A MIDNIGHT VISITOR.
The evening was over at last, and to Doris it had been the happiest day,
perhaps, of her life. Lord Linleigh had sent to his cellars for some of
his choicest wines--wines that only saw daylight when the daughters of
the house were married or its heirs christened--wine that was like the
nectar of the gods, golden in hue, fragrant of perfume, and exhilarating
as the water of life old traditions sing of. He had ordered the dessert
to be placed outside in the rose-garden.
"We will imitate the ancients," he said; "we will drink our wine to the
odor of sweet flowers."
So they sat and watched the golden sun set in the west. It seemed to
them it had never set in such glorious majesty before. The sky was
crimson, and gold, and purple, then pale violet, and pearly gleams shone
out; a soft veil seemed to shroud the western skies, and then the sun
had set.
Lady Doris had sat for some time watching the sun set in silence.
Suddenly she said:
"I shall never forget my last sunset."
"Your last sunset?" repeated Earle. "Do you mean that you will never see
it set again?"
"No; I mean my last sunset at Linleigh. Earle, if all those strange
stories of heaven are true, it must be a beautiful place; and this fair
sky, with its gleaming colors, is only the wrong side after all."
The faint light died in the west, the flowers closed their tired eyes,
the lovely twilight reigned soft and fragrant, the air grew almost faint
with perfume from lily, from rose, from carnation; then some bird,
evidently of erratic habits, began a beautiful vesper hymn, and they sat
as though spell-bound.
"A night never to be forgotten," said the earl. "Doris, that little bird
is singing your wedding-song."
If they could but have heard what the little bird was telling--a warning
and a requiem both in one.
Doris arose and went to the tree in whose branches the bird was hidden;
she raised her face to see if she could see it in the thick green
leaves. As she stood there, in the light of the dying day, the earl
said:
"You will have a beautiful wife, Earle."
They all looked at her as she stood there in a beautiful dress of
shining white silk, with a set of opals for ornaments; her fair white
arms and white neck were half shrouded in lace, her golden hair was
fastened negligently with a diamond arrow and hung in shining ripples
over her shoulders; the faint light showed her face, fair and beautiful
as a bright star.
"You will have a beautiful wife," he repeated, thoughtfully.
And as they all saw her then, they saw her until memory reproduced no
more pictures for them.
"We have a fine moonlight night," said Earle. "Doris, this time
to-morrow evening we shall be leaning over the steamboat side, watching
the light in the water, and the track of the huge wheels; then you will
be my wife."
Lady Linleigh rose and drew her shawl round her shapely shoulders.
"We must not forget to-morrow in the happiness of to-night," she said;
"it will not do to have a pale bride. I am going in."
But first she went up to the tree where Doris was standing.
"It is rather a hopeless task, Doris, to look for a bird in the growing
darkness," she said; "and, my darling, I have come to wish you
good-night."
Doris turned to her, and bending her graceful head, laid it on her
mother's shoulder.
"It is not only good-night, but good-bye," she said; "I shall hardly see
you to-morrow."
She clasped her warm, soft arms round the countess' neck.
"Good-bye, dearest Lady Linleigh," she said; "you have been very good to
me; you have made home very happy for me; you have been like the dearest
mother to me. Good-night; may Heaven bless you!"
Such unusual, such solemn words for her to use! The two fair faces
touched each other. There was a warm, close embrace, then Lady Linleigh
went away. When did she forget that parting, or the last look on that
face?
"I am jealous," said Lord Linleigh, parting the branches and looking at
his daughter. "I wanted the kindest good-night. What has my daughter to
say to me? It is my farewell, also. To-morrow you will be Lady Moray,
and I shall be forgotten."
Her heart was strangely touched and softened.
"Not forgotten by me, papa," she said; "next to Earle, I shall always
love you better than any one in the world."
"_Next_ to Earle. Well, I must be content. That is enough. Good-night,
my dear and only child; may Heaven send you a happy life."
He, too, took away with him the memory of the sweet face and tender
eyes; a memory never to die. He nodded to Earle.
"I must be lenient," he said, "and give you young lovers ten minutes
longer. I shall be in the library, Earle. Come and smoke a cigar with
me. I have something to say to you."
Mattie had gone to her room; Doris had promised to meet her there. The
little bird, startled by the voices perhaps, had ceased to sing; and the
lovers stood under the spreading tree alone.
"Ten minutes out here with you, my darling," said Earle; "it is like two
years in paradise. How kind they are to us, Doris; how happy we shall
be!"
But he had not many words. He laid the golden head on his breast, where
he could see and kiss the fair face; he held the white hands in his; he
could only say, over and over again, how happy they should be to-morrow.
His wife to-morrow! Surely the moon had never shone upon a fairer
picture or a lighter heart. The ten minutes were soon over.
