THE BREAKING OF THE SPELL.
Recalled to herself by the shutting of the street door, Muriel started
from her trance, and flew upstairs into her chamber. Falling on her knees
by her bedside, she covered her eyes with her hands, and buried her face
in the coverlet, floods of dazzling light pouring upon her brain.
“I see it all!” she cried, springing to her feet, and throwing up
her hands, her face radiant, and a smile breaking upon it like March
splendors from the wild clouds; “I see it all now! Wentworth and she are
lovers. Oh, let me not die with joy!”
Her luminous face upturned, her arms upthrown, she flew across the room,
stopped suddenly, and covering her eyes with her hands, stood still,
light, perfume, and victory rushing upon her soul and mantling through
her veins.
“Yes, I see it all!” she cried, flinging her hands from her eyes, and
clasping them before her, “they love—they love. It is a lover’s quarrel.
To vex Wentworth, she paid court to Harrington. It was on Richard’s
account that she was jealous of me. And that is why Richard was so
devoted to me—yes, to vex her. And I who patronized him, that she and
Harrington might be together—ah, that made Harrington think I loved
Richard. I see it—I see it! That is what he meant when he asked me to
tell him who my fairy prince was! Oh, noble heart, you hid your pain—you
sacrificed your love—you tried to be happy in the happiness you dreamed
for me! And I, who made you suffer—I, who could be so misled, as to
think, even for an instant, that you loved another—Oh, blind, blind!”
Her eyes swam, and her beautiful head drooping like a flower, she stood
motionless, her fallen hands clasped before her, thinking, thinking,
thinking of it all. Swiftly, as in the fairy tale at the touch of the
prince’s wand the tangled floss unravelled, and all the colors lay
assorted, so in her musing the whole tangle of misapprehension and
illusion unwound and fell into orderly and candid form.
“Ah, Richard, you scamp!” she gaily soliloquized, half to herself and
half aloud, “you shall make amends for this! But you, too, must have
suffered. Now what could have made them quarrel? Let’s consider. What
have I ever seen Richard do to Emily? Nothing but look cold, and glum,
and piqued. All that was clearly in response to her manner. Then that
ugly speech he made—but that was the finale. Stand aside, Richard, my
friend. Now, Emily. What have I seen Emily do to Richard? Let me see.
Why nothing either for a commencement of the trouble. My observations
began in the middle of it all. Stay—there was that little affair of
the violets for a sample. But that was in the middle, too. And that
was due to our sweet friend Fernando. Oho!” she cried, opening her
eyes with a comical air, “I have an idea! Wait, wait, now, my little
idea, till I put a pin in you! Let’s see. With one subtle speech, one
artful tone, one delicate lift of those expressive eyebrows, one curious
non-significant, all-significant, anything-significant look, this clever
Witherlee contrives to put it into my simple Emily’s head to slight and
wound her lover. That was a delicious proceeding, and I saw it in all
its indescribable beauty. That was a sample of Fernando’s method. That
was one of his fine touches. Still that is but one. But suppose he has
been playing this sort of game with Emily from the first? So gently,
so delicately, so skillfully poisoning her mind against Wentworth. Her
intimate friend—so close with her, so confidential—ah, ha! my daughter
of Eve, has the serpent been at your ear, too! Oh, my poor Eveling, has
he been putting you up to this mischief? Good! I’ll engage that we shall
find Witherlee at the bottom of the whole imbroglio when all is known.”
And Muriel, ineffably delighted at her own sagacity, her nimble mind
having glanced from point to point to this conclusion, threw back her
charming head, and gave way to a rivulet of low, delicious laughter.
“Shame on me to laugh about it,” she resumed, looking very grave. “It has
cost too much suffering to laugh about. And yet,” she ran on, rippling
again into golden laughter, “I can’t help it. I’m so happy! And it
is such a pleasure to have found the track of the fox that stole the
grapes! Well, Fernando! you’re a nice young man! And oh, Cupid, Cupid,
you weren’t painted with the bandaged eyes for nothing, you rogue! But,
bless me, here am I chattering to myself, and Emily to be covered, dinner
nearly ready, and I not dressed.”
She broke off to hasten to a bureau, from a lower drawer of which she
took a grey silk coverlet to lay over Emily, and went swiftly from the
room.
