THE WEDDING TOILET.
It was not exactly a dressing-room, nor was it a boudoir, in which Cora
Lander stood robing herself for that secret marriage, but one of those
elegant snuggeries which bespeak unbounded resources and a taste so
luxurious that it almost revolts the imagination.
A toilet table was there, standing against the blue of the wall; its
tall mirror framed in with a sumptuous enwreathment of gilded flowers,
drooping lilies and clustering roses. From the bell of each lily a
slender jet of gas shot forth and lighted up the whole toilet with
quivering fire, indescribably beautiful. Above the mirror, and floating
down each side of the table, was a cloud of filmy lace, grasped in the
hands of a flying Cupid that seemed to float in the air and bathe itself
in starlight, so adroitly were the wires hidden that connected it with
the ceiling.
The table beneath the glass was an elaborate combination of ivory,
satin-wood and gold, which stood upon a low platform of the same
delicate workmanship, curved back at the sides just far enough to
support two figures carved in ivory, with bands of gold about their
heads and touches of gold gleaming along the draperies. These figures
seemed to have just seized upon the floating lace flung to them by the
Cupid, with uplifted hands and with feet advanced, gracefully poising
themselves to dance off with it.
Upon this table the malachite dressing-case lay open, with all its
crystal and golden equipments flashing in the light, and close by was a
jewel-box, with the lid flung back from which came the flash of diamonds
through a rope of pearls that coiled over the edge and trailed half
across the table.
Beyond this superb article of furniture there was little indication that
the room was used for anything but a place of rest. All the more
commonplace appointments of the toilet were contained in the spacious
bath-room, seen through an open door, which had evidently just been
used, for the bath of snow-white marble, lined with some silver-plated
metal, was half full of water that sent a faint perfume of roses into
the dressing-room. The fur of a white bearskin rug, which lay on the
marble floor, had been lately trampled on by wet feet, and on a marble
slab, beneath a mirror let into the wall, lay combs and brushes, with a
crystal array of pomade boxes, perfume bottles, carafes of water, all in
confusion, as Cora Lander had left them ten minutes before, when she
entered the larger dressing-room.
A dress of white silk half covered the blue damask of a couch that stood
in the room, and over a large Turkish chair close by the delicate
frost-work of a Brussels veil was thrown out in exquisite relief by the
richer color of the damask.
Alice Ruess stood near her mistress, who was surveying herself in the
glass, well pleased with the effect of her own work. Never had Cora
Lander appeared more beautiful than she looked that night, even before
the bridal robe had fallen over that cloud of muslin skirts and the
delicate Valenciennes edging that cast its almost imperceptible shadows
on her arms and bosom. The hair was rolled back from her forehead in
rich folds, ending on the left side in a single long heavy curl, which
fell in coils of ruddy gold on her white shoulder.
“It is beautiful,” said Cora, turning toward Alice and taking up the
rope of pearls; “shall we twist these around the back hair?”
“Not for the world, mademoiselle is lovely as it is. The veil will be
enough.”
Cora relinquished the pearls with evident reluctance; but she recognized
a genius in the woman before her, and was wise enough to submit.
“What will you fasten the veil with then?” she inquired.
“These, mademoiselle; they are fresh as May dew and white as snow, just
one little blush of pink at the heart—no more.”
Alice went to an alabaster vase that stood in a corner of the room, and
took from the flowers crowded in it a handful of white roses, warmed, as
she said, with blushes at the heart. These she laid carefully upon the
dressing-table after pulling away all the green leaves.
Then there was a rustling of heavy silk, delicate satin gaiters laced
over symmetrical ankles, and at last what seemed a shower of frost-work
cast over a dress white and shimmering like crusted snow.
No wonder the waiting-woman stepped back and surveyed her mistress with
clasped hands and exultation in every feature. Never had high art a
lovelier object to exhaust itself upon. Some sweet, womanly feelings had
crept into that young heart, spite of its ambition. The long, curling
lashes swept a cheek brighter than any damask rose that ever bloomed; a
smile parted those red lips. When she looked up the love-light in those
soft almond-shaped eyes made the heart yearn toward her; for the time
she was natural, womanly, almost good.
