telling me some \vonderful story alumt not iH-iiig ahle to \\ake my daughter. What does it mean? Doria ought to U- drosed and ready." lie -tarted when hi-, eye* fell on Matti.^'s Ix-wild. " You do not mean to say that there is anytlui: ' ho cried. " I hope not. Ird i .irly half an In". , wake D-T:--. and we cannot 312 A FAIR MYSTERY. 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 Ldnleigh," 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 nowa- days; 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," lie 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 sa%v 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 lie went very slowly. Ah. dear Heaven! what is that? A thin, crimson stain stealing gently along the floor; a hor- rible crimson stain! Great Heaven! what did it mean ? The next moment lie 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 Ptained with that fearful crimson; and lying on them, her golden A FAIR MYSTERY. 313 hair all wet and Stained, her \\hite neck hare, her dead fact- calm and still. was Doris his beautiful, beloved daughter. lie uttered no cry, lie 1V11 on his kiu-es by the fair, dead girl, and looked at her. Murdered: dead! lyiiiir there with her heart's blood flowing round her! Dead! murdered! while he had slept! All the sudden shock arid terror of his bereavement came ove* him in a sudden passion of despair. He uttered one long, low cry. and fled from the room. CHAPTER LXXXTI. HOW TIIF. M:\V- WAS TOLD. LORD LXHLKIOH rushed from the room like one mad he was utterly lost. That his beautiful daughter, who wa.- to have married that day. lay there murdered ami dead, was an i man-ion, u illi his wliite face and horn>r-strieketi eye-, came in. The library was tl i oom at hand. He went in. r ilirectlx ,' he And in a few minutes Mattie stood tremblii 'dm. "'I: methitiK the mat!' .id. m a low \ d I.inlei-h. \ . ,d to tell me what i' He eo.ild only hold out hi.-hai i her with a t: bliiiK e hiding something from m :!. "She was t" h;ive l>een married this morning. Oh, Mattie, tell mo what i M:itti- Hrace passed through many hours of sorrow and :-ut in >iie so dark as that which she spent shut up with '. Linleigh. She (.mill liear tlie sound of hurried >r twice she heard a cry of fear or dismay. She heard tin; rapid galloping of horses, ant! she knew that they were gone in search of the doer of the deed. Yet all that time she had with assumed calm by the side of Lady K-telle. No one came near them. The silence of death seemed to . : that part of the house; while from Mattie's heart, if not from her lips, went every minute the pr " Heaven save Karle!" What h.. was like a terrilile dream to all these who shared in it. l^ord Ludeuh had gone in scan-h of Karle. 1 It- found him busied in his preparations: happy and ligln as lie was never to U- again. He turned with a musical lai: the carl. "We have just ten minutes,'' he said. "I hope Doi ready.' Then the smile died on his lips, for he caught >ne glimp the wiiite face and teiriii.'d eyes. With one hound lie had cleared the distance I -t \\een them, and stood impatiently clutcjiing Ird Linlcigh's arm. What is that in \our facer" he eried. "What is it r WhuV. is the matter .-" " Heav.-ii help you. my poor l>y!" s;iid the earl, in a hrokeir, " It would seem U-tter to take away your life at once than ; what I have to tell." " horisisill. She no she cannot have changed her mind again she cannot have gmie away!" "ii will not le married t I the earl, sadly. ; trie.' 1 eamiot 1-elievc it," he cried. "Nil. a- 1: would tlios,- l,ird> sinu- ' l(Iciie\e it the earl. Ia\ in- Ins Jiand on the (juivcrin- h|>s; "husli. my p..r Karle. Whatever happens, we must ii"' . 1 ll 1> Hot II I t. 11 you. < Jod WollM Ti it. He would not take my darling from m-. Yo ; i le/l me. did U-fore. <)h! my love. m\ I hall no t . me' I will tollow \ ou over t : -rid; I will tind you. and md mak- .vn: ())r. HjM-ak t> : sake I Speak has . i " My dear Earle, I do not know 1 ... words seein 816 A FAIR MYSTERY. to fail rtie. 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 repeat ed, slowly "dead!" " Yes; but tfiat is not all. She has been you must bear it bravely, Earle she has been cruelly murdered!'' lie repeated the word with the air of one who did not thor- oughly 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 sit in silence for some minutes, that ghastly gray pallor deepening on the young lover's face. Sud- denly 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: 1 " ' 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 over- sight, 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 any- thing missing." " I must go to her." said Enrle. " 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 Lin- leigh 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 A FAIR MYSTERY. 817 their hands, rryinp out to each other that their lady had murdered whil( :>t:l>ut Lord Linleigh pointed out forci- bly that .- have lone the d-,-ed. and it beln them to sean-h before I r could make p>od his the ro"in until the arrived, and men were to mount the ileee -. to gallop to Anderlev, and bring tl re l>aek with them. Tlien. when all di> -.. cut had: He was no coward, but lie eonll not only chilil lay dead. Karle was wailing for him. Terri the moment w., iciii.LC the awful ci. that had coir..