THE MASKED BRIDAL.
"Oh, Mrs. Weld!" Mrs. Goddard exclaimed, in tones of well-assumed
eagerness. "I am so glad you are here! I fear I have taken cold and am
going to have a chill; will you be so good as to go down and mix me a
hot lemonade and send it out behind the stage to me? for I must go
back directly, and I will drink it there."
The housekeeper arose at once and went out into the hall, where she
saw that madam appeared excited and trembling, while her face was very
pale, although her eyes were unusually bright.
Somehow, she did not believe her to be ill; but she cheerfully acceded
to her request, and went directly below to attend to her commission.
As she passed down the back stairs, Edith came hurrying up the front
way.
"What has happened?" she inquired, as she observed madam's unusual
excitement.
"The most unfortunate thing that could occur," she nervously replied.
"Miss Kerby and her brother, who had the leading parts in the play,
have just been summoned home, by telegraph, on account of sickness in
the family, and that leaves us without our hero and heroine."
"That is unfortunate, surely; the play will have to be given up, I
suppose?" Edith remarked.
"No, indeed! I should die of mortification!" cried madam, with
well-assumed consternation.
"But what can you do?" innocently inquired the young girl.
"The only thing to be done is to supply their places with others," was
the ready answer. "I have a gentleman friend who will take Mr. Kerby's
place, and I want you, Edith, to assume the part of the bride; you are
just about the size of Alice Kerby, and the costume will fit you to
perfection."
"But I am afraid I cannot--I never took part in a play in my life,"
objected Edith, who instinctively shrank from becoming so conspicuous
before such a multitude of people.
"Nonsense! there is but very little for you to do," said madam, "you
have simply to walk into the church, upon the arm of the supposed
bride's father. You will be masked, and no one will see your face
until after all is over, and you have not a word to say, except to
repeat the marriage service after the clergyman."
Edith shivered, and her face had grown very pale. She did not like the
idea at all; it was exceedingly repugnant to her.
"I wish you could find some one else," she said, appealingly.
"There is no time," said madam.
"Oh! but it seems almost like sacrilege to me, to stand before such an
audience and repeat words so solemn and significant, when they will
mean nothing, when the whole thing will be but a farce," Edith
tremulously remarked.
A strange expression swept over madam's face at this objection.
"You are absurdly conscientious, Edith," she coldly observed. "There
is not another girl in the house upon whom I can call--they are all
too large or too small, and the bridal costume would not fit one of
them. Pray, pray, Miss Allen, pocket your scruples, for once, and help
me out of this terrible predicament--the whole affair will be ruined
by this awkward _contretemps_ if you do not, and I, who have promised
so much to my friends, shall become the laughing-stock of every one
present."
Still the fair girl hesitated.
Some unaccountable influence seemed to be holding her back, and yet
she felt that it would be very ungenerous, very disobliging of her, to
allow Mrs. Goddard to be so humiliated before her hundreds of guests,
when this apparently slight concession upon her part would smooth
everything over so nicely.
"Oh, Edith! say you will!" cried the woman, appealingly. "You must!"
she added, imperatively. "Come to my room--the costume is there all
ready, and we will soon have you dressed."
She threw her arm around the girl's slender waist and almost compelled
her to accompany her.
The moment they were within Mrs. Goddard's chamber, the woman
nervously began to unfasten the young girl's dress, but her fingers
trembled so with excitement, showing how wrought up she was, that
Edith yielded without further demur, and assisted in removing her
clothing.
"That is good of you, dear," said madam, smiling upon her, "for we
must work very rapidly while the scenery is being changed--we have
just fifteen minutes"--glancing at the clock. "How fortunate it is
that I asked you to wear white this evening!" the crafty woman
remarked, as Edith's dress was removed, thus revealing her dainty
underwear, "for you are all ready for the wedding costume without any
other change. Here, dear, just help me, please, with this skirt, for
the train is so long it needs to be handled with care."
She lifted the beautiful satin skirt from the bed as she spoke, and
together they carefully slipped it over the young girl's head.