"Good-bye to the moonlight," said Earle, "to the tired flowers and
shining stars, and the fair, sleeping world."
He parted with her at the foot of the broad staircase; she was going to
her room.
"Good-night," said Earle, kissing the red lips; "good-night, and sweet
dreams."
But when he had gone about two steps away, she called him back again.
She raised her arms and clasped them round his neck; she raised her face
that he might kiss it again.
"My darling Earle, my love Earle, my lover, my husband!" she said, with
a passion of love in her face, "good-night."
He was half startled. He watched her as she went up the broad staircase,
the white, shining silk, the gleaming opals, the golden hair, the fair,
sweet face--watched her until she was out of sight; then, despite his
happiness, he turned away with a sigh.
"She will be my own to-morrow, and I shall not need to feel anxious over
her," he said to himself; and then he went in to smoke his cigar with
the earl.
Doris called in Mattie's room and said:
"Good-night. Have you any nice book lying about here, Mattie?" she
asked. "I know quite well that I shall not sleep; I do not feel the
least tired."
She chose one of the volumes Mattie brought to her.
"I should like to read that story papa was telling us of," she said;
"but it is in the library, and he is smoking there with Earle."
"I would not read it; a gloomy, melancholy story like that is not fit
for your wedding-eve."
Doris stood with the waxen taper in her hand.
"Even," she said, "if a girl has not been quite good, even if she has
been what good people call wicked, it would be cruel to kill her on her
wedding-eve, would it not?"
"What a strange idea, Doris!--and how strange you look! Put that book
away and go to sleep, so that Earle may see bright eyes to-morrow."
They parted, and Doris passed into her own room. According to her usual
custom, she locked the door and took out the key.
The first room was her sleeping-room. She did not wait there; it was
empty. She had told Eugenie, her maid, not to wait for her on that
evening, as she might be late. Then came the bath and dressing-room;
they also were empty, although both were brilliantly lighted. She
reached the boudoir, fitted for her with such taste and luxury. The
lamps were lighted, and there, on the chair where Mattie and she had so
carefully placed it, lay the beautiful wedding costume. There could be
no mistaking it; the veil was thrown over the dress, and the wreath of
orange blossoms lay on the veil. She looked at them for some minutes in
silence, thinking of the Miriam who was burned on the night of her
wedding-day.
Then she opened the book and began to read. How useless it was--the
letters swam before her eyes. It was her wedding-day to-morrow; after
to-morrow all her cares and troubles would be over; after to-morrow all
would be peace.
She lay down upon the little couch, with a long, low sigh. It was
wonderful how tired and wearied she felt. She had suffered such a fever,
such a torture of suspense, that the reaction of feeling that she was in
perfect safety at last was too much for her. There came a fever of
unrest upon her, her heart beat with terrible rapidity, her hands were
like fire, her eyes and lips seemed to burn as though they had been
touched by flame; she had not known until now how much she had suffered.
Then she pictured Lord Vivianne coming on the twentieth and finding her
married--married and gone far out of his reach! How he would rage! It
would serve him right. He might tell his story then. Who would believe
him? They would all think it the bitter exaggeration of a disappointed
man.
Then the room seemed to grow warm, the perfume of the flowers
overpowering.
"I wish," she thought, "that I had not let Eugenie go; I feel nervous
and lonely to-night."
She half-debated within herself whether she should go back to Mattie or
not. The sense of being thought cowardly deterred her.
There lay the moonlight, so calm, so still, so bright, streaming through
the open window.
"I will go down into the grounds," she said to herself; "a walk there
will refresh me, and I shall be able to rest."
She took out her watch and looked at it; it was nearly midnight.
"There will be a pale bride to-morrow," she said, "if I am not to sleep
all night."
She unfastened the door that divided the room from the spiral staircase
leading to the grounds. The staircase itself was almost hidden by dense
green foliage and flowers; because it was so nearly hidden no one
thought it dangerous; no stranger would have observed it. She went down
to the grounds, it was so cool, so bright, still, and beautiful; the dew
was shining on the grass, the moon and stars were shining in the sky;
there was a rich odor of rare flowers; the night wind seemed to cool her
heated brain; her lips grew pale and cool; the burning heat left her
hands; it refreshed her.
"I will walk here for half an hour," she said, "then I shall be sleepy
enough."
It struck her that she would go round to the library window, where Earle
was with her father. She hoped they would not see her; but if they did,
she should tell them she could not rest. Then she remembered that the
earl had cautioned her never to use the spiral staircase at night lest
it should be dangerous. She walked round to the side of the house. Ah!
there was the light from the library-window; they were still there.
Then--her heart almost stood still--she saw the figure of a man
advancing across the carriage-drive toward the great hall-door.
At midnight. Who could it be?
The moon shone full upon him; and as he drew nearer, she saw the face of
her mortal enemy, her hated foe--Lord Vivianne!