THE SILENT BRIDE.
"Good-night, Earle," said Lord Linleigh; "now that is really the last
time. You shall not draw me into another discussion. I will not say
another word. Remember you are to be married to-morrow."
"I am not likely to forget it," said Earle, with a happy laugh.
"Let us have some rest," said Lord Linleigh. "I am positively afraid to
look at my watch. I know it is late."
"It is not two o'clock," said Earle; "but I will be obedient. I will say
no more."
Yet they talked all the time as they went slowly up the grand staircase.
"I hope Doris will cure you of liking to sit up late," said the earl, as
he stood for one moment against the door of his room.
"Hark!" said Earle, suddenly bending his head in a listening attitude.
"Hark!"
"What is it?" asked Lord Linleigh.
"I fancied I heard a cry," said Earle, and the two listened intently.
All was silent.
"It must have been fancy," said the earl.
"It may have been, but it really sounded like a sudden, half-choked
cry."
"Some of the servants are about still. It is nothing. For the last time,
good-night, Earle."
Then they parted, each going to his room; but Earle could not forget
that cry.
"How foolish I am," he thought; "but I shall not rest at all unless I
know that Doris is all right."
He went down the broad corridor that led to her suit of rooms; he saw
that the outer door was closed; he listened, all was hushed and silent;
there was not a stir, not a movement, not a sound.
"Good-night, my love," said Earle; "fair dreams, sweet sleep. You will
be mine to-morrow."
It was all right. He laughed at himself for the foolish fear, and went
back to his own room. He never saw the white, despairing face and
creeping figure of the wretched man who had done the atrocious deed.
He slept soundly for some few hours, then the kindly sun woke him,
shining on his face--a warm, sweet greeting, and he thought Heaven was
blessing his wedding-day. The birds were all singing in the trees, the
flowers blooming, the whole world fair and smiling.
"My love will be mine to-day!" he thought. "Shine on, blessed sun! there
is no day like this!"
It would have gladdened his mother's heart had she been there to have
seen him bend his head so reverently, and pray Heaven to shower down all
blessings on Doris.
They had arranged, in deference to her wishes, that no great difference
should be made between this and other mornings. She would not go down to
meet them at the early breakfast; she would not see Earle until they
reached the church, but Lord Linleigh and the countess, Mattie and
Earle, had agreed to breakfast together.
It was about the usual hour when Earle entered the breakfast-room. Lady
Estelle was there alone. She looked up with a charming smile on her
gentle face.
"Either we are very early, or the others are very late," she said. She
went up to him. "I am glad to see you for one moment alone on this
happy day, Earle--to thank you for keeping my secret--and pray Heaven to
bless you and my darling, that you may lead the happiest of all lives
together."
Then she bent down and kissed him. Her fair hair drooped over him; it
seemed to Earle as though a soft, fragrant cloud had suddenly enwrapped
him. Then Mattie came in, and a message was brought from Lord Linleigh,
praying them to wait five minutes for him. It seemed quite natural for
Mattie and Earle to pass through the long, open glass doors, and spend
the five minutes among the flowers.
"You have a glorious day for your wedding, Earle," said Mattie. "I think
the sun knows all about it; it never shone so brightly before. The best
wish that I can offer is that your life may be as bright as the
sunshine."
It seemed only natural for him to turn to her and say:
"Have you seen Doris this morning?"
"No," she replied. She had been to the door of her room, but it was so
silent she did not like to arouse her.
Then Earle went to a moss-rose tree and gathered a beautiful bud, all
shrouded in its green leaves.
"Mattie," he said, "will you take this to her, with my love?"
"What this love is!" laughed Mattie, as she went on her errand.
While she was gone the earl came in, and they sat down to breakfast. It
was some little surprise to Earle when Mattie came back with the rose in
her hand.
"Doris is not awake yet, and her maid did not seem willing to call her.
She was up late last night, I think."
He said nothing, but he thought to himself it was strange Doris should
sleep so soundly on this most eventful morning of her life.
They took a hurried breakfast; then Mattie said:
"Now it is growing late--our beautiful bride must be roused."
Lady Estelle looked up hurriedly.
"Is Doris still in her room?" she asked. "How strange that she sleeps so
soundly!"
In the long corridor Mattie met the pretty Parisienne, Lady Doris' maid,
Eugenie.
"You must rouse Lady Studleigh; she will be quite late if you do not."
"My lady sleeps well," said the girl, with a smile, as she tripped away.
It was some short time before she returned; she looked pale and scared,
half-bewildered.
"I cannot understand it, Miss Brace," she said. "I have been rapping,
making a great noise at my lady's door, but she does not hear, she does
not answer!"
Mattie looked perplexed. The maid continued:
"It is very strange, but it seems to me the lights are all
burning--there is a streak of light from under the door."
"Then Lady Doris must have sat up very late, and has forgotten to
extinguish them; that is why she is sleeping so soundly this morning. I
will go with you and we will try again."
Mattie and the maid went together. Just as Eugenie had said, the door
was fastened _inside_, and underneath it was seen a broad clear stream
of lamplight. Mattie knocked.
