AN INTERRUPTED WEDDING.
During the time spent by Mr. Barnes in the South, his spies in New York
discovered little, or nothing, against the persons whom they had been
charged to watch. Indeed from the standpoint of a detective, the actions
of all had been most uninteresting. The usual round of social affairs,
the customary number of theatre or opera parties, the regular afternoon
teas, in fact the ordinary routine life of the man or woman of fashion,
was all that could be observed. Yet of course these weeks did not pass
without any occurrence of note. The chief one perhaps, was the naming of
the day, upon which the wedding of Mr. Mitchel and Miss Remsen was to
occur. This was May 5th, the very day upon which Mr. Barnes would reach
New York with Mr. Neuilly.
Thus, fate seemed hurrying on a climax which was to occur on the wedding
day. In New Orleans a detective was seeking evidence upon which he hoped
to convict a man of the heinous crime of murder, whilst in New York a
beautiful woman was bestowing her faith upon this same man, and with the
assistance of many fingers, preparing to bedeck herself in bridal finery
for his delectation. Meanwhile, the man himself acted most
unconcernedly. He seemed to consider himself beyond the risk of danger,
and he accepted his happiness as does one who had honorably earned it.
Of much interest to us, in the light of fast approaching events, was the
curious conduct of Dora Remsen during this period. It will be remembered
that Mr. Randolph had lost an opportunity of declaring himself, and that
he warned the young lady against Mr. Thauret as one not to be trusted.
This kind of advice, it is to be presumed, is offered by the one giving
it, with some idea, however distant, that it may be accepted. Yet the
histories of many lives would show that only a small percentage of
similar advice has ever been received with acquiescence. Indeed, it
might also be said that many persons have been hurried into each other's
arms by the interference of wiseacres, when perhaps, if left to
themselves, they would have drifted apart. At least so it seemed in this
case. Mr. Thauret had become not only a constant visitor at the home of
the Remsens', but he seemed a welcome one. He certainly was a most
entertaining man, and his manners utterly unapproachable. He had
travelled, and not only had seen the world, but had observed it, which
is another thing. The result of this was that he had a fund of narrative
always at his disposal, and his conversation was so attractive that he
easily monopolized the attention of a _coterie_ at any social gathering.
Mr. Randolph noted with growing uneasiness that Dora was always one of
the group who listened to these tales. What disturbed him most, was that
after the greatest amount of time spent and wasted, in seeking some
flagrant defect in the man's character, he was at last compelled to
acknowledge to himself that he had nothing against Mr. Thauret, except a
prejudice. But that prejudice was as great, if not greater, than ever.
He determined at length to speak to Mr. Mitchel about it, and did so one
afternoon when the rooms were crowded, his rival being as usual the
centre of an attentive group.
"Mitchel," he began, "how the deuce did that fellow Thauret get into
this family?"
"Dora met him somewhere, I believe. Why?"
"Why? Can you ask that?"
"Can I? Why certainly I can. I did ask you,--Why?"
"I declare, Mitchel, you are either as blind as a bat, or else you have
eyes only for Miss Emily. Don't you see the danger that the younger
sister is in, associating with that man?"
"Well now, Randolph, to be candid, I must admit I do not see the danger.
What is it?"
"Why, suppose--suppose she fell in love with him? Suppose she married
him!"
"Well, what then?"
"What then? You would provoke a saint. You talk as coolly about that
child's throwing herself away on a--a nobody--as though we were
discussing a shot at billiards."
"Randolph, my friend, let me give you a bit of advice. When a man wishes
to marry a girl, there are two important rules which he must observe,
and both of them I believe you have neglected."
"What do you mean?"
"Before I explain, let me ask you a question. Am I right in supposing
that you wish to marry Dora yourself?"
"Well, that is rather pointed. However, I will admit the truth. I would
be happy to have her love."
"Very well. I will tell you those two rules. The first is, 'Never speak
ill of your rival.' The second is, 'Don't be too late asking for the
young lady.'"
Randolph looked at Mr. Mitchel a moment intently, then offered his hand,
which was grasped warmly. He said simply "I thank you," and walked over
to the group where Dora was. After awhile, taking advantage of an
opportune lull, he leaned over her and said in an undertone:
"May I have a few words of conversation with you?"
She looked up at him, evidently surprised at his tone, and asked:
"Is it important?"