The next moment it was fastened about her waist, and the lustrous
material fell around her slender form in graceful and artistic folds.
The corsage was then put on and--wonderful to relate--it fitted her to
perfection.
"How strange! one would almost think it was made for me!" she
remarked, all unsuspicious that her measure had been accurately taken
from a dress that had been left in the city.
"Ha! ha!" laughed madam, in musical exultation, "I should say that it
was a very fortunate coincidence, and it shows that I made a wise
choice when I selected you to take Miss Kerby's place. I did not know
who else to call upon--of course I could not go out into the audience
to find some one, and thus betray my predicament to everybody; neither
could I take one of the housemaids, because she would have been sure
to blunder and be so awkward. Oh! isn't this dress just lovely?"
Thus madam chattered, while she worked, wholly unlike herself,
nervous, anxious, and covertly watching every expression of Edith's
sensitive face.
But the girl did not have the slightest suspicion that she was being
tricked.
The emergency of the moment appeared sufficient to tax the nerves of
any one to the utmost, and she attributed everything to that.
"It certainly is a very rich and elegant costume," Edith gravely
responded to the woman's query. "It seems to me to be far too nice and
elaborate for the occasion."
Mrs. Goddard reddened slightly, and shot a quick, searching look at
the girl's face.
"Well, of course it had to be nice to correspond with everything
else," she explained, "for all the other young ladies are to wear
their ball costumes, which are very elegant, and since the bride is to
be the most conspicuous of all, it would not do to have her less
richly attired. There!"--as she fastened a beautiful cluster of
orange-blossoms to the corsage and stepped back to study the
effect--"aren't you just lovely in it?"
"Now the veil," she continued, catching it up from the bed.
"Oh!"--with an expression of dismay--"we have forgotten the boots, and
you must not sit down to crush the dress. Here, support yourself upon
this chair, hold out your foot, and I will put them on for you."
And the haughty woman went down upon her knees and performed the
menial service, regardless, in her excitement, of her own elegant
costume, which was being crushed in the act.
Then the veil was adjusted, madam chatting all the while to keep the
girl's attention, and Edith, catching a glimpse of her reflection in
the glass and under the influence of her companion's magnetism and
enthusiasm, began to be imbued with something of the spirit of the
occasion and to enjoy seeing herself adorned with these beautiful
garments, which so enhanced her beauty.
When everything was done, madam stood back to look at her work, and
uttered an exclamation of delight.
"Oh! you are simply perfect, Edith!" she said. "You are just too
lovely for anything! Miss Kerby would not have made nearly so
beautiful a bride, and--and--I could almost wish that you were really
going to be married."
"Oh, no!" cried the fair girl, shrinking back from the strange gleam
that shone from the woman's eyes, as she made this remark, while her
thoughts flew, with the speed of light and with a yearning so intense
that it turned her white as snow, to Royal Bryant, the man to whom,
all unasked, she had given her heart.
Then, as if some instinct had accused her of unmaidenly presumption, a
flush, that was like the rosy dawn upon the eastern sky, suffused her
fair face, neck, and bosom.
"Ha! ha! not if you could marry the man of your choice?" queried
madam, with a gleam of malice in her dark eyes and a strange note of
triumph in her silvery laugh that again caused her companion to regard
her curiously.
"Oh! please do not jest about it in this light way--marriage is too
sacred to be treated with levity," said Edith, in a tremulous tone.
"But where is the mask?" she added, glancing anxiously toward the bed.
"You know you said the face of the bride was not to be seen."
"Here it is," responded madam, snatching the dainty thing from the
bed. "See! it goes on under the veil, like this"--and she dextrously
slipped the silver-fringed piece of gauze beneath the edge of the veil
and fastened the chain under the orange-wreath behind.
The fringe fell just to Edith's chin, thus effectually concealing her
features, while it was not thick enough to prevent her seeing,
distinctly, everything about her.
A few other details were attended to, and then Mrs. Goddard hurriedly
said:
"Come, now, we must hasten," and she gathered up the voluminous train
and laid it carefully over Edith's arm. "We shall have to go the back
way, through the billiard-room, because no one must see you until you
appear upon the stage."
