When two people are of the same mind that certain subjects are painful,
they are not apt to recall them to each other’s memory.
Leon Lyndon, as he chose to call himself, left New York within the
week with his strangely recovered daughter, and in new pursuits and
pleasures both sought oblivion of the painful past.
Lyndon had become rich while at the gold fields, and he spared no
expense on Jessie.
Finding that in her restless mood she enjoyed travel more than anything
else, they spent six months wandering over their native land, enjoying
its beauties and grandeur, unsurpassed by any other country in the
world.
Then they crossed the ocean and resumed their migratory habits.
Another six months were spent in this way, then a weariness fell on
both and they longed for rest.
The father decided to settle in Germany for a year and cultivate his
daughter’s mind.
He had already discovered to his delight that she had inherited his
great talent for music, together with a voice of rare power and melody.
Securing the best teachers that money could procure, they spent
eighteen quiet months in the polishing of Jessie’s mind, and father and
daughter became passionately attached to each other, finding in this
warm affection some balm for past sorrow.
Meanwhile, Lyndon had kept from his daughter one fact that she would
doubtless have found very interesting--the story of the accident that
had prevented the marriage of Frank Laurier at the appointed time.
He had read in the next day’s papers the story of the interrupted
marriage--the bride’s long wait at the church, the mysterious failure
of the bridegroom to arrive, the bride’s mortification and her return
home--then the solution of the mystery in the accident that had
befallen Laurier, nearly costing him his life, as it was stated that he
was lingering between life and death with concussion of the brain.
Leon Lyndon immediately comprehended that he had been the cause of the
trouble by running into Laurier with his wheel, and though it had been
unavoidable, he felt a keen remorse and regret for his part in the
tragedy, although he owed the victim no sympathy, seeing what grief he
had brought upon his daughter.
These facts Lyndon thought it prudent to conceal from Jessie, supposing
that the marriage would take place anyhow, as soon as the condition of
the bridegroom improved, so the name was tacitly dropped between them,
and after they left New York remained unspoken, if unforgotten.
Meanwhile, matters were quite different in New York from what either he
or Jessie could have supposed.
Laurier, after his accident, had remained for several days in a serious
condition, recovering consciousness so slightly as not to be able
to recognize the friends who were permitted to visit him. Having no
relatives in the city, his dearest friend, Ernest Noel, was often by
his bedside, and it was quite a week before the latter dared answer the
half-dazed questions put to him by the sick man.
Then full consciousness dawned, and all the cruel truth came upon him.
The funeral, the accident, the interrupted wedding, all dawned on his
mind, and a hollow groan burst from him as he turned his eyes on Noel.
“Cora----”
Noel read the pained questioning in the one word. The stricken
bridegroom was thinking of Cora and the cruel ordeal she had been
called on to bear, the interrupted wedding, the gossip, the nine days’
wonder.
“She is well,” Noel said encouragingly.
“Tell me all about that day,” Laurier pleaded faintly, and his friend
obeyed with some evasions.
Not for worlds would he have betrayed the whispers he had heard of the
proud bride’s fury at her lover on that cruel wedding day when she had
turned away from the altar, a bride without a bridegroom, a stricken
creature who in her wrath hated the whole world, and felt revengeful
enough to have plunged a knife into the heart of the man who had
disappointed her and made her the sensation of an hour.
He glossed that fact over very lightly by saying:
“Miss Ellyson was naturally cruelly wounded, believing herself a jilted
bride.”
“My proud, beautiful Cora, it was indeed a most cruel ordeal, and
I would have died to spare her such pain. Are you quite sure she
understands everything now, Noel?”
“Yes; I went and told her myself how everything fell out, and it was
fully explained in the newspapers of the next day--so every one knows
now that it was an untoward accident that prevented the wedding, and
that it will take place as soon as you are recovered.”
“And Cora exonerates me from blame?”
“Ye-es,” hesitatingly.
“You are keeping back something, Noel? Speak out.”
“Well, then, she was rather vexed over your attending Miss Dalrymple’s
funeral. You see, Laurier, it was that which really caused our deuced
hurry, that upset everything.”
“I never intended Cora should know I went to that funeral.”
“You may be sure I did not tell her, for I thought strange of your
doing it myself, but some dunce saw you there, blurted it out to Van
Dorn, and he told Miss Ellyson. See?”
“Oh, yes,” and for a few moments Laurier remained silent, his thoughts
divided between the dead girl and the living one--the one he had
wounded unto death, the one who was to be his bride.
He gave a long, long sigh to Jessie’s memory, then a chivalrous thought
to Cora.
“Poor girl, how cruelly she must have suffered in the terrible suspense
of that hour. I must make it up to her, Noel, as soon as I can. Perhaps
it would please her to be married now before I get well.”
“Now? Here?”--in surprise.
“Yes; why not? Loving each other so well, what does the time and place
matter if it is a true union of hearts? It would stop silly gossip
over the interrupted wedding, and such a proof of my tenderness would
perhaps condone my offense in showing respect to Mrs. Dalrymple by
attending her daughter’s obsequies.”
There was a slight touch of bitterness in the last words that Noel did
not understand, and he said, in his brusque way:
“Not many girls would care to be married by a sick bed and sacrifice
all the fol-lalas of a brilliant wedding.”
“But Cora would because she loves me very fondly. Will you go and see
her for me, Noel, and ask her if she would be willing to marry me
to-morrow, so that we can start on our wedding tour as soon as I am
well enough?”
Noel went, and the patient, tired by his long talk, dozed again, and
filled up the interval of time this way till his friend’s return.
He wakened at last with a start at a light touch on his arm.
“Ah, Noel, is that you? Where have you been so long? Ah, I remember
now! You saw Cora? She will grant my wish?”
“You are mistaken, old boy. She--refuses!”