A HORRIBLE MYSTERY ON THE WEDDING DAY.
On the day before the wedding all the preparations were completed.
The grounds around the castle, paradisial in their own natural beauty
under this heavenly blue sky of June, were adorned with all that art and
taste and wealth could bring to enhance their attractions in honor of the
occasion.
Triumphal arches of rare exotic flowers were erected at intervals along
the avenue leading from the castle courtyard down to the bridge that
spanned Loch Lone from the island, to the mountain hamlet on the main
land. The bridge itself was canopied with evergreens, and starred with
roses. Every house in the little hamlet of Lone was so wreathed and
festooned with flowers as to look like a fairy bower. The little gothic
church, said to be coeval in history with the castle itself, was
decorated within and without as for an Easter or Christmas festival. And
the only inn of the place, an antiquated but most comfortable public
house, known for centuries as the "Hereward Arms," was almost covered
with flags, banners and bushes, in honor of the presence of the Duke of
Hereward, and the Marquis of Arondelle, especially, and of other noble
guests who had arrived there to assist at the wedding of the next day.
Yes, the expectant bridegroom and his aged father were at the Hereward
Arms. Etiquette did not admit of their being guests at the Castle on the
day before the expected marriage. And much ado had the young marquis to
keep the duke quietly at the inn. The old man enjoying his pleasing
hallucination of being still the proprietor of Lone, and the possessor of
a princely revenue, fretted against the delay that detained him at the
Hereward Arms, when he was so anxious to go on to Castle Lone. And his
son did not venture to leave him until late at night, when he left him in
bed and asleep.
Then the young marquis walked out and crossed the evergreen covered
bridge leading to the Castle grounds. He knew that custom did not
sanction his visit to his bride-elect on the night before their wedding,
but he could at least gaze on the walls that sheltered her, while he
rambled over the rich lawns, parterres, shrubberies, and terraces.
Within the Castle, meanwhile, all the arrangements for the morning's
festivity were completed.
Halls, drawing-rooms, parlors, chambers, and dining-rooms, all
sumptuously furnished and beautifully decorated, were ready for the
wedding guests.
In the dining-room the luxurious wedding-breakfast was set. The service
was of solid gold and finest Sevres china; the viands comprised every
foreign and domestic delicacy fitting the feast.
In the drawing-room the magnificent bridal presents were
displayed--coronets, necklaces, earrings, brooches, bracelets, rings,
of pearls, diamonds, opals, emeralds, sapphires, and amethysts; jewel
caskets, dressing cases, work boxes, and writing desks, of ormolu, of
malachite, of pearl, and of ivory, of silver, and of gold; illuminated
prayer-books and Bibles, with antique covers and clasps set with precious
stones; tea and dinner sets of solid gold; camel's hair and Cashmere
shawls and scarfs; sets of lace in Honiton, Brussels, Valencia. Irish
point and old point--on to an endless list of the most splendid
offerings.
"The wealth of Ormus and of Ind"
seemed to load the tables in costly gifts to the banker's daughter, and
marquis' bride.
In the bride's own luxurious dressing-room, the elegant bridal costume
was displayed. It consisted of a fine point-lace dress over a
trained-skirt of rich white satin, a full-length vail of priceless
cardinal point-lace; white kid boots, embroidered with small pearls;
white kid gloves, trimmed at the wrists with lace; wreath and bouquet of
orange flowers; necklace and pendant earrings and bracelets of rich
Oriental pearls, set with diamonds. These jewels were the imaginary gift
of the mad duke to the bride-elect of his son, and were paid for, as has
been already explained, by the bride's own father. A sentiment of tender
reverence for the unfortunate old duke had inspired Salome to select
these jewels from all the others that had been lavished upon her, to wear
on her wedding day.
To the credit of the good banker's delicacy and discretion let it be
said, that not even Salome knew but that this elegant gift had been given
by the duke in reality as it was in intention.
The Castle was now full of guests, friends of the bride and of her
father's family. The eight young ladies who were to attend her to the
altar, had arrived early in the afternoon, each chaperoned by her mother,
aunt, or some matronly friend. These had all been shown to their separate
apartments.
They assembled again at the seven o'clock dinner in the family
dining-room, and afterwards made a little tour of inspection through
the rooms, looking with approval and admiration upon the sumptuous
wedding-breakfast table, set in the great dining-room, and with surprise
and enthusiasm at the splendid wedding presents displayed in the
drawing-room. Finally, after a social cup of tea, they separated and
retired to their several rooms, that they might be up in good time the
next morning.
When Salome entered her own bed-chamber, she found the old housekeeper,
Girzie Ross, awaiting her.
"I took the liberty, me leddy, to come to see ye, gin ye hae ony commands
for me the night," said the dame, courtesying.
"No, Mrs. Ross, I have no orders to give. All is done, as I understand.