- over that i and the liri^l 11 died from it: it v. rd aiul restless; he looked up om. rd I.inlei^h." In- said. : -rare of musie had died from liis voiee. it . help, perhaps her la-t sound. Oh. H-avi-n! if I liad hut down \vlien I heard it flown to her aid! Yet I did iro. I went : MI, and all w;. to her do 11, it ! hard upon me I must look upon the fa my love npiin." you shall, hut not yet." I^>rd I-inleiuh sin; I would to Heaven that I had never seen the terrible .- he said; " hut you, you could not see it and CHAPTKR I.XXXIII. VS. Two hours 1. riie full -l>wji w of Miimer day. The mm slion,- so hri-htly and warmly it :itlieult t. : the air was faint with th, oi,-al nith the the bright- winged hi:t!erH\ .uud tin- roses. Then t mken liy nid the tramp of men. Captain \\rl.-yhad arrivi-d \\ith two , -lever oHic-ers; the-, t^iwji of Anderley was astir: in the silence of t! Miner iiion^ them, and i th-'in of 'I nide.1 murdi-i ' 'irch win ; i (he hride. and to!d him the heaiitiful ^irl u I. had heen found dead, with a knife m h, ! corridor th-y wi-nt flowly. that little i would not use the spiral ju-.f as it If the The next sound heard m that lordly mansion was the vi 318 A FAIR MYSTERY. breaking open of a door; then, the earl being with them, 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 pene- tration: nothing ever escaped him. He asked each person to stand quite still while he looked round the room. " There has been no violent entrance,' 1 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 "t" 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 \vas 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 aid, "a pruning-knife. It was fetched from one of the hot-houses yesterday, to cut branches Lady Studleigh said darkened her room. I saw i: terday afternoon tying on that table, when I had come to speak to my daughter. Would to Heaven I had taken it away with in,-!" ( 'aptain 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 after- thought." Perhaps my daughter made some resistance tried to call for help, or something of that kind," said the earl. Mill the captain looked puzzled. " Why not have railed lor help while these things were being destroyed?" he s;ii 1. " I am sure there is a mystery in it, some- thing that does not quite meet the eye at the first glance. Will A FAIR m'STERY. 319 TOM mil Lndy Srudloigh's maid. Throw throw a sheet over iirst: tliat is not a fitting sight for any woman's Then came Kugenie, with many tears and wailing cries. She had nothing to tell, except that last evening her lady had, for the first i line, spoken to her of her marriage, and had shown her the wedding costume. 1 took up the dress and looked at it," she said, "then I laid ] that chair. My lady wanted to see how large the veil I opened it. and \\v placed it on this chair: the wreath lay mail scented ho < i.n the talile. 1 remember seeing the knife there: it was left yesterday after the branches were cut. My lady told nie to take it hack hut I forgot it." knew no more, only that she had tried her hardest to open the door that morning, and had not succeeded. .She was evi- dently ignorant and unconscious enough. ur lady any enemy r" asked the earl. " No," replied the maid; "I believe every one who saw he iped her. " Was there any tramp or poacher to whom she had refused alms, or anything of that kind ?" asked the captain. 1 .-liould say not: my lady always had an o{>en hand." .ir last evening, but seemed just a& ; :" asked the earl. She was happier than usual, if anything, my lord," was th* reply. n the medical details were taken down, and the body of ,>ed ire. n the ground. The doctor and the . washed the stains from the golden hair. The housek ammoned. anil the two women, with hitter tears, laid the fair limbs to rest. She wa> BO U>vely, even in death! The wound could not be seen. They would havn arrayed her in her wedding-dress had it not been destroyed. They found a rol f plain white, muslin, and put it on her: they brushed out the shin- ing ripples of golden hair, and let it lie like a long veil around d the perfect arm-, and laid them over the quiet h she had rrihle a death, there was no trace of pain on the beautiful face; it was calm and smilii though the la.-t whisper from her lips had been ain thing rather than the terrible w. i. (iod! 1 am not fit to die!" anything rather thanti went ilown into tlie garden and gathered fair white roses, she crou .ld>-n head with them, she laid them on the v. jit figure in Ms pal" loveliness as sculptured marble. dm! Oh. cruel d.-ath. t<> have claimed her! Then the maid wept bitter mid not ;f from the room the be;intitul tigure lay. Silently the earl entered, and l>owed liis )iead over the cold face, hot tears fell from his eyes upon it. " I will .1 i. my darling." he said. " I will hunt your murderer down." He went back to the room, wl .in Ayrlev awaitxi him. with a strange expression on his face. "I do not like to own m\ self defeated, Lord Linleigh." b yu A FAIR MYSTERY. 