"I HAVE SEEN SOME ONE LIKE HER."
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 impending 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 grammar 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 nothing but look at you earnestly."
"Perhaps he admires my jewels or my flowers," she said, coquettishly.
"It is your face," said Earle, impatiently. "What do men care for jewels
or for flowers?"
"Who is he, Earle? Where is he? Is it any one I know?"
"I should imagine that it is some one you know, who is waiting 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, the 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 first 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.
"He cannot know me," she said, calmly; "he is mistaken. I have never
seen him before."
"He must be either very dull or foolish to mistake you, my darling, for
anyone else," said Earle. "I defy the whole world to show another face
like yours. It is some one whom you have met and forgotten. Be kind, and
give him some little acknowledgment, Doris. See, he is bowing again."
She raised her eyes to his face.
"Lady Studleigh returns no bows from strangers," she said, haughtily,
and Earle felt himself rebuked.
At that moment Sir Harry Durham entered the box to pay his respects to
the belle of the evening. Earle asked him eagerly if he knew the
gentleman in the center box, who wore the white japonica?
"Know him!" said Sir Harry, laughingly; "yes, of course I do--every one
knows him. That is Lord Charles Vivianne."
The familiar name fell upon her ears like a death-knell. Earle repeated
in surprise:
"Lord Vivianne! I have heard of him often enough, though I never saw him
before. I have surely heard some romantic story about some love affair."
"Earle," interrupted Lady Doris, "do you think Lady Linleigh looks
tired?"
She merely asked the question, the first that came into her mind, to
divert his attention. She succeeded perfectly--Sir Harry went to ask the
countess if she were fatigued. Earle bent over Lady Doris' chair.
"You have some strange deeds to answer for," he said, lightly.
For one moment she looked startled.
"What do you mean, Earle?" she asked.
"I believe," he replied, "that you have made a conquest of this famous
Lord Vivianne."
"Heaven forbid!" she said; and she said it so earnestly that Earle
looked at her in utter wonder.
"I am tired of conquests, Earle," she said, trying to smile. "I want
nothing--no one but you, no love but yours."
"It is almost cruel, Doris, to make me such a beautiful speech in the
presence of a crowded opera house, where it is impossible that I can
thank you properly for it."
"How would you thank me properly for it, Earle?" she asked,
coquettishly.
"I would count the number of letters in the words, and would give you as
many kisses as there are letters."
"Kissing is not fashionable," she said; "it is very well for common
people, but ladies of fashion do not indulge in such old-fashioned
manners."
"Then I hope you will not be a lady of fashion much longer," said Earle.
The opera was over; Lady Studleigh looked across the house to see if her
enemy was gone. No; he was still there, looking earnestly at her.
"Perhaps," she thought to herself, "he 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 see the 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 perfectly 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 triumph. He had found
her; there was not such another 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 gentleman 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, the handsome
earl's only daughter, Lord Linleigh's heiress, the queen of the season,
the belle, _par excellence_, of St. James'."
"Lady Studleigh!--that Lady Studleigh!" he repeated. "I do not believe
you--I cannot believe you!" he gasped.
"It is a great pity, as it is most certainly true. Do you not know the
Earl of Linleigh? The other lady with them is the countess. She was the
Duke of Downsbury's daughter."
"That Lady Studleigh! I cannot believe it! It cannot be!"
"Perhaps," said the colonel, laughingly, "we should come to some surer
conclusion if you would tell me whom you imagine it to be?"
Lord Vivianne looked impatiently at him.
"I did not say that I imagined her to be any one else," he replied,
hastily. "So that is really the young beauty over whom just at present
London is losing its head?"
"You are right. If you would like an introduction to the earl, my
brother is here; he knows him well. What do you think of Lady Studleigh?
Report has not exaggerated her beauty?"
"What do I think of her? I will tell you, Clifford, when I have spoken
to her, not before."
"You are difficult to please if she does not please you."
"I--I cannot help thinking I have seen some one like her," he said,
slowly. "I wonder if I am right?"
"Hardly; it is not a common type of face. You may have done so: I have
not."
Colonel Clifford dearly loved gossip. If he had found Lord Vivianne in a
better temper, he would have told him the romance of the earl's
marriage, and how his daughter was brought up in a very different
position of life to that she now occupied. As it was, he did not tell
him, feeling that his lordship lacked civility; so it happened that not
until long afterward did Lord Charles hear the story that would have
solved many of his doubts.
He sat and watched her, sometimes so convinced of her identity that he
could have called out "Doris:" again, wondering how he could be so
foolish as to imagine he had found his lost love in Lord Linleigh's
daughter. He could not take him eyes from the beautiful face. He longed
to hear her speak, to see if the voice was that of Doris: he remembered
its low, sweet music so well; if he could hear her speak, he would be a
thousand times more sure.
He waited until he saw them leave the box, and he hastened so as to be
in the dressing-room with them. Standing nearer to her, he would surely
be able to judge.
"Are you cold, my darling?" asked Earle, as he saw her drawing the hood
of her opera-cloak over her head.
"The house was warm," she replied, in a low voice.
No movement of her enemy was lost upon her. She knew that he was close
to her, that the fragrance of her flowers reached him; she saw that he
pushed his way even nearer, and stood where he could have touched her.
He looked intently at her. Her face was shaded and softened by the
crimson hood.
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.