"THERE WILL BE NO WEDDING TO-DAY."
"Oh, if my mother were only alive!" burst passionately from Violet's
lips, as the door closed after her betrothed. "My heart is broken, and
there is no one in the wide, wide world to whom I can tell my trouble. I
have no friends, no home, and am forced to marry a man whom I do not
love, in order to find one. Belle, who ought to care for me, sympathize
with, and comfort me, thinks only of the wealth and position I am to
secure, and"--a bitter smile curling her lips--"is even greatly elated
at the prospect of getting rid of me in such fine style. I cannot--I
cannot bear it; and to-morrow--to-morrow I am to be bound for life!"
She sprang wildly to her feet, a bright spot of fever burning upon each
cheek, and began pacing the floor with nervous tread. For an hour she
kept this up, going mechanically from one end of the luxurious apartment
to the other, apparently unconscious of what she was doing.
In the midst of this almost frantic state of mind Mrs. Mencke came
sweeping in upon her.
"What ails you, Violet?" she demanded, regarding her with anxious eyes.
"You have been moving about incessantly during the last hour. You must
not work yourself into such a nervous state, or you will be wholly
unfitted for the ceremony to-morrow. I want you to look your best, and
you will surely be pale and hollow-eyed, if not positively ill, if you
keep on at this rate. Besides, Lady Isabella arrived a short time ago,
and has asked to be allowed to see you for a little while."
"Oh! I cannot see her to-night, Belle. Let me alone for the few hours
that remain to me," Violet moaned, as she threw herself upon the lounge
and buried her hot face in the cool, silken pillow.
"The few hours that remain to you, indeed! One would think you were
about to be executed, instead of married to an earl. Do not be so
insufferably childish," returned her sister, impatiently. "There will be
no time to-morrow for you to see Lady Cameron, and it is uncourteous,
uncivil to refuse her request."
Violet made no response to this; she was too weak and wretched to assert
herself, and she knew that Belle would carry her point regarding this
interview as she had done in all other things of late.
Mrs. Mencke brought her some quieting drops, which she obediently
swallowed, and after a few moments began to grow more composed.
"I will tell Lady Cameron that you are nervous and tired, and ask her
not to stay long," Belle said, when she saw that Violet was more calm;
"but you must see her for a few minutes, and I hope you will have the
good taste not to offend her in any way," she concluded, significantly.
"Very well; let her come," Violet answered, resignedly, and thinking it
better to have the ordeal over as soon as possible.
She had always liked and admired Lady Cameron; had always enjoyed her
society, and, under other circumstances, would have been glad to see her
now; but everything and every one connected with her approaching
marriage seemed positively hateful to her, in her present state.
Mrs. Mencke did not wait for her to change her mind, but went
immediately to tell her ladyship that Violet would see her, and a few
minutes later, there came a gentle knock upon the door of the young
girl's room.
Before she could arise to admit her visitor, it was softly opened, and a
lovely, sweet-faced lady of about fifty years entered.
She was clad in a simple yet elegant costume of silver-gray silk,
trimmed with rich black lace. A cluster of pearls gleamed fair and white
at her throat, and a dainty little cap of costly lace rested lightly
upon her soft, brown hair, which as yet had not a visible thread of
silver in it.
"Do not rise, dear," she said, as Violet attempted to do so. "Your
sister has told me that you are still far from being well, and that I
must not stay long. Let me sit right here beside you," she continued,
drawing a low rocker close to the lounge, and then, bending down, she
kissed Violet fondly upon the forehead.
Violet returned her greeting with what composure she could, but the
observing lady could easily see that it required a great effort,
although she imagined that embarrassment was the cause.
"I knew that I could not see you to-morrow," she resumed, "and I felt as
if I must have just a few minutes' chat with you on this last evening of
your maiden life. You have no mother, dear, and though I am sure your
sister has tried to do everything that was wise and kind, yet she cannot
quite take the place of a mother at such a time as this, and my heart
yearned to come to you."
Violet was deeply moved by these kind words, and she clasped more
closely the hand that had sought hers in such fond sympathy. Still her
heart ached more keenly, if that were possible, than before, while a
feeling of guilt stole over her--a consciousness of wrong toward this
loving mother in the injury she felt she was about to do her son.
"I was wishing for my mother just as you came," she murmured, a little
sob bursting from her lips.
Lady Isabel leaned forward and wound her arms about the slight form of
the girl.
"Then, dear child, let me take her place, as far as I can," she said, in
a low, winning tone; "and to-morrow you will have the right to call me
by that sacred name, while I shall have a dear daughter. Ah, Violet, I
cannot tell you how much I have always wanted a daughter--one who would
be a companion and a confidante. But I have had only my son until now.
