HOW THE NEWS WAS TOLD.
Lord Linleigh rushed from the room like one mad--he was utterly lost.
That his beautiful daughter, who was to have been married that day, lay
there murdered and dead, was an idea too terrible to contemplate. He
fled from the place, but he could not fly from reality. How, in Heaven's
name, was he to confront the mother of this unhappy girl? How was he to
tell her lover? What was he to do?
For once the courage of the Studleighs--oh, fatal boast!--failed him. He
sank down on the last step of that fatal staircase, white, sick,
trembling, and unmanned.
"What shall I do?" he moaned to himself. "Oh, Heaven, what shall I do?"
It must be told--there was no time to lose: even now he could hear a
hurried murmur, as of expectation and fear.
When he rose to return his limbs trembled like those of a little child;
he was compelled to clutch the iron rail and the boughs of the trees for
support. It was not sorrow--he had not realized yet that it was his
daughter, his only child who lay dead--he was simply stunned with
horror. The dead face, the crimson-stained hair, the bare white breast
with its terrible wound, the sun shining over the ghastly scene.
The hall-door was open as he had left it, and he saw the servants
hurrying on their different affairs; no murmur of dread had reached
them. There was to be a wedding, and, on the strength of it, they had
each of them received a handsome present. Their faces were all smiles;
but one or two, passing along, looked aghast as the master of that
superb mansion, with his white face and horror-stricken eyes, came in.
The library was the nearest room at hand. He went in.
"Tell Miss Brace I want to see her directly," he said.
And in a few minutes Mattie stood trembling before him.
"There is something the matter," she said, in a low voice, "and, Lord
Linleigh, you are afraid to tell me what it is."
He could only hold out his hands toward her with a trembling cry:
"Oh, great Heaven! how shall I tell her?"
She knelt down by his side, and held both his hands in hers. She felt
that he was trembling--the strong figure was almost falling.
"Tell me!" she cried, calmly. "I am strong; you can trust me; I will
help you all I can."
The good, kindly face grew almost beautiful in its look of high, patient
resolve.
He raised his haggard eyes to her face.
"Mattie!" he said, in a low, hoarse voice. "Doris is dead!"
She grew very pale, but no word passed her lips; she saw that so much
would depend on her; she must not lose her self-control for one minute.
"Doris is dead!" he repeated; "and that is not all--she has been foully,
terribly murdered! and she was to have been married to-day!"
She was quite silent for some minutes, trying to realize the meaning of
his words; then her old prayer stole to her lips:
"We must try to spare Earle," she said. "Heaven save Earle!"
Lord Linleigh caught hold of her.
"Mattie," he said, in a low, gasping voice, quite unlike his own, "I
have not realized yet that it is my child, Doris; I can only understand
a murder has been done. Have I lost my reason?"
"No. You must be brave," she said. "Think of Lady Linleigh. Such a blow
is enough to kill her."
His head fell on his hands, with a low moan.
"You do not know--you do not know all," he said.
Just at that moment they heard the voice of Lady Estelle in the hall. He
started up, everything forgotten except the wife he loved so dearly, the
mother whose child lay dead.
"Do one thing for me, Mattie," he gasped. "Go to her--on some pretext or
other--take her to her own room; she must not see, she must not know.
Keep her there; I must tell Earle."
Mattie hastened to obey him. Lady Estelle was speaking to one of the
servants in the hall.
"Mattie," she said, "I do not understand this delay. If some one does
not hurry matters a little, we shall have no wedding to-day."
Then the girl's anxious face and pale lips struck her.
"Surely," she said, "there is nothing wrong! Has Doris changed her
mind?"
"No, dear Lady Linleigh: she is not quite well; and probably there will
be no wedding to-day. I want you to come with me to your own room--I
want to talk to you."
"I shall go to Doris," said the countess: "if she is not well, _my_
place is with her."
But Mattie caught her hands, and the countess, always yielding, went
with her.
"Is she really ill, Mattie? Is it some terrible fever--some terrible
plague? Never mind--I will go and kiss it from her lips; I must be with
her."
The poor lady wrung her hands in a paroxysm of despair; her face
quivered with grief. Mattie tried all that was possible to console her.