"Very," he replied succinctly, and excusing herself to the company she
permitted him to lead her into the next room, where she sat beside him
on the sofa, to which he invited her with a motion. After a brief
silence, during which each thought intently, he began:
"Miss Dora, I wish you to listen to me, if you please, to the end. I
think you know that I love you." He paused just a moment, whilst she
trembled slightly, blushed, and drooped her head. He continued: "I have
never told you this before in words, I know, but you are a woman, and
must have read my heart long ago. You are all so clever at that sort of
thing. I am only a man, and I have not been able to read yours at all. I
really do not know whether you care for me or not. Once I thought that
you did, but of late--but no matter, I will not go into that. In brief,
then, I have only to say that it would make me supremely happy to know
that you would some day be my wife. In exchange, I offer you a lifelong
devotion. And now--I think--that is all I have to say. Dora--little
sweetheart--do you, could you trust yourself to me?"
He had gently taken her hand whilst he spoke, and the fact that she had
neither resisted nor withdrawn it had encouraged him to the more
affectionate terms which he used at the end of his love speech. She
hesitated awhile, then gently disengaging her hand, and looking at him
with just a suspicion of a tear in her eye, she said almost in a
whisper:
"Do you care very much?"
"Very much! I cannot tell you how much." He tried to recapture her hand,
but she eluded him. Again she asked a question:
"Money is not an object to you, in this?"
"Miss Remsen, you insult me."
"No, no!" she said quickly, "you misunderstand. I did not mean my money.
I can't explain, yet you must answer my question. Would you mind if--oh,
how shall I say it? Suppose I did something that cost you a lot of
money----"
"Oh! I see," exclaimed Mr. Randolph, brightening up. "You mean you are
extravagant. Don't let that bother you a minute. You may cost me as much
money as you can possibly spend. I will never complain."
She seemed much relieved, but she did not speak at once. Her eyes
wandered away from him, and following her gaze he saw them reach and
rest upon Mr. Thauret. A jealous pang darted through his heart. He was
about to speak when she turned to him and said with suppressed emotion:
"I hope you will not be angry with me, and that you will not think evil
of me. There is something I cannot explain, yet which, if I could, you
would not object to. But until I can tell you about it--I cannot--I
cannot--give you an answer. Would you--would you be willing to wait?"
There was a tone of entreaty in her voice.
"How long?" asked Mr. Randolph, still irritated, and wondering if the
something which she could not tell was in any way connected with Mr.
Thauret.
"Would you mind--if I asked you to wait till--well, say the New Year?"
"That is a long time, but if it is your will, I must."
"Oh, thank you!" That was all she said; but there was a hint of rapture
in her speech, there were tears in her eyes, and for one brief ecstatic
moment he thought that there was love in her heart, and that that love
was for him. With an impulse that he could not control, and which she
did not check, he drew her to him, and softly touched her lips with his
own. He felt satisfied, though she left him immediately and went at once
to Mr. Thauret, who greeted her with evident warmth. There is something,
magnetism if you please, but a something that binds two true lovers'
hearts so that an impulse in the one excites an answering sensation in
the other. The oddest fact in this connection is, that though one may
fancy himself deeply in love, he is not, till he has received one of
these instantaneous messages which Cupid ticks over Love's telegraph.
After that he is enslaved. His better judgment is gone. He will argue in
the lonely hours of the night that he has made a mistake, that the woman
is not destined to make him happy, that she has this, that, or the other
fault, but it counts for nothing, save that he suffers. That one stab
has slain his manhood, and he cannot control his actions. As soon as he
meets the woman again, act as she may, his love is aflame once more. She
may ill-treat him, she may ignore him, it matters not; she attracts him.
Thus it was with poor Mr. Randolph. Throughout the many weeks that
followed he suffered much. He called his love all the unpleasant things
that jealousy could suggest. But invariably the recollection of that one
moment, when she had seemed in that indistinct, indescribable way to
have yielded her whole self, her whole soul to him, would flash across
his mind, and at once his reason was silenced, and he would say:
"She could not have done that if she were false. She loves me, but
there is something that I do not understand which makes her treat me so.
She told me so, and said that when she could tell it to me, I should not
mind. Well, I must be patient and wait. I must trust her; she must be,
she is, true!" And then gradually all the old doubts would creep over
him again, and the suffering would be as poignant as before.
