ETHEL KENYON'S WEDDING-DAY.
The morning of Ethel Kenyon's wedding-day was as bright and sunny as any
wedding day had need to be. The weather was unusually warm, and the
trees were already showing the thin veil of green which is one of
spring's first heralds in smoky London town. The window-boxes in the
Square were gay with hyacinth and crocus-blossom. The flower-girls'
baskets were brilliant with "market bunches" of wall-flowers and
daffodils--these being the signs by which the dwellers in the streets
know that the winter is over, that the time of the singing of birds has
come, and that the voice of the turtle is heard in the land. The soft
breezes blew a fragrance of violets and lilac-blossom from the gardens
and the parks. London scarcely looked like itself, with the veil of
smoke lifted away, and a fair blue sky, flecked with light silvery
cloud, showing above the chimney-tops.
Ethel was up at seven o'clock, busying herself with the last touches to
her packing and the consideration of her toilet; for she was much too
active-minded to care for the seclusion in which brides sometimes
preserve themselves upon their wedding-mornings. Some people might have
thought that it would not be a very festive day, for her brother was the
only near relative who remained to her, and an ancient uncle and aunt
who had been, as Ethel herself phrased it, "routed out" for the
occasion, were not likely to add much to the gaiety of nations by their
presence. Mrs. Durant, lately Ethel's companion, was to remain in the
house as Maurice's housekeeper, and she had nominally the control of
everything; but Ethel was still the veritable manager of the day's
arrangements. She had insisted on having her own way in all respects,
and Oliver was not the man to say her nay--just then.
Mrs. Romaine had offered to stay the night with her, and help her to
dress; but Ethel had smilingly refused the companionship of her future
sister-in-law. "Thanks very much," she had said, in the light and airy
way which took the sting out of words that might otherwise have hurt
their hearer; "but I don't think there's anything in which I want help,
and Lesley Brooke is going to act as my maid on the eventful morn
itself."
"Lesley Brooke?" said Mrs. Romaine. She could not altogether keep the
astonishment out of her voice.
"Yes, why not?" asked Ethel, with just so much defiance in her voice as
to put Mrs. Romaine considerably on her guard. "Have you any objection?"
"Dear Ethel, how can you ask such a thing? When you know how fond I am
of Lesley."
"Are you?" asked Miss Kenyon lightly. "Do you know I should never have
thought it, somehow. _I_ am exceedingly fond of Lesley, and so"--with a
little more color in her face than usual--"so is Oliver."
Bravely as she spoke, there was something in the accent which told of
effort and repression. Mrs. Romaine admired her for that little piece of
acting more than she had ever admired her upon the stage. She was too
anxious for her brother's prosperity to say a word to disturb Ethel's
serenity, whether it was real or assumed.
"I am so glad, dear," she said, sweetly. "Lesley is a dear girl, and
thoroughly good and loving. I am quite sure you could not have a better
friend, and she will be delighted to do anything she can for you."
"I don't know about that," said Ethel, with a little pout. "I had a
great deal of trouble to get her to promise to come. She made all sorts
of excuses--one would have thought that she did not want to see me
married at all."
Which, Rosalind thought, might be very true. She had so strong a faith
in the power of her brother's fascinations that she could not believe
that he had actually "made love," as he had threatened, to Lesley Brooke
without success.
Ethel spoke truly when she said that she had had great difficulty in
persuading Lesley to come. After what had passed between herself and
Oliver, Lesley felt herself a traitress in Ethel's presence. It seemed
to her at first impossible to talk to Ethel about her pretty wedding
gifts, her trousseau and her wedding tour, or to listen while she
swore fidelity to Oliver Trent, when she knew what she did know
concerning the bridegroom's faith and honor. On the Sunday after the
Brookes' evening party she had a very severe headache, and sent word to
Ethel that she could not possibly come to her on the morrow. But Ethel
immediately came over to see her, and poured forth questions,
consolations, and laments in such profusion that Lesley, half blind and
dazed, was fain to get rid of her by promising again that nothing should
keep her away. And on Monday the headache had gone, and she had no
excuse. It was not in Lesley's nature to simulate: she could not pretend
that she had an illness when she was perfectly well. There was
absolutely no reason that she could give either to the Kenyons or to
Miss Brooke for not keeping her promise to sleep at Ethel's house on the
Monday night, and be present at her wedding on Tuesday morning.