"Doris," she said, "you must wake up, dear. Earle is waiting. It will be
time to start for church soon!"
But the words never reached the dead ears; the cold lips made no answer.
"Doris!" cried the foster-sister again; and again that strange silence
was the only response.
"Let me try, Miss Brace," said Eugenie, and she rapped loud enough to
have aroused the seven sleepers. Still there came no reply.
The two faces looked pale and startled, one at another.
"I am afraid, Miss Brace," said the maid, "that there is something
wrong!"
"What can be wrong? Has Lady Studleigh gone out, do you think, and taken
the key of the room with her? If so, why should she leave the lamps
burning? Oh, my lady!--Lady Studleigh! do you not hear us?"
Then Mattie began to fear! What had happened? She waited some time
longer, but the same dead silence reigned.
"What shall we do, Miss Brace?" asked Eugenie. Her face grew very pale
as she spoke. "I am quite sure that there is really something the
matter. Lady Studleigh must be ill. Shall I fetch the countess?"
A vision of the fair, gentle face of Lady Estelle, with its sweet lips
and tender eyes, seemed to rise before her.
"No," she replied; "if you really think there is anything wrong, you had
better find the earl. But what can it be? Doris, my darling sister, do
you not hear? Will you not unfasten the door!"
"I will go at once," said Eugenie.
Mattie begged that she would say nothing to the countess.
The maid hastened away and Mattie kept her lonely watch by the room
door. She listened intently, but there was no sound, no faint rustle of
a dress, no murmur of a voice; nothing but the glare of lamplight came
from underneath. In spite of herself the dead silence frightened her.
What could have happened? Even if Doris were ill she could have rung her
bell and opened the door. There was little likelihood of her being ill:
it was not many hours since they had parted, and then she was in the
best of health and spirits.
The earl came quickly down the corridor.
"What is the matter, Mattie?" he asked, in a loud, cheery voice.
"Eugenie is telling me some wonderful story about not being able to wake
my daughter. What does it mean? Doris ought to be dressed and ready."
He started when his eyes fell on Mattie's bewildered face.
"You do not mean to say that there is anything wrong?" he cried.
"I hope not, Lord Linleigh, but we have been here nearly half an hour,
doing all that is possible to wake Doris, and we cannot even make her
hear."
He looked wonderfully relieved.
"Is that all? I will soon wake her."
He applied himself vigorously to the task with so much zeal that Mattie
was half deafened.
"That will do," he said, laughingly. "Doris, you heard that, I am sure."
There was no reply. Mattie laid her hand on his arm.
"Lord Linleigh," she asked, "do you see the gleam of the lamplight under
the door? The night lights are still burning."
Then he looked a little startled.
"Mattie," he said, hurriedly, "young ladies live so fast nowadays; do
you think Doris takes opiates of any kind--anything to make her sleep?"
"I do not think so," she replied.
Then again, with all his force, the earl called to her, and again there
was no response.
"This is horrible," he said, beating with his hands on the door. "Why,
Mattie, Mattie, it is like the silence of death."
"Shall you break the door open?" she asked.
"No, my dear Mattie," he said, aghast; "is there any need? There cannot
be anything really serious the matter; to break open the door would be
to pre-suppose something terrible. How foolish I am! There is the
staircase--I had forgotten that." He stopped abruptly and turned very
pale. "Surely to Heaven," he cried, "nothing has happened through that
staircase door being left open? I always felt nervous over it. Stay
here, Mattie; say nothing. I will run round."
As he passed hurriedly along he saw Earle, who, looking at his face,
cried:
"What is the matter, Lord Linleigh?"
"Nothing," was the hurried reply, and the earl hastened on.
He passed through the hall--through the broad terrace to the staircase
leading to his daughter's suit of rooms.
The door was open--he saw that at one glance--open, so that in all
probability she had risen and gone out in the grounds. His heart gave a
great bound of relief; she was out of doors--there could be no doubt of
it; gone, probably, to enjoy one last glimpse of her home.
There was a strange feeling of oppression, a strange heaviness at his
heart. He raised his hand to his brow, and wondered to feel the great
drops there.
"I will go to her room," he said to himself, "she will be there soon;
she is dreaming her time away, I suppose."
Yet he went very slowly. Ah, dear Heaven! what is that?
A thin, crimson stain stealing gently along the floor; a horrible
crimson stain!
Great Heaven! what did it mean?
The next moment he is standing, with a white, terrible face, looking at
the ghastly sight, that he is never to forget again, let him live long
as he may. The lurid light of the lamps contrasts with the sweet light
of day. There on the floor lies the wedding-dress, the veil and
wreath--torn, destroyed--out of all shape--stained with that fearful
crimson; and lying on them, her golden hair all wet and stained, her
white neck bare, her dead face calm and still, was Doris--his beautiful,
beloved daughter.
He uttered no cry; he fell on his knees by the fair, dead girl, and
looked at her.
Murdered! dead! lying there with her heart's blood flowing round her!
Dead! murdered! while he had slept!
All the sudden shock and terror of his bereavement came over him in a
sudden passion of despair.
He uttered one long, low cry, and fled from the room.