Emily was sleeping deeply, with a faint color in her pallid and lovely
face. Bending over her, Muriel covered her with the quilt, and kissing
her forehead softly as a spirit, darkened the room, and left her. Then
going down to her mother, and warning her not to disturb the sleeper, she
hurried up to her chamber, and finished dressing herself just as Bridget,
a comely little Irish girl who waited at table when they dined alone,
came up to summon her to dinner.
Charmingly attired in a robe of black silk, with an open corsage of snowy
lace, and looking more radiantly fair than ever, Muriel came down to
dinner, and during the meal entertained her mother with a circumstantial
account of her noon adventure. The story, of course, made a sensation, as
the popular phrase goes; but as far as Muriel was concerned, Mrs. Eastman
listened without shuddering or chiding. She had such perfect confidence
in her daughter’s ability to take care of herself, and such a conviction
that everything she did befitted her—for, like Shakspeare’s Cleopatra,
Muriel shed the artistic grace of her nature on all her actions, and
compelled them to become her ornaments—that she heard the part she
had played in the wild scene not only without discomposure, but with
considerable pride and admiration, thinking at the same time how proud
Mr. Eastman would have been of the way his child had borne herself. As he
would, for his wishes for Muriel were well expressed in the noble lines
of Ben Jonson, of which he was very fond:
“I meant the day-star should not brighter ride,
Nor shed like influence from his lucent seat:
I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet,
Free from that solemn vice of greatness, pride!
I meant each softest virtue there should meet,
Fit in that softer bosom to abide:
Only a learned and a manly soul
I purposed her, that should with even powers
The rock, the spindle, and the shears control
Of Destiny; and spin her own free hours.”
A piquant incident occurred while they yet lingered at dessert. The
chief result, perhaps, of Muriel’s narration, was to lend an added
blazon, in Mrs. Eastman’s mind, to the character of Harrington; and,
by the way, she still firmly believed—his declaration to the contrary
notwithstanding—that her daughter loved him.
“I often think,” she observed, during the conversation, “how superior
John is to all other men I know. The other day I met him in the street,
and my first impression was of his superiority in contrast to those
around him.”
“Yes, that strikes one certainly,” returned Muriel, with a nonchalant air.
“Ah, there is none like him, none!” said Mrs. Eastman. “I wish I had the
rewarding of him.”
Muriel laughed.
“Virtue is its own reward you know, mamma,” she said, playfully. “But
what other reward would you give him?”
“You!” quickly said Mrs. Eastman, smiling and coloring.
Muriel looked at her with a twinkling mouth and a demure face.
“You do not mean to say, mamma,” she replied, “that you would choose
Harrington from the crowd of my adorers for my husband.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Eastman, with some warmth, “if I had the choosing,
Harrington should be your husband to-morrow.”
Muriel now looked at her with an indescribable air of bewitching gaiety.
“To-morrow, mamma? So soon?” she said, jestingly.
Mrs. Eastman looked confused, like one who has been betrayed into saying
a foolish thing, and blushing deeply, began to laugh.
“Well,” she replied, with an air of raillery, “the day after to-morrow.”
“The day after to-morrow,” repeated Muriel, her countenance beaming with
gracious fun. “Well, my dear mamma, I will reflect upon it, and if I
decide to oblige you by marrying Harrington the day after to-morrow, I
will let you know.”
Mrs. Eastman laughed at this pleasantry, and thinking Muriel was evading
the subject, said no more, but rose from the dinner-table with her.
Their relation as mother and daughter also involved, as is not always
the case, the relation of courteous friendship, and this was the nearest
approach Mrs. Eastman had ever made to penetrate within the veil of any
reservation of Muriel’s.
Immediately after dinner, Muriel wrote a note to Wentworth, bidding him
come to the house instantly. This she dispatched by Patrick, bidding
him find the young artist, if possible, and give it into his own hand;
and Patrick, who would have gone through fire and flood for his young
mistress, promised to find Wentworth if he was to be found, and started
off on his errand.
It was about four o’clock when Wentworth arrived. He was shown up into
the studio, where Muriel was waiting for him. Pale and wan, and grave
even to coldness, he was the handsome and gallant Wentworth still; a man
to be loved at first sight by women and by men, even now, when a storm
had blown upon his May.