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 under- stands 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 jew- elry 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 him- self 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 mu?t 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,' 1 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 gen- A FAIR MYSTERY. 321 tleman, I know of nothing in my daughter's life that bears out your suspicions; therefore I should wish you not to mention then* to any one else; they can only gi\e pain. For my part, ii.t 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 houghs, no stains of red finger marks, nor could they tind any trace, in the neighborhood, of tramps, va- grants, or burglars. It seemed to Captain Ayrley. that the Lin- lei-h Court murder would be handed down as a mystery to all tune. 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 alne, closing the door behind him, that none might hear or see when he bade his love farewell. Those who wat.-hed in the outer room heard a sound of weeping and wild word*, they heard sobs so deep and bitter, that it was heart- rending to remember it was a strong man weeping then- in his f. 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 lie remembered this was to have been iiis wedding dav, and now his beautiful, golden- haired darling lay dead, cold, silent, smiling dead! "What could lessen such anguish as I. CHAPTER LXXXIV. A MOTHER'S A N o r i s n . THEY wondered why Ix>rd Linleigh allowed noone to take the fatal news to his wife but himsel:. i early ill- 1 1"V" and IIIIP' , be. ii ~o uell kept all ti U tray it now. He knew v V( .H what b. would lie. lie dp-aded all seen. "V, hut he loved his and no one must be with her in the lirst hour of her MI- e troithl" .-Mid bereavement. t" her rooin \vheii the dete. -lives left, and found Mattie .still keeping watch over her. I'.. -'.ing one word to his wile, he turned to Mat "Thank you, my dear." lie .said, -ently; \ouhavi-carn--d out my wi-hes most faithfully. Will you go to Karie '.' Eugenie will take you where lie js." Thea when she had quitted the room, Ladv E-ntelle flung her- self into liis ai 320 A FAIR MYSTERY. " 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, Qlric. How did it hap- pen ? 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 sus- picion not one syllable; yet, strange to say, the same idea oc- curred 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 se- cret of that spiral staircase, and had resolved upon breaking into the house by that means some one who had learned, in all prob- ability, 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, shr 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 sincj 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 knew she was going to marry Earle; it had not even been whispered outside of our own house. It was a robbery, and nothing else, care- fully 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 sec 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 A FAIR .vrSTAV.T. :tt3 hair, on the sweet, dead face; he never forgot the passional rent of words words that would luivo betrayed her secrei 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 hack 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. ( "ome back and speak one word to me only one word. Oh, I'lric, 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 Binile again. " Only touch one hand," he said; " there is nothing so cold as death.* 1 could only cry out, " her darling! her darling!" Oh, for the davs 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 violer row to l>e bad for her, he would not ask her to go away until it ilmost exhausted; then he knelt down by her .side. " EsteUe," he said, "you remember that it was for your fa- ther'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 Cor your father's sake Kiss the quiet lips, love, and tell our darling that you will keep our secret for all \i< She had exhausted herself by passionate weeping and pa- ate rri.-s she obeyed him. humbly and simply, as though she had been a child She laid her quivering lips on the cold white aid said: I shall keep our secret, Doris." Then he led her away. That same day I/>rd Linleigh sent telegrams to the Duke and Duchess of Downsbury and to Bnokenatae. Before the noon of the next day the duke and duchess had readied Linleigh ( 'oiirt. The duke took an active part in all the preparations forth- emony of interment. The duchess shut her.-elf upin herdaugh- room, ami would not leave her. loiter on in the day Mark and Mrs Braee came: their ^Hcl was intense. Lord Linleigh lit! le knew how near lie was then to the s ( ,|\ ing of the mv but the oatue carefully | tory was told to them a told to every or ''iir^lar had broken into her room, and, lit the effort to -ivean alarm. I-idy horis Studleigh had been rniellv murdered Nothing was '.-aid of the cru.-hed bridal wreath or the torn wedi Honest Mark never heard that there was any other nn connei ted with the murder than the wonder of who hail done it. Perhaps had lie told the story of !/<>id Vivian lie's visit to Bra ide, it would have furnished uuuie clew; but the earl was deeply n-?4 A FAIR MYSTERY. engrossed and troubled. Mark never even remembered the in- cident. 