So she wound herself up to make the best it. It seemed to her that no
girl had ever been placed in so painful a position before. We, who have
more experience of life than Lesley had, know better than that. Lesley's
position was painful indeed, but it might in many ways have been worse.
But she, ignorant of real life, more ignorant even than most girls,
because she knew so few of the pictures of real life that are to be
found in the best kind of novels, had nothing but her native instincts
of truth and courage to fall back upon, together with the strong will
and power of judgment that she inherited from her father. These
qualities, however, stood her in good stead that day. "It is no use to
be weak," she said to herself. "What good shall I do to Ethel if I give
her cause to suspect Oliver Trent's truth to her? The only question
is--ought I to tell her--to put her on her guard? Oh, I think not--I
hope not. If he marries her, he cannot help loving her; and it would
break her heart--now--if I told her that he was not faithful. I must be
brave and go to her, and be as sympathetic as usual--take pleasure in
her pleasure, and try to forget the past! but I wish she were going to
marry a man that one could trust, like my father, or like--Maurice."
She always called him Maurice when she thought about him now.
It took all the strength that she possessed, however, to go through the
ordeal of those hours with Ethel. She managed to keep away until nearly
nine o'clock on Monday night, and then--just after her father had gone
out--she received a peremptory little note from Ethel. "Why don't you
come? You said you would come almost directly after dinner, and it is
ever so late now. Oliver has just left me: he has business in the city,
so I shall not see him again until to-morrow. Do come at once, or I
shall begin to feel lonely."
So Lesley went.
She had to look at the wedding-cake, the wedding-gown, the simple little
breakfast table. She sat up with Ethel until two in the morning, helping
her to pack up her things, and listening to her praises of Oliver. That
was the worst of it. Ethel _would_ talk of Oliver, _would_ descant on
his perfections, and, above all, on his love for her. It was very
natural talk on Ethel's part, but it was indescribably painful and
humiliating to Lesley. Every moment of silence seemed to her like an
implicit lie, and yet she could not bring herself to destroy the fine
edifice of her friend's hopes, although she knew she could bring it down
to the ground with a touch--a word.
"And I am so glad there is not to be a fuss," Ethel said at last, when
St. Pancras' clock was striking two: "for I always thought that a fussy
wedding would be horrid. You see, Lesley, I have dressed up so often in
white satin and lace, as a bride, or a girl in a ballroom, or some other
character not my own, that I feel now as if there would be no reality
for me in a wedding if I did not wear rather every-day clothes. In a
bride's conventional dress, I should only fancy myself on the stage
again."
"You don't call the dress you are to wear to-morrow 'every-day clothes,'
do you?" said Lesley, with a smiling glance towards the lovely gown in
which Ethel had elected to be married, and then to wear during the first
part of her wedding-journey.
"I call it just a nice, pretty frock--nothing else," said Ethel,
complacently, "one that I can pay calls in afterwards. But I could not
refuse the lovely lace Maurice insisted on giving me: so I shall wear a
veil instead of a bonnet--it is the only concession I make to
conventionality."
"I wish you would go to sleep, Ethel: you will look very pale under your
veil to-morrow."
"Well, I will try; but I don't feel like it. I hope Maurice will be back
in good time. It was very tiresome of that patient of his to send for
him in such a hurry."
Then there was a silence, for both girls were growing sleepy; and it was
with a yawn that Ethel at last inquired--
"Lesley, why won't your father come to my wedding?"
"Won't he?" said Lesley, with a little start.
"Not he: I asked him again on Saturday, and he refused."
"Perhaps," said Lesley, not very steadily, "it gives him pain to be
present at a wedding: he speaks sometimes--as if he did not like to hear
of them."
"Oh, you poor, dear thing, I had forgotten all that trouble," said
Ethel, giving her friend a hug which nearly strangled her; "but won't it
come right in the end? Captain Duchesne says that she is so sweet, so
charming--and your father is just delightful."
"I think I can't talk about it," said Lesley, very quietly.