He bowed coldly and constrainedly to Muriel as he entered, though he was
struck by her exceeding beauty as she glided forward with her natural
affable smile and curtsey to greet him. But Wentworth was sick of all
the world at that moment, and affecting not to see Muriel’s outstretched
hand, he looked aside and reached her a chair.
“What is it you wished to see me for, Muriel?” he said, half coldly, half
carelessly, drawing up another chair for himself.
“Richard?” Her voice carried a soft rebuke, though it was gentle and low.
“Not glad to see me, your friend, your sister, Richard.”
He kept his gaze fixed upon the floor, but his lip quivered, and the
faded colors of the carpet suddenly swam. The next instant he felt her
arms around him, and blind with tears, he let his forehead sink upon her
shoulder.
“Forgive me, Muriel,” he faltered, in a moment, lifting his face to hers,
and wanly smiling through his tears. “Indeed I love you, but my heart is
half broken, and I am weary of the world.”
“Ah, Richard,” she said, with tender gaiety, “there is a fairy prince
here who mends broken hearts, and makes the world-weary glad again.”
Her arms fell from him, and as they fell, he caught her hand and pressed
it to his lips.
“Your magic is strong, dear fairy prince,” he said, with sad playfulness,
“but there are spells no magic can unbind. Come—let us speak of other
things.”
“Good!” said Muriel, sinking into the chair, while Wentworth also seated
himself—“and since we must speak of other things, let us speak of
Witherlee.”
Wentworth reddened instantly.
“And he _is_ a thing!” was his scornful answer. “I abhor him.”
“Abhor the good Fernando!” she exclaimed, with a jesting face. “Why
Richard, I am astonished at you! Abhor so talented a young gentleman!”
“Talented!” scoffed Wentworth. “What has he a talent for?”
“A talent for poisoning, dear skeptic,” she replied, lightly. “A splendid
talent for poisoning. No poisoner of the Middle Ages was ever more
skillful.”
Wentworth looked confused.
“Poisoning? What do you mean?” he murmured.
“Only those old poisoners wrought on life,” she pursued, “while he, you
know, works on character, minds, hearts. They could add a deadly perfume
to a harmless rose. He, now, can do the same with an innocent bunch of
violets.”
Wentworth looked at her silently, with a strange feeling rising within
him.
“Confess, Richard,” she went on, “that you scented something deadly to
your love after he had dropped a word over those violets!”
“I understand you,” he replied, slowly, “he said something which
prevented Emily from giving me the violets.”
“And that wounded you sorely,” she remarked.
“I confess it did,” he answered. “It was a very trifling thing, to be
sure, but at that time it meant a great deal, and to be frank with you,
Muriel, I was hurt. No matter,” he added, “there were other things for
which he was not responsible, which hurt me far more. I cannot now be
hurt again.”
“But consider,” said Muriel, quietly. “If that morning Emily had given
you the flowers, the gift would have gone far to reconcile you to her.
Would it not?”
“It would,” cried Wentworth, vehemently. “One little act of kindness from
her to me at that time, would have made me forget all her former slights,
and try to win her to me again. But, Muriel, why dwell on this? It was
her intention to trifle with me from the first. Come, I must not talk of
her. Let it all go. It amounts to nothing.”
“It amounts to just this,” she replied, coolly. “That Mr. Witherlee was
interested in your affairs to the extent of making fresh dissension
between you and Emily, and that he widened a breach already made. Now
do you imagine his interest extended no further than that moment? But,
Richard, tell me frankly, how did your difference with Emily arise!”
“Muriel,” he replied solemnly, “as Heaven is my witness, I do not know.
I never did anything to cause it. I left her here one afternoon, and I
was happy, for though I thought she loved me before, I was never sure
of it till then, when we met in the first embrace, the first kiss, and
the last, she ever gave me. Witherlee appeared at the parlor door, and
retreated again for a minute or so. Then you came into the parlor from
the conservatory, and he entered at the same moment. You will recollect
that afternoon—you brought in a bunch of flowers, and as he came in
you held out the bouquet to him, which he took from your hand. Do you
remember?”
Muriel nodded.
“Well,” continued Wentworth, “I felt a little abashed at Witherlee’s
entrance, for I thought he had seen us, and in fact, it was so awkward
for me, that I took my leave in a few minutes.”
“And that evening—I remember it well”—interrupted Muriel, “he and Emily
talked together in a corner the whole time, while mother and I were busy
with a roomful of guests.”