The carriage-house adjoined the mansion, and was connected with it by
a door, at the end of a hall, that opened into a large room over it
which had been devoted to billiards.
In the rear of this there was a stairway, which led down to the first
floor and behind the stage; thus Madam and Edith were enabled to reach
the dressing-room without being seen by any one, and just as the
orchestra were playing the closing bars of the last selection before
the raising of the curtain.
Here they found a tall, elderly gentleman, in full evening dress, who
was to represent the supposed bride's father in giving his child away
to the groom.
All the other actors were already grouped upon the stage or in their
respective places behind the scenes awaiting the coming of the bride.
Outside, the audience were all upon the _qui vive_, for, not only was
the closing act of the very clever play looked forward to with much
interest, for its own sake, but the genuine surprise promised them was
a matter for much curious conjecture and eager anticipation.
As Edith stepped upon the stage, leaning upon the arm of her escort,
the bridesmaids and maid of honor filed into place before them from
the wings, and all were ready for the _grand finale_ just as the
signal was given for the curtain to go up.
A shiver ran over Edith, shaking her from head to foot as that sharp,
incisive sound from the silver bell went ringing through the room.
For, as she had stepped upon the stage and Mrs. Goddard laid her hand
upon the arm of the elderly gentleman, she had observed the two
exchange meaning smiles, while the maids and ushers, as they had filed
into place, had regarded her with marked and admiring curiosity.
The curtain was raised, revealing to the appreciative audience the
interior of a beautiful little church.
It was perfect and complete in all its appointments, even to the
stained glass windows, the altar, the chancel, the organ, and the
exquisite floral decorations suitable for a wedding ceremony.
Simultaneously with this revelation there broke upon the ear and the
breathless hush that prevailed throughout the rooms the sound of an
organ playing the customary wedding-march.
Presently, at the rear of the church, a door opened, and four ushers
entered, "with stately tread and slow," followed by as many
bridesmaids, dressed in exquisite costumes.
Then came the maid of honor, clad in pale-blue satin, and carrying a
huge bunch of pink roses that contrasted beautifully with her dainty
toilet.
Next, the veiled and masked bride appeared, leaning upon the arm of
her attendant and clasping a costly bouquet of white orchids, which
Mrs. Goddard had produced from some mysterious source, and thrust into
her hands at the last moment.
A thrill of awe, mingled with intensest curiosity, pervaded the
audience as the graceful figure of the beautiful girl came slowly into
view.
The whole affair was so vividly real and impressive that every one
watched the scene with breathless interest.
And now, at one side of the chancel, another door was seen to open,
when a spotlessly-gowned clergyman, followed by the groom and best
man, entered and proceeded slowly toward the altar.
The two men behind the minister were in full evening dress, the only
peculiar thing noticeable being the mask of black gauze edged with
silver fringe which the groom wore over his face.
They reached the altar at the same moment that the rest of the bridal
party paused before it.
Then, as the clergyman turned his face toward the audience and the
light from the chandelier above him fell full upon him, a flutter of
excitement ran throughout the room, while many persons were seen to
exchange glances of undisguised astonishment, for they had recognized
a popular young divine--the pastor of a church, which many of those
present, together with their hostess, were in the habit of attending.
What could it mean?
Surely, no ordained minister who respected himself and reverenced his
calling would lend himself to a sensational farce, such as they had
witnessed that evening--at least, to carry it to such an extent as to
read, in mockery, the service of the sacred ordinance of marriage over
a couple of giddy actors!
There was a nervous, fluttering of programs, a restless movement among
the fashionable throng, which betrayed that, however much they might
be given to pleasure and levity in certain directions, they could not
quite countenance this perversion of a divine institution as a matter
of amusement.
The manner and bearing of the man, however, was most reverential and
decorous, and, as he opened and began to read from the elegant
prayer-book which he carried in his hands, a breathless hush again
settled upon every person in the room.
For, like a flash, it had seemed to burst upon every mind that there
was to be a _bona fide_ marriage--that this was to be the "Genuine
Surprise" that had been promised them!