It was about a month after the conversation related, when a somewhat
similar one occurred between the same young lady and Mr. Thauret. He had
called one afternoon, when Dora was alone, and so had the field to
himself. He spoke to her of all those things which he had found most
interesting to her, and she was enjoying his society very much, when
suddenly, as twilight approached and the room grew slightly darkened, he
began to touch upon a more tender theme. He spoke of himself, of the
wandering life that he had led, of the fact that he was alone in the
world, without a living relative. He mentioned, as though it were of no
importance, that he was of noble blood. Then he drew a touching picture
of a man who, whilst really of a most affectionate nature, was compelled
to live a loveless life, because there was none to whom he could turn
for that sort of comfort. Then he asked her gently, very gently, whether
she had ever thought upon the subject herself, and whether she had felt
a yearning for the companionship of one who would be all in all to her.
His pleading was very pretty to listen to, and she heard him as though
much impressed but her reply was not exactly what he evidently hoped it
would have been.
"Oh, yes," said she, "I have thought of all that in a vague sort of way.
But, you see, I have been in love with my beautiful Queen, for so long
that I cannot imagine a life without her. And yet"--there was a tremor
in her voice--"I am going to lose her soon. She will go away for awhile,
and then I fancy I shall feel that loneliness of which you speak. So, if
you want to hear my real ideas upon that subject you must wait till
after the wedding." She said this last with a tone of deep meaning, and
Mr. Thauret seemed to accept her remark as a hint, for he changed the
subject. Shortly afterwards he went away. As he walked down the avenue,
there was almost a triumphant smile upon his face. This, however, was
not reported to Mr. Barnes, for the spy was behind and could not see his
face.
It was only a few nights after this that Mr. Mitchel was walking home
from the club, accompanied by Mr. Thauret, when the latter turned the
conversation upon the Miss Remsens.
"They certainly are charming girls," said he, "but one would need to be
rich to afford the luxury of marrying one of them. I suppose they have
nothing until the death of the mother."
Mr. Mitchel thought that he understood the object of the question, and
for reasons of his own was glad to reply to it.
"O, not at all," said he. "The father left each of them a handsome sum,
fifty thousand in fact, which they are to receive as soon as married.
The bulk of the money, of course, went to the widow, but her interest is
only for life, and then it is to be equally divided between the girls. I
think it is somewhere near half a million."
"You are a fortunate fellow. I wish I had your luck."
"My dear Thauret, can a man of your intelligence believe in such a
stupid thing as luck? It no more exists than its antithesis, ill luck.
Every man succeeds or not, according to his own skill in guiding his
life. Now you envy me my marriage to Emily, when certainly her sister
Dora is just as charming, and richer, too."
"Miss Dora is charming, true; but that does not make me a successful
suitor. But what do you mean by saying that she is richer?"
"Why, you see, her sister is devoted to her, and has promised her a gift
of ten thousand dollars the day she marries, upon one condition."
"And that condition is?"
"That the husband shall be satisfactory to her."
There was a silence for several minutes, finally broken by Mr. Thauret:
"Well, in the light of your approaching marriage, which will make you
the only man in the family, I presume your influence would count. If I
should wish to marry Miss Dora, I suppose you would favor my suit?"
"That is not a new idea to me, I assure you. All I need say is that when
you gain Dora's consent, you shall have mine."
"Thank you." Mr. Thauret said this with suppressed emotion, and after
that neither man spoke until they said good-night at Mr. Mitchel's
hotel. Mr. Thauret, upon reaching his own room, smoked a cigar, and blew
little ringlets over his head, thus occupying himself till long after
midnight. He seemed to be building castles, and from the satisfied
expression on his face, they must have been grand ones.
Thus matters stood when the day dawned upon which the marriage was to
occur. Everything was bustle and confusion at the home of the Remsens.
The bridesmaids arrived early, helped to deck the bride, and then stood
around in delighted admiration. Dora was in ecstasies. Two magnificent
bouquets had been sent to her, one entirely of carnation pinks, from Mr.
Randolph, and the other a fine assortment of cut-flowers, amongst which
were three beautiful Calla lilies, tied with long white satin ribbons.
These were the gift of Mr. Thauret. She stood admiring the flowers for a
few moments, then tenderly untied the pinks, and, taking a few of each
color, made a small bouquet, which she pinned just at the opening of her
dress near the throat. Thus they were near enough to exhale a fragrance
of which she would be continually conscious. Just before leaving the
house, however, she took the Callas and carried them with her in her
gloved hand.