“Did they!” said Wentworth, coldly, seeing nothing in the circumstance
worthy of notice. “Well, Muriel,” he continued, after a moment’s
consideration, “I called the next morning to see Emily, happy as I could
be, and full of love for her, and she met me with such chilling hauteur
that I was frozen. It was like an ice-bath. I felt piqued and hurt, and
though I thought it only a passing freak, I could not help being cool
to her. Indeed, her manner prevented anything but coolness. I thought,
however, it would pass over. But the next day it was the same, and the
next and the next. I am proud, Muriel, and I was innocent of any fault.
Could I do less, and keep my self-respect, than remain cool to a lady who
was treating me so? Meanwhile, I saw her attentions to Harrington, and
I made up my mind that she had trifled with me for her amusement. So it
went on, till last night when she heaped contumely on me, and I repaid
her with the speech you heard. There. I did not mean to speak of this,
but you have led me on. Now I am quits with her.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Wentworth resumed:
“In all this, Muriel, I did, as far as she was concerned, only one wrong
thing. When I saw her wooing Harrington, to show her that I could bear
her injury, and to spoil her triumph, I was very attentive to you. I
knew you would not mistake my assiduities for love, and I knew it would
pique her. I ask your pardon. It was wrong. I did another and a greater
wrong to Harrington, and I have sought him in vain to-day, to beg his
forgiveness. I thought he loved Emily, and I was meanly envious and
jealous of him—I was cold and reserved to him—I treated him with hauteur,
which I saw he could not understand, and”—
“How did Harrington act to you when you treated him with hauteur?”
interrupted Muriel, quickly.
“Like the man he is!” replied Wentworth, with impetuous fervor. “Like
the nature too noble for this world! Great, grand heart, he shamed me
even in my very treason to him with his unaltered kindness. He came
to me frankly, unrepelled by my attitude to him, he came with a look,
a word, a generous hand, and he conquered me. My envy and my jealousy
arose again, and were wasted on him. I could not alienate him from me.
He overlooked—he forgave all. Let me only see him again, let me ask his
compassion and his pardon, and then let me go away, and hide my shame in
Italy, for I am not worthy to live on the same soil with him—I am not
worthy to be his friend.”
Two bright tears flowed calmly down the face of Muriel, and her smile was
sweet and proud for her lover.
“Ah, Richard,” she said, gently, “had you treated Emily’s hauteur as
Harrington treated yours, you, too, might have conquered her. It was not
true love to answer her slights with coldness and silence.”
“Perhaps, so, Muriel,” he answered with averted eyes, feeling her rebuke.
“Perhaps I might. But no. It was not her nature. She meant to play upon
me. No matter. Let it pass. And as for Witherlee, I hate him. Chiefly
because I believe his insidious words set me against Harrington.”
“Ah,” said Muriel, coolly, almost carelessly, “he set you against
Harrington, did he?”
“He did,” replied Wentworth.
“And yet you loved Harrington,” she continued, “you loved him truly. But
Witherlee could set you against him.”
“He could,” faltered Wentworth. “I own it to my shame, but he could.”
“And now, Richard,” she said, gravely, “answer me this. Would Emily be
more to blame for having been set against you by Witherlee, than you were
to blame for having been set against Harrington by him?”
Wentworth looked at her, and colored.
“No,” he faltered. “I could not blame her if her feeling against me arose
from anything said by Witherlee. But what right have I to suppose that he
has said anything against me?”
“Richard Wentworth,” she cried, starting from her chair, and her face
lit, and her voice rang clear and free, “never dare to condemn Emily till
you know that this is not so. Never condemn any person on any evidence
till you have given that person a hearing. Here is a man who goes about,
dropping the hint, the innuendo, the shrug, the hum, the ha, the meaning
look, for aught I know the downright wicked lie, all the poisons used by
calumny, and while you know him to be on terms of intimacy with Emily,
you venture to suppose that he is guiltless of having poisoned her mind
against you. Permit me to say that you venture to suppose too much. I
would not condemn even him unheard, but what we know, though it is not
enough for proof, is quite enough to create a presumption. You have found
him fomenting strife between you and Harrington; you know him to have
widened the breach between you and Emily. These things show him no friend
of yours. And between the evening of your happy parting with Emily and
the morning of coldness and alienation, he spent several hours conversing
with her. Ominous link, Richard! Find out what it means. Do not assume
that she meant to trifle with you. I know better. I know Emily Ames
better than you do, and I know that a woman more honorable and loyal in
her love never breathed. Go, Richard Wentworth! imitate the magnanimity
of Harrington and never let me have it to say that the manliness of your
friend was more than that you showed to the woman that you love!”