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 bad 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 dis- covered 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 punish- ment than hers, and sin always brings it. It seems so easy; the temptation, like that of Doris, is so sud- den, so swift, so sweet; the retribution seems so far off. But, sure as night follows day, surely as the golden wheat ripens un- der 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 .1 FAIR MYSTERY. greatest peril of all is the peril of beauty. She had been so vain of her fair face; it seemed tohor that fair, fragile beauty was the Hik'f tiling in life. It had led her to vanity, and from vanity to i~iii 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 N rf.-ct ti.nnre. 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 al- ready a thing of the past. Let poets and artists rave of beauty 1 i the dead girl answer, " What had beauty done for her?" CHAPTER LXXXV. A SURPRISE FOR LORD LIXLEIUH. THE funeral at Linleigh Court is still talked of in the county. Then- had not been for many generations such a scene. The whole country side were present; the rich anil the noble to sym- p-ithi/.e and assist, the poor to look on in wonder. They stood in groups under the trees discussing the event, they told each that she had been beautiful as an angel, with hair that shone like the sun: that when she was younger and before she . 'ine into ]>ossession of her fortune she had loved some one very much, a handsome, young poet; and aftershecame into her fortune, she had l>een true to him, and had refused some of the grr-ate-.t men in Kngland. to marry him. Ti-.irs .-tood in the eyes of those simple men and women as they told each other the story that the night before h.- r wed- ding-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 pa-sed by, pointing out h other the chief mourners. "There \s as the young poet," they said but who would have recogni/.ed Karle? His 1'aee 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 num-p-d piteoiisly. as the lins of a grieving child. It was hanl to believe that he had ever been hand gallant, and gay. Women wept as they looked at him. ami men Mood bare-headed, mute, silent, before a great sorrow that they could so well understand. Tin-re was tin- earl; he looked very d. and anxious, but lie was a Studleigh. and mi that debonair race trouble always sat lightly; they had grand capa- bilities for throwing otF sorrow. They showed each other the, ly Duke of Dovvnsbury, one of the noblest men in Kngland, who w::s not ashamed to take his station by the side of Mna-k , the hoiie-t farmer; then followed a long train of n< g.-ntle n. and friends. The long procession wound its way through the park, the leave- fell, the tlovvi-rs stirred idly in the summer wind, as though recognizing the fact that a fairer tlowi-r had l -en laid the birds sang joyously, as though death and sorrow not passing through their midst, and tin- bright sun shon-- warm and golden as they carried the beautiful Lady Doris to her last 826 A FAIR . home. Oh! sweet summer and fragrant flovers, 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 Lin- leigh 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 Lin- leigh would say to him at times: " We must think about your future, Earle; it is time some- thing 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 im- patient with sorrow, with despair knowing that time would u the terrible grief, and give back some of jts 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. A FAUi MY.STKnV. :7 " Let me stay and die here," he said to the earl. But Lord Linleigh had grown warmly attached to him. He ink-lit on saving him it" possible. The duchess came to the ie: she said, that after the terrible shock some change was needful for all. It' I-ndy K>tclle did not feel equal to going ahroad, let her spend tlie winter at I >ownsbury Castle with them, while Lord Linleigh and Earle went abroad together. Though I^idy Kstelle 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 Link'igh took Earle to Spain. They were absent nearly five months, but time and travel did much for them. Karle 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 mon- the strong manly desire to IK- first and foremost in the battle of life cameover him. Together they planned great - to take his place in Parliament again; he was to be TLord Linleiuh's right hand. You will always be like an elder son to me," said Tx>rd Lin- jLleigh one day. " I shall have no one to study but you." :i Karle was doubly fortunate; the duke had an excellent civil appointment in his i>o\ver; when it became vacant, he offered it to Karle. who gratefully accepted it. " Now." said Lord Lirdeigh to him, " your position is secure your fortune is made." And Karle -ighed deeply, remembering how happy this might have made him once. The return to England in April: and then a grand surprise awaited the earl. He received a letter to say that Lady !e, having jrrown tired of I ).u nsbury Ca>tlc. had ^<>i Ereit his in Wales- ' and that, on his return, loin her t: "What ' .inlrigh to Karle. "Gone to Gymglas. I have not been in Wales for some time. It will be quite pleasant nuite a treat t<> me." When lie returned to Kn^land, they went at once to (iyrnglas. Th. : the hall one line day in April, when the \ ill fair with the corning spring. Lord Linleigh thought he had never >een his wif- looking so yoiinic <>r so fair. He had left her pale, with a quiet. Uu ':n-d almost like iir: now IHT fa-f was tlu>hed uitli a dainty i-olor, li. liriixl't: she was animate,!, j, ,\ ,>n,. ami liappy. It -ubtle .halite, that he hardly Understood. " My darling K^telle," lie - ;i j,l l, () \v hapjiy I am to looking SO bright! Has anything happ<'iud while I lia\- aw: m I looking so well ';" she aske,l, in a voice so full of li. inu.