“You have made me beautiful, for that creature in the glass is
beautiful,” she said, flinging some jewels out of the box and searching
for a roll of bank-notes it contained. “Take this—and this. I hope you
are poor, that it is the first money you have possessed for a long time;
I would have it a surprise, for I must make some one happy to-night, or
this feeling here, so sweet, so sacred, so holy, would kill me. Oh! if I
were worthy of it!—Oh! if—. But I will think of nothing but him. Neither
angel nor fiend shall drag my thoughts back to the old subject. In an
hour, _one_ little hour, I shall be his wife. Heavens, how I love him!
And he loves me! I know it! I feel it here, deep, deep as my heart can
feel! Oh! if, like Cleopatra, I could melt all that I have into a single
pearl, he should drink it and I would smile as it touched his lips. If
this wealth has cost me my own soul, so much the better—it is for
him—all for him, and cheaply bought. But why am I thinking of that? He
will never know. Heavens! must this subject forever crowd upon me? What
business has it here? I, who have commanded wealth almost unlimited,
should know how to crowd back my own thoughts. Oh! if I could! if I
could!”
Cora had been speaking all this, wildly, brokenly, in English. Alice
could not understand the language but she saw the color come and go in
that beautiful face till it became pale as death. Then the features
began to quiver, and tears rose slowly to those eyes so full of
sparkling happiness a moment before. Spite of her resolve, the fiend and
the angel of her life were having a sharp struggle that evening. She
fell down into the Turkish chair, and grasping a fold of her veil in
both hands, pressed them to her eyes. When her hands fell away, the lace
was wet and Cora Lander’s lips were quivering. She would have given the
world that moment could she have flung all her hideous wealth away and
gone to her husband with a pure heart.
“Is mademoiselle displeased with her dress? Would she prefer the
pearls?” inquired Alice, troubled by this new display.
“Displeased—no, no—what a child I am! The roses are lovely as innocence
itself. When little girls are confirmed they wear white roses. Who shall
forbid me to loop them in my bridal veil? I will not have the pearls,
Alice.”
“If mademoiselle pleases, I can clasp one string about her neck and
twist the other about her arm. Let me try them.”
“As you please,” answered Cora rising to survey herself once more. She
bent her stately head before the glass and held forth her arm firmly
while the woman wound the string of pearls over it serpentwise, and
clasped another around her neck.
“There, mademoiselle, your toilet is perfect. There is your
handkerchief. Now sit down awhile, it is so fatiguing; you look pale.
Let me open the window, this fresh air, cool with drops from the
fountain, will bring back all the lost roses to this pretty cheek. Ah, I
thought so—they come back all at once. It is a footstep on the gravel.”
Cora started to her feet: a smile just parted her lips; she seemed
inspired.
“Does mademoiselle expect company to the wedding?” inquired Alice.
“Not a soul, Alice. My happiness is so complete, I would not share it
with an angel.”
“I thought, from the grand toilet, the quantity of flowers and the
little supper, that Monsieur would bring some friends, perhaps.”
“No, the clergyman will come, perform his duties and go. We want no
strangers—nor must you ever mention to a human being what you witness
here to-night.”
“Lady I never will.”
“The time may come when I shall call upon you; till then promise that
you will be silent.”
“I promise; on my honor I promise.”
“Truly,” said Cora, smiling at her image in the glass, “we have made a
grand toilet; we have a profusion of flowers, and this new French cook
has promised wonders for the supper. What then? A bride should dress for
her husband, not the crowd that choose to follow her to the altar.
Should I make this evening less splendid because he alone will enjoy it?
No, no; love, to be perfect should be nobly surrounded. It shall be—it
shall be so with us!”
“Mademoiselle, some one rings at the door.”
“It is my husband!” cried Cora, radiant. “Go down, Alice, and—stay,
stay. I will go myself. Hark! there is no footstep but his?”
“None, lady.”
“I knew it. I felt sure that he would come alone. Heavens, how my heart
beats!”