If there be anything left undone, you will use you own discretion about
it. I can thoroughly trust you," said Salome.
"Guid-night, then, me leddy. And a guid rest and a blithe waking till
ye," said the dame, courtesying again, and turning to leave the room.
"One moment, Mrs. Ross, if you please," said the young lady, gently
arresting her steps.
"Ay, me leddy, as mony as ye'll please," promptly replied the dame,
returning to her place.
"I wish to ask you a question," began Salome, in a slow and hesitating
manner. "Have you seen or heard anything more of that girl, Mrs. Ross?"
"Meaning that ne'er-do-weel light o' love Rose Cameron, me leddy!"
inquired the housekeeper.
"Yes, Rose Cameron. There have been such crowds of people on the island
today to inspect the decorations, that I thought--I thought--"
"As that handsome jaud might be amang 'em, me leddy? Ou, ay, and sae she
waur! But when I caught her prowling about here, I sent Mr. McRath to
warn her off the place, and threaten her wi' the constable gin she
didna gang!" said the housekeeper.
"But that was cruel, Mrs. Ross."
"Na, na, me leddy. It waur unco well dune! She was after no guid prowling
about here, and making an excuse o' luking at the deekorated grounds. She
didna care for the sight a bodle! Aweel she's gane, and a guid riddance."
"What does the girl look like, Mrs. Ross?"
"Eh, leddy, she's a strapping wench! tall and broad-shouldered, and
full-breasted, with a handsome head that she carries unco high, and big,
bold blue eyes, and a heap o' long, red hair. That's Rosy Cameron, me
leddy."
This was a rather rough portrait of the Juno-like Highland beauty; but
then, it was drawn by an enemy, you know.
"But dinna fash yersel' about yon hizzie ony mair, me young leddy. She'll
na be permitted to trouble ye," concluded the housekeeper.
"That will do, Mrs. Ross. Thanks. But pray do not let anyone be harsh
with that poor girl. If she is a little crazy, she is all the more to be
pitied. Good-night," said Salome, thus gently dismissing her talkative
attendant.
"Guid night, me young leddy. Guid rest and blithe waking to ye," repeated
the old woman, as she courtesied and left the room.
"Poor girl!" mused Salome. "I cannot help sympathizing with her tonight.
What if Arondelle who is so courteous to all, were courteous to her also.
And she, unused to courtesy in her rude Highland home, mistook such
gentle courtesy for preference, for love, and gave him her love in
return? He would not be in the least to be blamed, while she would be
much to be pitied. What a cruel sight these wedding preparations must be
to her! What a miserable night this must be for her! I must see to that
poor girl's welfare," concluded Salome.
A low rap at her door disturbed her.
"Come in."
Her maid entered.
"What is it, Janet?"
"If you please, Miss, Sir Lemuel's man has just brought me a message for
you. Sir Lemuel requests, Miss, that you will come to his room before you
retire."
"Dear papa, I will go at once. You need not wait for me here, Janet. Just
turn the lights down low--they make the room so warm--and leave the
windows partly open, and then go to bed, my girl, I shall not want you
again tonight," said Salome, as she passed out of the chamber and went
down to the long hall, at the opposite extremity of which was her
father's room.
She entered silently, and found the banker wrapped in his gray silk
dressing-gown and seated in his large resting-chair.
"Come and sit by me, my dear. I only wanted to have a little talk with
you tonight," he said, holding out his hand to her.
She went up to him, clasped and kissed the out-stretched hand, and then
seated herself, not on the chair by his side, for that would not have
brought her near enough to him, but on the footstool at his feet, so that
she could lay her head upon his knees.
"Salome, my darling, I have not been a good father to you," he said,
sadly, as he ran his long white fingers through the tresses of the little
dark-haired head that lay upon his knees.
"Oh, papa! the best and dearest papa that ever lived!" she answered,
drawing his hand to her lips and kissing it fondly.
"No, no; I have not been a good father to you, my poor motherless child.
I feel it to-night. I left you fourteen years in a foreign convent, and
scarcely ever saw you. Was that being a good father to you, my child?"
"Yes, dear, it was. I had to be educated. And the nuns did their whole
duty by me, did they not?" said Salome, soothingly.
"They sent me home a sweet and lovely child, who in the three years that
she has been my greatest blessing and comfort has made me feel and know
how much I lost in banishing her from my presence so long--fourteen
years!--a time never to be redeemed!" said the banker, with a sigh.
"Yes, papa, dear. It can and shall be redeemed. For now you know I shall
live with you as long as you live. My marriage will not deprive you of
your daughter, but give you a dear and noble son. You know it is settled
that after our brief wedding we shall return to Lone, and you and the
duke, and Arondelle and myself, will all live here together until the
meeting of Parliament in February, and then we shall go up to London
together. So cheer up, papa. All the coming years shall compensate
for all we have lost in the past," said Salome, gayly caressing him.