-ie lie har.i. ./,,! it. "Do you 1 : tluiu 4ver. ririe.-" if it be possible,' he replied. " Ckjuie wuli me," she said. 828 A FAIR MYSTERY. 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 conserva- tory 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 3 T ou," she said. " Lord Linleigh, this is your son and heir, Lawrence Lord Studleigh, called in nursery par- lance ' 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, Es- telle ?" " 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 daugh- A FAIR MYSTERY. 329 ters 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 Les- lie. 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 spellbound. 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 hi i He saw the white hands that he remembered last as folded in death; he saw the white, graceful breast that had been disfig- ured by that terrible wound. My darling Doris," he said: " how came you here?" H" 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. Le-lie," he >aid, courteously. " Is it for sale ?" " I can hardly say; I have had a very large bid for it. It was Eurchasi'd some time since by one of our merchant princes, who aadnce failed, and 1 bought the picture at his sale; since then I have been olfen-d a large sum tor 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. " Yon did! Where n a\eof Lady Doris; the earl and countess had drawn them- - more from imhlir life, and found their happiiu .-- in the midst of their children. The duchess seemed t<>l;a\. her youth in those same children, and was never so happy as M hen she could carry one or two of them oil with her bury Castle. One autumn day Matt i tood at the little ^atc that led from the garden to the meadow. The sun u as shining, and the red-brown leaves were falling from the trees. She was thinking of Earle, how' prosperous, how fortunate he had been during last few years, when he had worked with all h; drown bis Borrow. How he had \\orked! And now i the reward of all indiM i . The .-rii ics and the public hailed him as the greatest poet of the day. In the Hoi Commons he was considered a brilliant leader, a brilliant 8[ < ak< r. 1 If had speculated. fOO, and all his spt culati' '11; lie had sent h; 'n \<> Matt \>\ and tolti 1,. .Id come to hi ar her opinion from her nwn Uj It was not a f/.uat surpiise to h> i. n that bright autumn to see hii. idows. How man% d for him th. I v. but th> y had in ' dy. II. was older, with It ss 1 u.,1 i him handsomer, tliou. much of the lighl of youth h. rota him. He held out his hand to her in loving ^i. (low u and ki--'d her face. Sui-h a kind. sv\. ''attic," he -aid: " and i; than ever now." lie spoke truly. Mattir Brace had ii> girl, 334 A FAIR MYSTERY. but she was not far from being a beautiful woman. The rich brown hair was smooth and shining as satin, the kindly face had an expression of noble resolve that made it beautiful; the browu eyes were clear and luminous; the lips were sensitive and sweet. Earle looked at her with critical eyes. " You please me ver\ r much, Mattie, he said. " Do you know what I have come all the way from London to ask you ?'' " No," she replied, in all simplicity, " that I do not." " I want you to be my wife, dear. I know all that lies be- tween us. If I cannot offer you the enthusiastic worship of a first love, I can and do offer you the truest and deepest affection that a man can give. I always liked you, but of late have begun to think that you are the only woman in the world to me." "Can I make you happy. Earle V" she asked, gently. " Yes, I am sure of it." " But I am not beautiful," she said, sadly. An expression of pain came over his face. " Beauty! Oh, Mattie, what is it? Besides, you are beautiful in my eyes. Be my wife, Mattie; I will make you very happy." It was not likely that she would refuse, seeing that she had loved him for years. They were married, much to the delight of Lord and Lady Linleigh. Now Earle has a beautiful house of his own: his name is hon- ored in the land: his wife is the sweetest and kindest of women; his children are fair and wise. He has one golden-haired girl whom they call Doris; and if Earle loves one of the little band better than another, it is she. He has a spacious and well- adorned room opening on a flowery lawn; it is called a study. And here sometimes, at sunset, his children gather round him, and they stand before a picture a picture on which the sun- beams fall, shining on a radiant face, with bright, proud eyes, and sweet, smiling lips a picture known to them by the name of " Innocence." [THE END.J A 000 127 986 8