"Then we won't. Did you know I had asked Captain Duchesne to the
breakfast?"
"Oh, Ethel, how heartless of you!" Lesley said, laughing in spite of
herself. For Captain Duchesne's devotion was patent to all the world.
At last they slept in each other's arms; but at seven o'clock Ethel was
skimming about the room like a busy fairy, and it was Lesley, sleeping
heavily after two or three wakeful nights, who had to be aroused by the
little bride-elect, and Ethel laughed merrily to see her friend's start
of surprise.
"Ethel! Ethel! People should be waiting on you and here you are bringing
me tea and bread and butter. This is too bad!"
"It's a new departure," Ethel laughed. "There is no law against a
bride's making herself useful as well as ornamental, is there? You will
have to hurry up, all the same, Lesley: we are dreadfully late already.
And it is the loveliest morning you ever saw--and the bouquets have just
come from the florist--and everything is charming! I feel as if I could
dance."
But Ethel's mirth did not communicate itself to Lesley. There was
nothing forced or unnatural in the young bride's happiness, but Lesley
felt as if some cloud, some shadow, were in the air. Perhaps she had had
bad dreams. She would not damp Ethel's spirits by a word of warning, but
the old aunt from the country who came to inspect her niece as soon as
she was dressed for church was not so considerate.
"You are letting your spirits run away with you, my dear," she said,
reprovingly. "Even on a wedding-day there should not be too much
laughter. Tears before night, when there has been laughter before
breakfast, remember the proverb says."
"Oh, what a cheerful old lady!" said Ethel, brimming over with saucy
laughter once more, as soon as the old dame's back was turned. "I don't
care: I don't mean to be anything but a smiling bride--Oliver says that
he hates tears at a wedding, and I don't mean him to see any."
Maurice arrived just in time to dress and to escort his sister to the
church. It was not he, but Mrs. Durant, the companion and house-keeper,
who first received a word of warning that things were not altogether as
they should be. Others beside Lesley were scenting calamity in the air.
Mrs. Romaine was to form one of the wedding-party. She made her
appearance at a quarter to ten, beautifully dressed, but white to the
very lips, and with a haggard look about her eyes. As soon as she
entered the house she drew Mrs. Durant aside.
"Has Oliver been sleeping here?" she asked.
"_Here!_" Mrs. Durant's indignant accent was sufficient answer.
"He has not been home all night," Mrs. Romaine whispered.
"Not at home!"
"I suppose he is sleeping at his club and will come on from there," Mrs.
Romaine answered, trying to reassure herself now that she had given the
alarm to another. "Everything has been ordered--my bouquet came from
him, at least from the florist's this morning--and I suppose we shall
find him at the church. But I have been dreadfully anxious about
him--quite foolishly, I daresay. Don't say anything to any body else."
Mrs. Durant did not mean to say anything, but--without exactly stating
facts--she had managed in about three minutes to convey her own and Mrs.
Romaine's feeling of discomfort, to the whole party. The only exceptions
were Maurice and Ethel, who, of course, heard nothing. A gloom fell upon
the guests even while the carriages were standing at the door.
Lesley and Mrs. Romaine happened to be placed in the same carriage,
facing one another. They looked at one another in silence, but with a
mutual understanding that they had never felt before. Each read her own
fear in the other's face. But the fear came from different sources.
Lesley was afraid that Oliver had felt himself unable to fulfil his
engagement to Ethel, and had therefore severed his connection with her
by flight: Rosalind feared that he had been taken ill or met with some
untoward accident. Only in Rosalind's mind there was always another fear
in the background where her brothers were concerned--that one or other
of them would be bringing himself and her to disaster and disgrace. She
had no faith in them, and not much faith in herself.
There was no bridegroom in waiting at St. Pancras' Church. Mrs. Romaine
held a hurried consultation with a friend, and a messenger was
despatched to Oliver's club, where he sometimes slept, and also to the
rooms which he called his "chambers" in the city. A little silence
overspread the group of guests from the Kenyons' house. Other visitors,
of whom there were not many, looked blithe enough; but gloom was plainly
visible on the faces of the bride's friends. And a little whisper soon
ran from group to group--"The bridegroom has not come."
