THE BRIDAL CHAMBER.
When Dr. Nugent left the church, which he did quickly, his breast
was filled with emotions of a conflicting nature. Reason seemed to
have been displaced with a mad, ungovernable rage. Why should this
ignorant, low, base-born son of a Russian exile possess this goddess?
What moral right had this usurper to loll at ease in her chamber,
barring out his betters of all the world? He knew that he possessed all
her mighty love, and yet he saw the fruit of it slipping away forever.
He was seized with a strange, overmastering desire to prevent, at all
hazards and at any cost, the actual consummation of the marriage. He
struggled, wrestled, tried to fight it down, but his feet carried him
toward her house. He reached it before the bridal party had arrived,
and, being familiar there, he ascended into the bridal chamber, and
there secreted himself.
“Like a thief,” he said to himself, “I steal into this now sacred
apartment. Over my being creeps a determination so desperate, that I
shudder at the spectacle of my own deformity. I have suffered more
than mortal agony. There in the church, my much-abused spirit almost
departed from me. Where was the artist to tear aside the flesh and
paint the hearts as they really were? Paul, radiant and happy; Ouida,
serene in the consciousness of self-imposed beauty, while I was
burdened with the deepest sorrow of them all.”
He waited, and soon Ouida entered, and threw off her veil and wraps.
“The deed is done,” she murmured, “and yet I would it were undone. The
marriage vows have been exchanged, and yet Paul is as far from me as I
am from Paradise. Strange paradox am I. I know that Nugent’s love has
in it the sting of guilt, yet, through its scorching rays, I clearly
see myself. Oh, what a madcap freak, to rouse the slumbering passion
of my ‘Modern Hercules,’ and yet the fault is all my own. And I must
pay the penalty; must tread the path of sorrow to the end. This is a
rude awakening of my dream. I once had thought to greet my lord with
gleaming eyes, with passion, strong yet tender. Tonight he comes, and I
am full of fear and trembling.”
She heard a slight noise.
“Is that you, Paul?”
Instead of Paul, Horatio Nugent stepped out from the darkness. His eye
was full of strange, unnatural brilliance, but his face was drawn,
pinched and haggard. At his appearance, Ouida’s heart almost ceased
to beat; she was so full of horror and despair. She expected Paul at
almost any moment. She knew his nature when once aroused, and she was
ashamed within herself to confess that she feared a collision between
the two men, more for the sake of the preacher than for her now
lawfully wedded husband.
When Ouida asked if it was Paul, the preacher said: “No, it is I, whose
death you seal tonight.”
“My God! what brings you here?” said Ouida.
“You will not let me live,” said he, “so I have come to end existence
at your feet.”
“And I,” commanded the woman, with wondrous dignity, “pronounce against
such base-born cowardice. You build your grief up mountain high, and
then make oath you stand alone.”
“I will not argue this thing with you. I am determined on my course.”
“Unhappy man,” she said, with mighty pity, “do you think you bear all
the agony of this dream? I, too, am full of sorrow as deep and black as
night.”
“Then all the more reason,” said he, desperately, “that we should end
it all together.”
“Agreed,” said Ouida, and as she spoke, she handed him a jeweled
dagger. “Waste no time,” she urged. “Plunge this deep into my heart,
then draw it forth and join me in eternity.”
He quickly seized the proffered weapon, raised it high in the air, and
was about to sink it into her bared breast, when they heard Paul’s
footsteps approaching. The dagger dropped from his nerveless hand. He
covered his face with his hand, exclaiming: “Shame upon me, that I, in
unmanly weakness, should have entertained so hideous a resolve!”
“Quick,” said Ouida, “to the inner chamber, and there remain until I
can let you out unseen.”
He got out not a moment too soon, for upon the very instant of his
disappearance, Paul entered the chamber of the bride.
“Come, Ouida,” he said, “let me fold you to my breast, for tonight you
have enthroned me in the kingdom of love.”
“I have fulfilled my oath, that is all,” said Ouida, wearily, and not
responsive to his enthusiasm and passion.
He threw upon her a questioning glance.
“How changed you are,” said he. “It seems but an hour agone to me,
when you, with the very ecstasy of passion, awoke the slumbering fires
within me. Tonight, when you should greet me with a smile of joy, you
seem a block of ice, whose coldness chills me with the grip of death.”
“Do not upbraid me,” she pleaded. “I shall strive, with all my might,
to be faithful, grateful for your fidelity and love.”
“Oh, I see it all now,” cried Paul, delight and hope again springing up
in his simple soul. “You think I am low and base-born, a pauper, and
you despise yourself for having lifted me to the high plane you occupy.”
She was about to speak, but he gave her no chance to break the current
of words which flowed from his lips.
“Oh, do not speak; hear me out. The very day you made of me a God,
because you said you loved me, it was made known to me that I was
of gentle birth, rich beyond all imagination. I am not the dog, the
pauper, the base-born wretch, but am equal in birth, in wealth and
power, to any man who might aspire to honorable marriage with you.”
He paused, breathlessly, expecting Ouida to melt in delightful surprise
at their good fortune. But no such thing happened. In his intensity, he
did not observe her gathering anger. When he finished his story, she
said:
“So, sir, you knew all this the very day I spoke to you?”
“Yes, but would not then have told it to you to save a tottering
throne.”
“Then thus boldly and shamelessly,” she thundered forth, “you confess
deception?”
“What man alive would not have remained silent,” said Paul, “when
speaking meant so deep a loss? Will you not forgive me?”
Even then he thought she would relent, and he approached her. She
waived him off, contemptuously.
“Away! Approach me not. You madden me,” she said, with frightful
vehemence, “I thought that you were baser clay than the dull-witted
fools that gathered round. I sighed for the pleasure of attiring those
mighty limbs of yours, of decking you with jewels, rich and rare. I
deemed you poor, that I might lavish gifts upon you. I thought you
nameless, that I might envelop you with the mantle of my own fame and
genius. You knew the motive, and yet, by the false pretense of silence,
you tricked from my freakish lips that hasty declaration. Be gone! Let
me not look upon your face again!”
The pallor of death overspread his face, and he exclaimed, almost
piteously: “I do confess my sin; yet, does it merit the punishment of
exile? A life that’s worse than death?”
“Go,” she said, in tones that left no room for hope, “I’ll not unsay a
single word. Since you are other than I thought you, this marriage bed
shall know you not. This is no place for such a husband.”
She pointed to the door, and slowly Paul turned, and gradually his
feet bore him away from her presence. When the sound of the departing
tread of Paul had passed away, Ouida, with a glance at the inner room,
wherein waited her lover, she sank with a sigh upon the floor. Her
brain reeled, and consciousness for a period completely abandoned her
being.