THE COUNTESS BECOMES CURIOUS.
"We ought to be very much flattered," said Lord Linleigh, with a smile,
as he laid an open letter before his wife. "When did we leave
London?--in June. It is only the middle of July, yet some of our friends
are growing weary for us."
It was such a July morning as makes the dwellers in cities ill with
envy--when the earth hangs like a huge, shining jewel in the firmament
of heaven--a morning when life seems the greatest luxury, when to
breathe and to live is a blessing without alloy. The sky was dark blue,
without even one little white cloud to obscure it; it looked so far off,
so much further than when low-lying clouds touch the earth. The sun was
golden bright, warm without intense heat; and the air--ah! well, it
would require a poet to tell how balmy and soft it was--how it came over
the meadows laden with the breath of sweet clover--how it came from the
woods with the odor of wild hyacinths--how it came from the gardens with
the fragrance of rose and of lily, with the fragrance of every flower
that blows. Then it was filled with soft, delicious thrills--with the
cooing of the ring-doves, and the song of the lark. Nature was in her
happiest mood.
The earl and countess had come down early to breakfast--the long windows
were open--the perfumed air came in. They smiled, as among the letters
they saw one from Earle to Doris.
"He writes every day," said Lord Linleigh.
"Quite right," said Lady Estelle. "I like to see lovers deeply in love."
They smiled again, when, fresh and fair as the morning itself, Doris
came down. Her face flushed when she saw the letter; a sweet, dewy
brightness came into her eyes; she laid it aside as though waiting for
time.
"Read your letter, Doris," said Lady Linleigh, and the girl opened it.
Ah! well, perhaps life does not hold a greater pleasure than reading a
passionate love-letter on a bright summer morning. Her dainty color
deepened as she read; the light grew brighter in her eyes.
"My love!" thought the girl; "how he loves me."
And with the fragrant breath of the summer morning, with the light of
the blue skies, with the song of the birds, there came to her a pang of
regret that she was so utterly unworthy of this great pure love, that
her soul was so terribly stained by crime. Then, she said to herself
that she would atone for it, that she would to the very best of her
power make up for it; that she would be so loving, so tender, so true,
he should never have cause to regret it. For it was such a love-letter
as would have 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 remaining. 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, carelessly;
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."
"No, thank you, papa. Thank you, Lady Linleigh. I am going to spend the
morning in the gardens."
"That means writing a long letter to Earle," said Lord Linleigh, with a
smile.
She did not contradict him; and Lady Estelle, when she kissed her and
bade her good-morning, thought how beautiful it was to be young, happy,
and in love.
Doris went out. There was the shade of fragrant trees, the brilliant
colors of a thousand flowers; and Doris saw and heard nothing--she was
full of despair.
"Why is he coming," she cried, passionately, "just as I was growing so
happy, learning to forgot him and his terrible threats--why is he
coming? It is like the serpent stealing into paradise. Ah, Heaven! if I
could but undo that unhappy past."
Standing there in the sunshine, with every blessing from heaven lavished
upon her--more, according to outward appearances, to be envied than any
girl in England--she saw the great canker-worm of her life in its true
colors. Sin had spoiled all for her.
Sin! Why, she could remember when, in the innocence of her youth and
beauty, she had laughed at the word sin--she had scoffed at it. "What
did sin matter?" she had said, to herself; "the only thing was to make
the very best of life, to enjoy it with all her power, to grasp its
pleasures before they had time to fade." Sin! why it was all sheer
nonsense.
Now, when sin had found her out, when its black trail had entered her
life and poisoned it--when its consequences, pursuing her, were leading
her to shame and disgrace, she began to recognize it for what it was.
She said to herself that if she could begin life over again she would be
quite different; she would try to be good, like Mattie; she would think
less of her own beauty; and if the same temptation came to her again,
which had been so artfully offered her once, she would refuse it. She
wished with all her heart that she had turned a deaf ear to Lord
Vivianne's entreaties. "I _did_ know it was wrong," she said to herself,
with unusual candor; "I had enough of what was good in me to know that,
and I am sorry, really sorry that I did it."
Who knows how much repentance the Father above requires from a soul? Who
shall measure His mercy? The terrible tragedy was drawing nearer; and it
might be that the sorrow which rose from the poor, weak, vain soul that
morning was sufficient to save it.
So she lived the time through until Lord Vivianne came. She was glad
that Lady Linleigh had arranged for a little gayety; meeting him alone
would have been simply unendurable. As it was, she met him in a
drawing-room half-crowded with guests. He found time and opportunity for
saying a few words to her:
"How beautiful you look, Dora! I have never seen you looking so well!"
"I should be flattered at pleasing such fastidious taste as yours," she
replied.
"Yes, you do look most lovely; those waves of green and white, and the
water-lilies in your hair--you look like Undine!"
"Before or after she had found her soul?" she asked, with 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. "I 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 to me," 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 something 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 him. She could not
forget 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?" 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. Yet the very
caution of his words and manner, the restraint in his speech, the
guarded expression of his face, all told her that she was right in her
half-formed fancy. There was something unusual--either on his part or
hers--which she could not make out. She would not devote more time to
him that evening; the guests were numerous, and must be entertained.
The gentlemen did not remain long in the dining-room, and the
drawing-room presented a beautiful picture; the lamps were all lighted
and shone like huge pearls among the countless flowers; the gay dresses
and shining jewels of the ladies seemed to shine with unwonted luster.
The sweet summer evening was so warm and so fragrant, the rich silken
hangings were drawn, and the long windows were open, and from them the
countess saw a fairyland of moonlight and flowers.
"I wish we had some music," said the earl; "it only wants that to
complete the enchantment. Doris, will you sing?"
She went to the piano, and the rich voice floated through the room. Many
who saw her then never forgot her; the green and white dress floating
round her, the water-lilies in her golden hair, a flush on the beautiful
face, while the rich voice poured out such a strain of melody as few had
ever heard equaled.
They who saw her then, and knew what followed, did not forget the
picture.