My dear, I know we shall love each other, and I am looking forward, with
more delight than I can express, to the future when you will belong to
us and brighten our home with your fresh young life. I have been drawn
toward you from the first day of our meeting in London, and if Vane had
asked me to select a bride for him, I could not have chosen one more to
my mind. I know that you will make him a very loving and faithful wife."
How Violet cringed beneath those words, which so plainly told her that
Vane had not confided to his mother the doubtful relations that existed
between them! "He is a noble fellow," the fond woman went on; "he was
always a good and dutiful boy, and has been such a comfort to me. Better
than all, Violet, he is a true Christian, and it is delightful to hear
him talk of his plans regarding the welfare of his tenants, and of the
improvements he hopes to make in the condition of the poor upon his
estates. Do you know," she continued, with a sweet seriousness that was
very charming, "that I think it is a great thing--a wonderful thing for
an earl to be such a Christian, and one who wishes so earnestly to carry
his Christianity into his every-day life? There is so much
responsibility in such a position, and such an opportunity for doing
good. You are a Christian also, are you not, Violet? and you will
sympathize with and help Vane carry out all his plans? What is it,
dear?"
This last anxious question was drawn forth by the violent start which
Violet had given, as a new and solemn thought suddenly burst upon her at
these probing questions.
"Am I wearying you--are you feeling ill?" she added, regarding her with
deep concern.
With a great effort Violet controlled the trembling that had seized her,
and strove to reply calmly:
"No, I am not ill, dear Lady Cameron, but your asking me if I am a
Christian made me suddenly remember something that I had not thought of
before."
"What was that, dear?" Lady Isabel questioned. "Unburden yourself just
as you would to your own mother on this last night of your single life."
An expression of pain clouded Violet's brow, but after a moment she
said, gravely:
"Yes, I have called myself a Christian for more than a year, and I
believe my strongest desire is to do what is right always; but life has
so many temptations that I know I have often failed. I will try--to do
right in the future," she went on, but seemingly strangely agitated, her
companion thought. "I will do what I can to--to make Lord Cameron--at
least, I will try not to hinder him in any good work. I would like to
make him happy and you--dear Lady Cameron, I truly wish that I might
make you happy also," Violet concluded, raising her head from her pillow
and looking eagerly, wistfully into the beautiful face beside her.
The lady bent and kissed her again, though she wondered a little at the
undertone of pain and passion that rang through her words.
"With such a spirit I am sure you cannot fail to be a help to Vane, and
I know we shall all be very happy," she said fondly.
Still Violet continued to regard her with that earnest, wistful look,
while the nervous trembling, which she strove so hard to conceal, began
to be apparent in spite of her efforts.
"I hope," she said, timidly, appealingly, "that you will always believe
in me. I am liable to be mistaken in my view of what is right--promise
me, oh, promise me, that, whatever I may do, you will trust me--you will
believe that I want to be true, and that you will never cease to think
kindly of me."
She clung to her companion with passionate longing, her hot little hands
grasping hers with a painful, trembling clasp, while she seemed so
completely unstrung by some inward emotion that Lady Cameron was
alarmed.
"My dear child, this will never do," she said, regarding her anxiously,
"you must not allow yourself to become so excited, and I blame myself
for directing our conversation into such a serious channel. I must run
away at once and leave you to get calm. Of course, my love, I shall
always trust you, while you already have such a firm hold upon my heart
that I do not believe I could cease to love you if I would. There, you
shall not talk any more," as Violet opened her lips as if to speak;
"good-night, pleasant dreams, and a refreshing slumber. This," with a
light laugh, "is the last kiss I shall ever give Violet Huntington; when
next my lips touch yours you will be somebody's dear wife."
With a lingering caress the beautiful woman released her from her arms,
and then stole softly from the room, thinking what a sweet, lovable wife
Vane would have on the morrow.
But if she could have seen Violet as she lay there on her couch after
she had gone, she would have marveled more than she had done over her
previous excitement.
She clasped her hands across her eyes as if to shut out some dreadful
vision, and seemed to cower and shrink as if some one was smiting her
with a stinging lash.
"Oh, what have I done!" she moaned. "A Christian, and on the point of
perjuring myself before God's altar! A Christian, and weakly yielding to
what I know would be a sin of deepest dye! A Christian, and consenting
to take the poison of my wretchedness--of a heart that is filled with a
hopeless love for another--into a good man's life and home! No--a
thousand times no! I have been blind, wicked, reckless. Vane Cameron is
too good a man to have his life hampered and ruined thus, and I honor
him far too much to do him such wrong, now that I see it in its true
light. Oh, if he were but my brother, with his noble principles, his
strong, true heart and boundless sympathy, I could stand by him, help
him to carry out the good that he has planned, and devote my whole life
to him; but as his wife--never!" and she broke into a perfect tempest of
tears and sobs as she arrived at this crisis.
Daylight faded; the last crimson flush died out of the western sky;
darkness settled upon the mountain-tops that overlooked the beautiful
bay, and gradually wrapping itself about them like a mantle, finally
dropped like a pall upon the gay watering-place and the adjacent
village, which all day long had been in a fever of excitement and
expectation over the prospect of the grand wedding that was to occur on
the morrow.
Nothing else had been talked of for a week, and everybody was anxious to
see the beautiful girl whom the distinguished English earl had won, but
who had so resolutely secluded herself that but very few had had even a
glimpse of her face; but on the morrow everybody would have an
opportunity to judge for themselves, whether she was one who would honor
the high position which had been offered her.
About nine o'clock Mrs. Mencke went up to her sister's room to see if
she needed anything before retiring.
She tried the door and found it locked.
"Are you in bed, Violet?" she called, in a low tone, with her lips at
the key-hole.
"No, Belle, but I am busy with a little writing which I wish to do,"
Violet answered, in calm, even tones. "But never mind me--go back to
your dancing; I can take care of myself and would rather not be
disturbed by any one again to-night."
"I will come up again in half an hour," Mrs. Mencke returned, not
satisfied to leave her thus for the night.
"No, do not, Belle, please--I prefer that you should not," pleaded her
sister.
"Will you be sure to take your drops? You will need all the strength
that you can get for to-morrow," persisted Mrs. Mencke.
"Yes, I will take them; I know that I shall need strength," was the
grave reply.
"All right; good-night, then, and a good rest to you," said Mrs. Mencke,
and the rustle of her silken garments on the stairs, a moment later,
told Violet that she had gone back to the gay company below which she
enjoyed so much.
Two hours later, when she came up to bed, she stopped again before
Violet's door, as she was passing to her own room, and bent her head to
listen.
All was quiet within, except for the ticking of the clock which stood on
a bracket near the door, and which, somehow, sounded strangely clear,
and almost seemed to give an ominous click with each motion of its
pendulum.
She did not try to enter; she thought if Violet was sleeping quietly it
would be unwise to disturb her, and so she moved on to her own chamber,
yet with a somewhat anxious and unsatisfied feeling at her heart.
She slept very soundly, and did not awake until nearly eight o'clock the
next morning. Her husband had gone to Nice a couple of days previous,
and was to return on the first train that day, so there had been no
movement in her room to disturb her.
When she realized how late it was, and how much there was to be done,
for the wedding had been set for eleven o'clock, she sprang from her
bed, and hastily throwing on her clothing, went immediately to Violet's
apartments.
The door yielded to her touch, and she entered the parlor, to find no
one there.
She passed on to Violet's chamber, and rapped upon the door.
There was no answer, and entering, she was surprised to see that it was
empty, and somewhat startled, also, to see that the bed was nicely made,
and the room in perfect order.
"What can this mean?" she muttered, and then rang the bell a vigorous
peal.
A servant answered it immediately.
"Have you been called to attend Miss Huntington this morning?" she
demanded.
"No, madame."
"Have you seen her anywhere about the house?" Mrs. Mencke questioned,
greatly perplexed by her sister's strange movements.
"No, madam."
"What! did you not put her room in order this morning?" she asked,
sharply.
Again she was doomed to hear the simple, respectful, "No, madame."
More and more perplexed, and not a little alarmed, Mrs. Mencke hastened
out into the hall, and was proceeding down stairs to seek Lord Cameron,
when she met him just coming up to inquire for his betrothed.
He greeted her with his usual courteous manner; then, observing her
troubled look, became suddenly grave.
"What is it?" he quickly asked. "I hope Violet is not ill."
"No--I do not know--I--I--have you seen her?" faltered and stumbled Mrs.
Mencke, in a tone of distress.
"Seen her?" the young man replied, greatly surprised; for on this
morning, of all others, Violet would, of course, be supposed to be
invisible. "No; certainly not," he added, recovering himself. "Is she
not in her room?"
"No, and it looks as if it had not been occupied during the night," Mrs.
Mencke whispered, with pale lips.
"Do not tell me that," Lord Cameron said, sternly, his face growing
ashen pale at the information.
