A Fair Mystery: The Story of a Coquette

by Charlotte M. Brame

The funeral at Linleigh Court is still talked of in the county. There had not been for many generations such a scene. The whole country side were present; the rich and the noble to sympathize and assist, the poor to look on in wonder. They stood in groups under the trees discussing the event, they told each other that she had been beautiful as an angel, with hair that shone like the sun: that when she was younger and before she had come into possession of her fortune she had loved some one very much, a handsome, young poet; and after she came into her fortune, she had been true to him, and had refused some of the greatest men in England, to marry him.

Tears stood in the eyes of those simple men and women as they told each other the story—that the night before her wedding-day she had been so cruelly murdered by a burglar who wanted her jewelry. Was there ever a story so sad. They stood bare-headed as that mournful procession passed by, pointing out to each other the chief mourners. "There was the young poet," they said—but who would have recognized Earle? His face was quite changed; the youth, the beauty had died from it, it was white with the pallor of despair; the eyes were haggard and wild, the lips quivered piteously, as the lips of a grieving child. It was hard to believe that he had ever been handsome, gallant, and gay. Women wept as they looked at him, and men stood bare-headed, mute, silent, before a great sorrow that they could so well understand. There was the earl; he looked very sad, grieved, and anxious, but he was a Studleigh, and on that debonair race trouble always sat lightly; they had grand capabilities for throwing off sorrow. They showed each other the stately Duke of Downsbury, one of the noblest men in England, who was not ashamed to take his station by the side of Mark Brace, the honest farmer; then followed a long train of nobles, gentlemen, and friends.

The long procession wound its way through the park, the leaves fell, the flowers stirred idly in the summer wind, as though recognizing the fact that a fairer flower had been laid low; the birds sang joyously, as though death and sorrow were not passing through their midst, and the bright sun shone warm and golden as they carried the beautiful Lady Doris to her last home. Oh! sweet summer and fragrant flowers, singing birds and humming bees, no sadder sight than this ever passed through your midst!

The same minister who was to have married her read the funeral service over her. She was to be buried in the family vault of the Studleighs, but, at the last, Lady Estelle had clung to her, declaring that she could not endure her darling buried out of her sight, that she must sleep in the sunshine and flowers, where she could see her grave; and the duke begged Lord Linleigh to grant her prayer. So it was done; and in the pretty churchyard so green and silent, with its tall trees and flowers, she sleeps the long sleep that knows no waking.

The sparrows build their nests there, the gray church-tower is a home for the rooks, the wood-pigeons coo in the tall trees, the nightingale sings her sweetest songs, and the fairest blossoms grow over her grave. The white marble cross gleams through the trees and on it one may read the short, sad story of Lady Doris Studleigh.

That same summer day, guests and friends returned home, the duke and duchess alone remaining, with Mattie Brace. Mark and his wife took their leave.

"I shall never forget her," said honest Mark, as he wrung Earle's hand; "she was the most winsome lass I ever saw; I shall never look up at the skies without thinking I see her sweet face there."

Some months afterward—he did not attend to it just then—Lord Linleigh settled a handsome annuity on the farmer and his wife. They lived honored, esteemed, and respected to a good old age; but they never forgot the child who had come to them in the wind and the rain—the beautiful girl whose tragical end cast a shadow over their lives.

A deep, settled gloom fell over Linleigh. Many thought that Earle would never recover; the spring of his life seemed broken. It would have been hard for him if he had never found her in Florence; but having so found her, having won her love, her heart, her wild, graceful fancy, having made so sure that she would one day be his wife, it was harder still. Every resource, every energy, every hope, seemed crushed and dead.

He remained at Linleigh Court through the winter. Lord Linleigh would say to him at times: