ARLEY’S VISITOR.
Arley Wentworth’s wedding day was not a bright day. Thick clouds
overcast the sky, while a heavy fog--London’s customary wet
blanket--made everything dismal and gloomy enough.
As already intimated, the wedding was to be a very quiet affair, for
the orphaned girl had no near relatives who were able to take the
burden and care of a large merry-making.
There were only her aged aunt--a lady of between fifty and sixty--and
two or three distant cousins on her father’s side whom she could claim
as kindred, so only her intimate friends and a few of her acquaintances
were bidden to the feast.
She was, however, to be married in St. George’s Church, Hanover Square,
and with all the pretty paraphernalia which a young and lovely bride
should have. This Miss McAllister, who herself was quite wealthy, had
insisted upon, and it was also in accordance with Arley’s own ideas and
wishes.
“What makes you so quiet and sad, Arley, dear?” Lady Elaine asked of
her, as she was helping her dress for her marriage.
Arley had whimsically insisted that she would have no maid about her
that morning; her own hands, with the assistance of her dearest friend,
should perform all the necessary offices for the occasion.
“This is your bridal morn,” she continued, “and your face should be
bright, even if the day is not.”
“Do I look sad, Elaine? I did not mean to,” Arley replied, with a
forced smile, but Lady Elaine, looking into her eyes, saw that they
were full of tears.
“What is it, dear--what troubles you?” she asked, twining her arms
around her waist and drawing the troubled girl close to her.
“I don’t know; perhaps it is a sort of reaction after all the
excitement and labor of preparation, but I feel strangely depressed
this morning, instead of looking forward to this event, which should
only bring me happiness and bright anticipations, I feel as if
something dreadful was about to happen to me,” Arley responded, as,
with a weary sigh, she dropped her head upon the shoulder of her friend.
A cloud passed over Lady Elaine’s face.
She had regarded her marriage with Philip Paxton, from the very first,
with feelings akin to these.
She could not believe that he was true.
Soon after his engagement to Arley, she had learned through Wil, who
heard of it while he was in London at one time, of his unfortunate
speculations, and the thought had forced itself upon her that he had
made his proposal to her merely to build up his fallen fortunes, and,
failing in that, he had then turned to Arley, as offering the next most
tempting bait with which to replenish his empty coffers.
But, of course, she could not breathe anything of this to her friend;
she must not allow her to become any more despondent, so she said, as
cheerfully as she could:
“These are nervous fears, I am afraid, darling, and you must not carry
that pale, sad face to St. George’s. What would Mr. Paxton think to
behold such a depressed-looking bride? If this is the way all brides
feel on their wedding-day, I am afraid I shall be tempted to put off
the evil hour as long as possible.”
“When are you to be married, Elaine?” Arley asked, her thoughts for the
moment drawn away from herself.
“I do not know, dear; no time has been set as yet. Wil told me last
evening that he had received his appointment.”
“What appointment?”
“Sure enough; I forgot that you did not know, but he did not wish to
tell any one until the matter was settled. He has been appointed to go
with Powell’s exploring expedition to Colorado, in the United States,
and so, of course, we do not think of a wedding until he returns.”
“This is news, indeed,” Arley exclaimed, greatly surprised. “When did
he apply for this appointment?”
“Sit down here and let me brush out your hair while I tell you about
it; we must not waste any time, you know,” Lady Elaine said, pushing
a low chair before a full-length mirror, and glad to find that any
subject would interrupt her friend’s sad thoughts. “He made his
application more than six months ago, and some time before my return
from school, or,” she said, with a little, tremulous smile, “he would
never have made it at all, since the thought of separation is very
painful to us both.”
“I should think so,” Arley said, thoughtfully.
“But his sense of honor,” Lady Elaine resumed, “will not allow him
to throw up the appointment, now that it has been awarded him. It is
quite a ‘feather in his cap,’ so to speak, for the American Congress
have authorized Professor Powell to explore the Colorado River and make
a scientific survey of the region drained by it and its tributaries,
together with a topographical survey by triangulation--its geology,
zoology, botany and ethnology. I hope you understand it all, dear,”
the young countess said, laughing at Arley’s puzzled expression. “I
don’t, and had to get Wil to write it down for me, and then I had to
study hard in order to be able to rattle off that much. But Wil is
very anxious to become a professor of geology and botany, and this
expedition offers a great deal in the way of instruction, as well as of
reputation, and he really cannot afford to lose the opportunity.”
“Well, I should consider it a great trial to have him go,” Arley
returned, “for there must be many dangers attending such an expedition.
Just think of his going into that wilderness, with all its ravenous
beasts and Indians, and then--those horrid Mormons are out there,
somewhere, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” Lady Elaine said, with a clear, silvery laugh, “but I have no
fear that the far-famed Brigham Young will ever make a convert of him.
It is a great trial, however,” she added, tears springing to her eyes,
“but if it is for the best, I am willing to submit to it.”
“When does he go?”
“Not until next April.”
“And how long will he be gone?”
“About six months, I believe; the weather will not admit of a longer
tour than that.”
“You will be very lonely while he is gone, Elaine,” Arley said, in a
sympathetic tone.
“Yes; but I must make the best of that, too,” was the smiling reply,
though tears hung trembling on the long golden lashes.
“What is it, to ‘make the best of anything?’” Arley asked, thoughtfully.
“I believe it is to accept whatever is sent to us as sent by an
All-wise Father for some good--to bear all ills patiently, and be
reverently grateful for whatever joy may fall to our lot; three words,
in fact, express it all--trust in God.”
“Can you live out your life like that, Elaine?” Arley demanded almost
sharply, while she turned to look into those sweetly serious eyes
behind her.
“I do not know what is before me, dear,” was the low, grave reply; “but
I mean to try to live out my life like that. At all events, I know
there is no real happiness in this world without faith in God.”
Arley sighed.
“I do not know much about it, I fear, and I have always felt that there
was something in your life which I do not possess, for you are so
happy, so lovable. But I will try to remember what you have said--how I
wish you could be with me always,” Arley said, wistfully. “Elaine,” she
added, “I believe the hardest part of to-day will be the parting from
you--perhaps that is why I am so depressed. I wonder why it is that I
love you so?”
“Because of my love for you, no doubt, for love is begotten of love,
you know,” and Lady Elaine bent down and touched her lips to the
fragrant hair that she was plaiting.
“When I return from my tour will you come and stay with me until Wil
returns to claim you?” Arley asked.
“Yes, dear; I shall be very glad to come. It will help to pass the
time away until he gets back, and then, I suppose, you will come to
Hazelmere again to perform these bridal duties for me. There,” as she
put the last pin into the heavy braids of nut-brown hair, “this is
done, and I do not believe a French hair-dresser could have done any
better; now let me help you on with your dress. How perfectly lovely it
is!”
She lifted an exquisite robe of silk and lace from the bed as she
spoke, and regarded it admiringly.
“As Annie says,” she replied, “your taste is simply perfect, and you
will make a most charming bride.”
Arley shivered as she slipped the dress over her head, and began to
help her fasten it.
“Are you cold?” Lady Elaine asked, observing it.
“No. I know the dress is lovely, but I do not like it. I believe I
shall never put it on again, and I would not wear it to-day if I had
anything else that would do,” Arley said, almost passionately.
“Why? What a strange freak!” the young countess said while she regarded
the clouded face of the young bride-elect with a wistful glance.
Arley did not offer to explain it, but there was a reason for this
sudden dislike of her wedding dress.
It had arrived from Worth’s only a day or two previous, and she had
thought it the prettiest thing that she had ever seen, and when Philip
came in the evening she had coaxed him into her boudoir to look at it.
It hung upon a form to keep it from being crushed, the lovely trail of
rich lace and gleaming silk floating out behind in the most graceful
folds. The corsage was cut low, and from this there extended a covering
for the neck made of a network of seed pearls, a fringe of the same
finishing it where it joined the body, and also the small, short
sleeves.
“Do you care much for such pretty things?” she had asked him, with a
shy, yet happy glance, as she remembered when she was to wear it: “It
is all my own idea,” she added. “I planned and ordered it myself.”
He stood looking at it a moment, not a ray of pleasure lighting up his
handsome face.
“It must have cost a great deal of money,” was all he said, then he had
turned abruptly away from it, as if the sight annoyed him.
Arley’s face flushed a vivid, angry scarlet.
“Yes,” she answered, proudly lifting her pretty head, “one’s wedding
dress is expected to cost a great deal of money.”
But it had been spoiled for her from that moment, and that was why she
had shivered when she had put it on.
Her lover had thought more of the cost than of the beauty of the robe
in which she was to wed him; all the thought of pleasing him, all the
pleasure of happy fancies which she had woven in with it, for his sake
alone, went for nothing with him. But she told no one of it; she kept
it a secret in her own heart, and it had rankled there like a poisoned
arrow.
She was as lovely as a dream, however, when she went down to meet him,
and she saw his eyes brighten with a pride which half made up for the
pain she had suffered over his former indifference.
She would not have a single orange blossom in her wreath.
“Let the poor things have a rest,” she had said, when discussing the
subject. “There will be one bride who will not load the air with their
perfume.”
And so she had chosen instead a beautiful garland of pure white heath
with which to fasten her veil and delicate vines depending from it
trailed down the whole length of her lovely dress.
She wore no ornaments, save the network of pearls over her neck, and
the fringe which finished it, and fell also over the tops of the long
gloves, which came up on her arms to meet the tiny sleeves of her dress.
Save the delicate flush on her cheeks and her scarlet lips, with her
dark brows and hair she was as “pure and chaste as snow” from the crown
of her head to the sole of her white-slippered feet.
“I am very proud of my love to-day,” Philip said, as he met her at the
foot of the stairs and led her out to the coach which was to convey her
to the church.
Lady Elaine, who had followed her, heard the whispered words, and
prayed most fervently that he might always love and be “very proud” of
her.
Arley’s heart bounded and thrilled over the fond sentence, little
dreaming how soon, alas! it was to be pierced with a cruel wound, the
scar of which would never disappear.
Arriving at the church, they were rejoined by Philip and Wil, also
Annie Vane and her husband, and the _cortege_ swept up the aisle to the
altar, where a few brief moments were all that was necessary for the
words to be spoken which bound Arley Wentworth to Philip Paxton for
life.
The wedding breakfast was much like other breakfasts on similar
occasions; the congratulations, good wishes and toasts were numerous
and hearty; the bridal presents were properly inspected and admired,
and finally the fair bride stole away to prepare for her journey.
She was nearly ready to return to her guests when there came a tap upon
her door and a servant entered, bearing a note upon a silver tray.
“What is this?” Arley asked, as she took it up and began to unfold it.
“A young person, madam, called a few moments ago and asked for you,”
the servant replied. “I told her that you could not be disturbed
to-day, but she insisted that she must see you, and finally asked me if
I would bring you this note.”
Arley now gave her attention to the note and read these few words, very
hastily written:
Will you please grant me just a few moments, as I have something of
the greatest importance to tell you before you go away? I would not
have troubled you only that it is exceedingly important.
There was no name signed to this strange request, which was written in
a delicate, ladylike hand.
“How singular!” murmured Arley, while a nervous tremor ran over her
like a hot flame.
“Where is the lady?” she asked, feeling instinctively that it was a
lady who had written the note.
“In the crimson ante-room, and, there is a gentleman with her,
miss--madam.”
Arley smiled at the girl’s correction in addressing her; then she said:
“You may ask her to come up here. I think I can spare her ten minutes
as well as not,” she added to herself, “and I am really quite curious
to know what her important communication is.”
The servant withdrew, and Arley stood looking out of the window, softly
humming a little air to herself and tapping out the time to it with her
pretty boot while she waited for her visitor.
Never, as long as she lived, did she forget those few moments while she
tarried for the stranger.
Her attitude, the room, with all its rich appointments, the graceful
sweep of the curtains near which she was standing, the foggy street
without, the leaden sky above, were all indelibly stamped upon her mind.
She remembered, too, how happy she was--for her depression had all
vanished as if by magic--with what joy she looked forward to her
journey with her husband--her husband! How the words thrilled her as
she said them over to herself, with not a thought of the misery that
was rushing to overtake her like a swift destroyer.
Then the door opened, and she turned to see a fair, young girl of about
her own age enter the room and come forward to meet her.
She was slight and graceful in form; she had a fair complexion, with
great, dark-blue eyes, sunny-brown hair that waved prettily about her
forehead, a delicate, clear-cut face, and small, beautifully-shaped
hands and feet.
How quickly and keenly Arley noted and took in all these details of her
person!
How rapidly her eyes ran over every article of her dress,
marking everything, from the tasteful, becoming hat to the tiny,
perfectly-fitting boot, and yet there was nothing about the engaging
stranger to betray that she had come on an errand that was to dash the
cup of happiness from her lips, and rob her of everything that she
prized most in life.