He turned, and leaping two stairs at a time, was at the top in a moment,
and striding forward toward Violet's room.
Reaching it, he stopped, his innate delicacy forbidding him to enter
without permission, and waited until Mrs. Mencke joined him.
They went in together, and he observed with a terrible heart-sinking the
perfect order in which everything had been left in both rooms.
Mrs. Mencke explained that she had questioned the chambermaid, but that
she knew nothing about Violet's movements.
"She may have gone out for a walk--to get the air," the wretched
groom-elect remarked, but he was white to his lips as he said it.
"Gone out for a walk on her wedding-morning, when there was scarcely
time to prepare for the ceremony! I wish I could even believe it
possible that she would do such an unheard-of thing," said Mrs. Mencke,
in a tone of despair, and feeling nearly paralyzed by this sudden and
inexplicable absence.
Nevertheless they exerted themselves to ascertain if the missing
bride-elect was anywhere about the premises, Lord Cameron, with the
proprietor of the hotel, to whom alone he confided his trouble, going
out in search of her.
Meantime Mrs. Mencke went back to Violet's rooms to ascertain if
anything was missing, but everything appeared to be in its accustomed
place. Every drawer was daintily arranged, as she was in the habit of
keeping them; all her jewels, laces, and ribbons were in their
respective boxes; even the rings, which she usually wore, lay upon her
pincushion, where she always put them before taking a bath.
Her dresses hung in her wardrobe--all but the traveling dress which she
had worn when she came to Mentone. It was a dark-gray cloth, trimmed
with narrow bands of blue silk. The hat to match, with its bows of blue
velvet, and a single gray wing, together with a thick blue vail, were
also missing, and a pair of thick walking-boots, together with a light
traveling shawl.
Beyond these few things nothing, as far as she could ascertain upon so
hasty an examination, was gone; not even a change of clothing, toilet
articles, or a traveling-bag, things which Violet would be sure to need
if she had contemplated flight.
Mrs. Mencke was somewhat reassured after these investigations, and tried
to think that her sister had gone out for a walk--possibly to the town
to post the letter she had been writing the previous night, rather than
to wait for it to go later with the hotel mail.
Still, she was terribly anxious, and her face was pallid with fear and
anxiety.
She had staked so much--far more than any one save herself knew--to
achieve this brilliant marriage for Violet, and it seemed more than she
could bear to have it fail at the last moment, and after all the heavy
expense of the beautiful trousseau from Worth's.
She wandered restlessly from room to room in an agony of suspense, Lady
Cameron following her and vainly trying to speak words of comfort and
cheer, while they waited for the return of those who had gone to search
for the missing one.
Lord Cameron came back after a time, accompanied by Mr. Mencke, who had
arrived on the first train from Nice, but he brought no tidings of
Violet.
"There will be no wedding to-day, even if she is found," he said, with a
stern, set face, "so let all preparations be stopped at once."
Then without another word, he went out, mounted his horse, and rode away
toward the mountains.
The wretched day passed, and evening shut down again upon the place,
where but one theme was thought of or talked about. Many believed that
the young girl had gone out for a walk in the early morning and had,
perhaps, fallen into some ravine among the mountains, or into the sea
and been drowned.
There were only a few who thought otherwise, and these were Mr. and Mrs.
Mencke, Lord Cameron, and his mother.
Mr. and Mrs. Mencke did not lisp their suspicions that Violet might have
fled from an uncongenial marriage to a suicide's fate; but Lord Cameron,
who remembered his last interview with his betrothed, had a terrible
fear that such might be the case; while Lady Cameron, having told him of
Violet's strange excitement and remarks of the evening previous,
suggested that she might have fled to escape wronging him and being
untrue to herself.
"It may be so," the wretched young man said, "but oh, I fear she is
dead. I shall search for her until I am satisfied of either one thing or
the other."
When Lord Cameron had said there would be no wedding, even if Violet
were found, Mrs. Mencke went away and shut herself in the room where
Violet was to have dressed for her bridal, and where, spread out before
her, were the lovely dress of white silk tulle, with its delicate
garnishings of lilies of the valley and white violets the beautiful
Brussels net vail, with its chaplet of the same flowers, the dainty
white satin boots, gloves, and handkerchief; and there she gave vent to
the rage, disappointment, and grief which she could no longer contain.
It was the most wretched day of her whole life, and she afterward
confessed that there, for the first time, in the presence of these
voiceless accusers of her for her treachery and heartlessness toward the
young girl whom she should have tenderly cherished and shielded from all
unhappiness, her guilty conscience began to upbraid her, and remorse to
sting her with their relentless lashings.