If only he would appear before the bride! There was yet time. The
carriage containing Ethel and her brother had not started from the door.
But the distance was short, and speedily traversed: still Oliver did not
come. And there at last was the wedding-chariot with its white silk
linings and the white favors on the horses--and there was the pretty,
smiling bride herself upon her brother's arm. How sweet she looked as
she mounted the broad grey steps, with cheeks a little rosy, eyes
downcast, and her smiles half concealed by the costly lace in which she
had veiled herself! There was never a prettier bride than Ethel Kenyon,
although she had not attired herself in all the bridal finery that many
women covet.
Something in the expression of the faces that met her at the church door
startled her a little when she first looked up: she changed color, and
glanced wonderingly from one to another. Some one spoke in Maurice
Kenyon's ear.
"What is it?" she asked, quickly. "Is anything wrong?"
"Oliver is late, dear, that is all. Just wait a minute--here by the
door: he will be here presently."
"Late!" re-echoed the girl, turning suddenly pale. "Oh Maurice, what do
you mean? _We_ were late too--it is a quarter past ten."
"Hush, my darling, he will be here directly, and more distressed than
any of us, no doubt."
"I should think so," said Ethel, trying to laugh. "Poor Oliver! what a
state he will be in!"
But the hand with which she had suddenly clutched Lesley's arm trembled,
and her lips were very white.
For a minute, for five, for ten minutes, the bridal party waited, but
Oliver did not come. A messenger came back to say that he had not been
at the club since the previous day. And then Maurice's hot temper blazed
up. He left his sister and spoke to his old friend, Miss Brooke.
"Do not let Ethel make herself a laughing-stock," he said. "The man
insults us by being late, and shall account to me for it, but she must
be got out of this somehow. Can't you take her away?"
"Let her go to the vestry," said Miss Brooke. "You had better not take
her away just yet--look at the crowd outside. I will get Lesley to
persuade her."
Ethel made no opposition. She went quietly into the vestry and sat down
on a seat that was offered to her, waiting in silence, asking no
questions. Then there was a short period of whispered consultation, of
terrible suspense. She herself did not know whether the time was short
or long. She could not bear even Lesley's arm about her, or the support
of Maurice's brotherly hand. Harry Duchesne's dark face in the
background seemed in some inexplicable sort of way the worst of all. For
she knew that he loved and admired her, and she was shamed by a recreant
lover before his very eyes.
After a time Maurice was called out. A policeman in plain clothes wanted
to speak to him. They had five minutes' conversation together, and then
the young doctor returned to the room where Ethel was still sitting. His
face was as white as that of his sister now, and she was the first to
remark the change.
"You have heard something," she said, springing to her feet and fixing
her great dark eyes upon his face.
"Yes, Ethel, my poor darling, yes. Come home with me."
"Not till you tell me the truth."
"Not here, my darling--wait till we get home. Come at once."
"I must know, Maurice: I cannot bear to wait. Is he--is he--_dead_?"
He would gladly have refused to answer, but his pallid lips spoke for
him. And from another group a shriek rang out from the lips of Rosalind
Romaine--a shriek that told her all.
"Dead? Murdered? Oh, no, no--it cannot be?" cried Oliver's sister. "Not
dead! not dead!"
She fell back in violent hysterics, but Ethel neither wept nor cried
aloud. She stood erect, her head a little higher than usual, a smile
that might almost be called proud curving her soft lips.
"You see," she said, unsteadily, but very clearly; "you see--it was not
his fault. He _would_ have come--if he had been--alive."
And, then, still smiling, she gave her hand to her brother and let him
lead her away. But before she had crossed the threshold of the room, he
was obliged to take her in his arms to save her from falling, and it was
in his arms that she was carried back to the carriage which she had left
so smilingly.
But for those who were left behind there was more bad news to hear. In
London no secret can be kept even from the ears of those whose heart it
breaks to hear it. Before noon the newsboys were crying in the streets--
"Brutal murder of a gentleman on his wedding-day. Arrest of a well-known
journalist."
And everywhere the name bandied from pillar to post was that of Mr.
Caspar Brooke, who had been arrested on suspicion of having caused the
death of Oliver Trent.