Wentworth rose from his chair, his color flashing and failing, an awful
sense of the justice of Muriel’s speech mingling with an awful suspicion
of Witherlee, and his love for Emily rushing like a torrent on his heart.
“Muriel,” he faltered, “you are right. I have been rash. What shall I do?
Oh, if after all I have wronged Emily—if she loves me”—
“Richard,” said Muriel, solemnly, “I know she loves you. I have been
blind till to-day, but now I see. No sleep came to your poor Emily’s
eyes last night, and all day she has been in agony. A little while ago,
Harrington was here, and he has soothed her to rest. She lies now asleep
in the library. Come with me, and I will leave you to sit by her. Her
wakening eyes must rest first on you, and you must make your peace with
her. But you must not awaken her. Promise me you will sit patiently by
her till she wakes—promise!”
Wentworth pressed Muriel’s hand to his lips, and lifting his blanched
face, streaming with tears, to hers, faltered—
“I promise.”
“Oh, my brother,” she fondly said, affectionately encircling his shoulder
with her arm, “all will be well with you now. Said I not that the fairy
prince dwelt here? Behold, he gives you back to life and love! Come.”
Smiling with her happy and noble smile into his face, she led him forth
with her arm in his and downstairs to the library door.
“Remember your promise,” she whispered. “Now go in.”
He entered softly, softly closed the door behind him, and stood in the
dim room with a beating heart. For a moment, he only saw the books in
their cases, the sumptuous furniture, the glimmer of the frames upon
the walls, the rich, dark color of the room. Stealing to the window, he
parted the curtains to let in a little light, and turning, in the faint
ray he saw on the low couch, the pale face of his beloved, with the long
dark eyelash sleeping on her cheek, and her black hair fallen in a thick,
soft tress along the exquisite and melancholy beauty of her countenance.
Still, peaceful, void of scorn or pride, lovely and mournful in her
marble repose! The tears streamed from his eyes, and gliding near her he
knelt by her side, forgetting, forgiving all, and resolved, though she
woke upon him in anger, with hate, with contempt, to answer her only with
blessings, and love her till his pulses were still forever.
The hours passed by. The room grew dark, and going to the window, he put
aside the curtains, and let in the twilight. That twilight was yet early,
for the sun had but just set, and the grey light again lit the sleeping
face of Emily. As he watched it, he saw the color rise to it—the sunny
gold and rose, the bright carnation of the curved lips, behind which
glimmered the dim pearls. With his heart wildly throbbing, he kept his
eyes fixed upon her countenance. Presently, a faint smile stole upon it,
and she murmured softly—“he gave me that rose.” A thrill surged through
him. He remembered the rose he had given her in the sunrise of their
love, and knew that she was dreaming of it and of him. Gazing upon her
face, he heard her faint regular breathing pause in a long respiration
like a sigh, her form moved slightly under the silken coverlet, and
tossing out her beautiful bare arms, they fell along her form, and she
lay still. The next moment, her large and lustrous eyes unclosed slowly,
and met his. She did not start, but the eyes gradually brightened, and
the color rose upon her face and lips in rich suffusion. He did not
move—he did not speak—he knelt beside her, gazing into her face, with his
heart throbbing, and a still flush in his brain.
“It is a dream,” she murmured. “A dream of my love.”
He did not speak, but his arms softly stole around her, and hers enfolded
him at first so lightly that he scarcely felt them. Lightly and softly at
first, till suddenly with a double cry they were clasped together, and
the disenchanted Fairyland of love burst and streamed in music and light
and odor around them.
“Richard! Is it you?”
Holding him from her, with all her strength, her face impassioned, her
eyes like stars, she gazed upon him, with her fervent cry still ringing
in the twilight air.
“It is I. Forgive me, Emily. I love you.”
She impetuously drew him to her, and locked in each other’s arms, they
were still.
The fairy prince had triumphed, and Witherlee’s work was quite undone!