Before the day was over a little tragedy occurred, of which she was not
only innocent, but unconscious. In the throng entering the church her
pinks were swept from her breast, and in her excitement she did not
observe her loss. Mr. Randolph, however, the groom's best man, noted
carefully that she carried flowers, and that they were not his.
Subsequently she, in reply to a question from him, admitted who had sent
them, and though he made no remark, he slept little that night. Thus
easily men suffer.
Emily was dressed--but there, why should I attempt to describe what only
a Worth could have furnished, and only wealth could afford? If you can
imagine the most beautiful shade and quality of pearl-colored silk, and
add to that the finest of lace, and to that the most marvellous
profusion of tiny ribbon bows, then, as I hinted, recall that the genius
of Worth designed the garment, perhaps you will imagine all that I could
tell you. At least I may say that as the bride entered the church on the
arm of that magnificent man, Mr. Van Rawlston, who, as her father's
dearest friend, had been invited to take his place, every woman present
took one lingering look at the woman and her gown, and then turned to
her neighbor to express her admiration. Moreover, I will say that the
sum of all that praise was not enough fully to describe Emily Remsen,
who looked every inch "a royal queen," as Dora delightedly told every
one for years afterward.
But after the bridal party had passed, people naturally looked for the
groom, and they wondered not to see him. Whispering occurred, and
inquiries were made without satisfactory response. Some thought that
there had been a mistake, and that the signal had been given to the
bride and her friends too soon. It was an awkward situation, because of
course, once having reached the altar, they could not turn and leave the
church again. Consequently they simply stood and waited. Every one at
length grew so nervous, that save for the organ, there gradually stole
over the whole edifice a solemn silence. People were awed, and fearing
at last as the minutes passed and still the groom did not appear, that
something dreadful either had or was about to occur, they almost held
their breaths. A few intimate friends went out on tip-toe, but the door
leading to the vestry-room was guarded by a man in livery, who would say
nothing but that no one could be admitted.
Meanwhile an exciting scene, though a brief one, was being enacted
behind that door. Just as the two parties were about to start on their
way to the altar, a carriage had driven up furiously, and from it had
alighted Mr. Barnes. He quickly entered the building, and went
straightway into the vestry-room, brushing aside the man at the door.
Once in the presence of the groom and his gentlemen attendants, he
astonished them by saying:
"Thank God, I am not too late."
"Are you quite sure?" said Mr. Mitchel, with provoking calmness.
"I have come here to stop this wedding," said the detective, a little
excited.
"You mean, to delay it. That you are doing now, as I should be on my way
to the altar to join my bride."
"I tell you, I come to stop this wedding altogether, and----"
"One moment, Mr. Barnes. There is no time to lose, and I do not wish you
to speak too openly. Let me talk for you. You have reasons, which I can
guess, for wishing me not to be married. Am I right?"
"I have said as much."
"If I can prove to you that you gain nothing by hindering this ceremony,
will you allow it to proceed, and then act as you may please afterward,
instead of now?"
"Of course, but that is impossible."
"Nothing is impossible, Mr. Barnes; read that if you please."
Taking from his pocket a folded paper, he handed it to Mr. Barnes, who
took it nervously, read it, and looked up amazed.
"This is an outrage, Mr. Mitchel, and----"
"And you have given me your word not to further interfere at this time.
If you will meet me at my hotel at two o'clock, I will answer whatever
other demands you may have upon me. I think you know that you may trust
me to keep the engagement. Now, gentlemen, we will proceed." Saying
which he and his friends filed out of the room and down the aisle of the
church, much to the relief of the immense throng awaiting them, leaving
Mr. Barnes utterly discomfited. The ceremony then proceeded without
further delay, and in half an hour Mr. and Mrs. Leroy Mitchel were taken
in their carriage to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Mr. Barnes did not wait to
see them leave the Cathedral, but hurried away almost immediately after
having read the document which Mr. Mitchel had handed to him. This was a
certificate of marriage dated the day before, and performed at the
Mayor's office. Thus, whatever reason the detective had for stopping the
marriage, the telegram from Sefton had enabled Mr. Mitchel to once more
outwit Mr. Barnes, by simply allowing a civil contract to antedate the
religious ceremony.