What could she do? It was the heartbroken cry of a mother for a child;
but she could not tell.
"We must be patient, dear lady," she said, "and wait until Lord Linleigh
sends or comes."
She persuaded the countess to lie on the couch. She complied, trembling,
weeping.
"You must be hiding something from me," she said. "She was to have been
married this morning. Oh, Mattie, tell me what it is?"
Mattie Brace passed through many hours of sorrow and sadness, but none
so dark as that which she spent shut up with Lady Linleigh. She could
hear the sound of hurried footsteps. Once or twice she heard a cry of
fear or dismay. She heard the rapid galloping of horses, and she knew
that they were gone in search of the doer of the deed. Yet all that time
she had to sit with assumed calm by the side of Lady Estelle. No one
came near them. The silence of death seemed to reign over that part of
the house; while from Mattie's heart, if not from her lips, went every
minute the prayer:
"Heaven save Earle!"
What had passed was like a terrible dream to all those who shared in it.
Lord Linleigh had gone in search of Earle. He found him busied in his
preparations; happy and light of heart, as he was never to be again. He
turned with a musical laugh to the earl.
"We have just ten minutes," he said. "I hope Doris is ready."
Then the smile died on his lips, for he caught one glimpse of the white
face and terrified eyes. With one bound he had cleared the distance
between them, and stood impatiently clutching Lord Linleigh's arm.
"What is that in your face?" he cried. "What is it? What is the matter?"
"Heaven help you, my poor boy!" said the earl, in a broken voice. "It
would seem better to take away your life at once than to tell what I
have to tell."
"Doris is ill. She--no--she cannot have changed her mind again--she
cannot have gone away!"
"You will not be married to-day," said the earl, sadly. "My poor Earle."
"I cannot believe it," he cried. "Is Heaven so cruel; would God let that
sun shine--those birds sing--those sweet flowers bloom? Yes, kill me,
slay me, take my love away. I will not believe it."
"Hush," said the earl, laying his hand on the quivering lips; "hush, my
poor Earle. Whatever happens, we must not rail against Heaven."
"It is not Heaven," he cried. "I tell you, God would not do it. He would
not take my darling from me. You are afraid to say what has happened. I
know she has gone away and left me, as she did before. Oh! my love, my
love! you shall not cheat me! I will follow you over the wide world; I
will find you, and love you, and make you my own! Oh! speak to me, for
mercy's sake! Speak--has she gone?"
"My dear Earle, I do not know how to tell you, words seem to fail me.
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 repeated, slowly--"_dead!_"
"Yes; but that is not all. She has been--you must bear it bravely,
Earle--she has been cruelly murdered!"
He repeated the word with the air of one who did not thoroughly
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 sat in silence for some minutes, that ghastly gray pallor
deepening on the young lover's face. Suddenly 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?"
"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 oversight, 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 anything missing."
"I must go to her," said Earle.
"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 Linleigh 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 their hands, crying
out to each other that their lady had been murdered while they slept;
but Lord Linleigh pointed out forcibly that some one must have done the
deed, and it behooved them to search before the murderer could make good
his escape. No one was to enter the room until the detectives had
arrived, and men were to mount the fleetest horses, to gallop over to
Anderley, and bring the police officers back with them.
Then, when all directions were given, he went back to Earle. He was no
coward, but he could not yet face the wife whose only child lay dead.
Earle was waiting for him. Terrible as the moment was, he could not help
noticing the awful change that had come over that young face: the youth
and the brightness had all died from it; it was haggard and restless; he
looked up as the earl entered the room.
"Lord Linleigh," he said, and every trace of music had died from his
voice, "it was no fancy of mine last night--that sound I heard last
night was from Doris: it was her smothered cry for help, perhaps her
last sound. Oh, Heaven! if I had but flown when I heard it--flown to her
aid! Yet I did go. I went to the very door of her room, and all was
perfect silence. Let me go to her--do not be hard upon me--I must look
upon the face of my love again."
"So you shall, but not yet."
Lord Linleigh shuddered.
"I would to Heaven that I had never seen the terrible sight," he said;
"but you, Earle, believe me, you could not see it and live!"