"'The coming years?' Ah, my darling! do you forget that I am quite an old
man to be your father? You were the child of my old age, Salome! I was
nearly fifty when you were born. I am nearly seventy now!"
"_Dear father!_" murmured Salome, caressing him with ineffable
tenderness.
"Do not let me sadden you, my darling. I would not be a day younger. It
is well to be old. It is well to have lived a long time in this world,
for it is a good world. But good as it is, it is but rudimentary. It is
to the human being only what the soil is to the seed--the germinating
bed; the full and perfect world is beyond. Young Christians believe this.
Aged Christians know it. There, brighten up! And think that this marriage
of yours and Arondelle's if it be as true as I feel assured it is--will
be not for time only but for all eternity! Believe this and be happier
than you were ever before! There now, my darling! I called you in here
to make my little confession. I have received absolution. Now go to your
rest. Good night," said the banker, bending and kissing her forehead.
"Dear, dearest father! bless your daughter before she goes," said Salome,
in a voice thrilling with emotion, as she raised from her seat and knelt
at her father's feet.
The old man laid his hand upon her bowed head and solemnly invoked a
blessing upon her.
"May the Lord look down on you, my daughter. May He give you health and
grace to bear your burdens and do your duties as wife and mother, and
save and bless you and yours, now and ever more, for Christ's dear sake.
AMEN."
She arose in silence from her knees, put her arms around his neck, kissed
him, and glided from the room.
And now a terrible and mysterious thing happened to the bride-elect.
The lights had been turned very low in the hall. The household had all
retired to rest. The stillness and the sense of darkness awed her as she
glided noiselessly along in the deep shadows. Suddenly she saw the form
of a man approaching from the direction of her own room. He might be some
belated servant on some legitimate business for one of the guests, yet he
startled her. She looked intently toward him, but in the obscure light
she could only see that he was a tall man in dark clothing, and with a
very white face. She shrank back in the shadow of the wall as he swiftly
and silently approached her.
Then with amazement she recognized the face and form of her betrothed
husband. But the face was deadly pale, and the form was shaking as with
an ague fit.
"ARONDELLE! _You here!_" she exclaimed, starting towards
him.
But she met only the empty air, the form had vanished.
In unbounded amazement she stared all around to see where it could have
gone, and in what part of the darksome hall she herself then stood.
She found herself opposite to the entrance of a long, narrow passage
opening from the hall and leading to the door of a staircase
communicating with the dungeons of Malcolm's Tower.
She looked down that passage. It was black as the mouth of Hades!
A nameless terror seized her, and she fled precipitately down the hall,
nor stopped until she had reached her own room, rushed in, and shut and
bolted the door. Then she sank down into the nearest chair, feeling cold
as ice, and trembling from head to foot.
Her maid had over-acted her instructions, and had not only turned the
lights low, but had turned them out entirely.
There was no need of artificial light, however; for the windows were open
and the room was flooded with the brilliant moonshine of these northern
latitudes.
Salome did not know or care how the room was lighted. She sat there
thrilled with awe of what she had just experienced.
Had she really seen the marquis?--or his spirit? Or had she been the
victim of an optical illusion?
If she had seen the marquis, what could have brought him secretly into
the house and up into the hall of the bed-rooms, at that hour of the
night? And why did he not answer her, when she called him?
It surely could not have been the marquis whom she saw! He never would
have crept into the house and up to their private-rooms, at that hour of
the night, or fled from her, when she called him?
What was it then that she had seen in the likeness of her lover?
Was it the disembodied spirit of Arondelle? _Could_ the spirit of a
living man appear in one place, while the body of the man was present in
another? She had heard and read of such wonders, yet she could not accept
them as facts.
No, this was no spirit.
What then? Had she been the subject of an optical illusion? She had heard
of those wonders also!
But no! This was too real, too solid, too substantial for an optical
illusion!
Was the form she had seen possibly that of some other person, some guest
of the house, who had lost his way.
No, and a thousand noes! She knew every guest staying at the castle, and
knew that not one of them bore the slightest resemblance to the Marquis
of Arondelle.
No, the form that she had seen in the murky hall seemed that of her
betrothed husband, or it was his spirit.
She could not tell which, nor could she test the question now. The house
was full of wedding guests, who were now most probably sound asleep in
their beds. And the household all had long since retired. She could not
rouse them only to satisfy her own doubts without any other practical
result. For what if the intruder were Lord Arondelle? He was not in the
least an objectional guest. And in the morning he would explain his
strange presence.
By this time Salome had reasoned herself into some degree of calmness.
But she was still too much excited to feel sleepy or to think of retiring
to bed.
The mid-summer night was warm and close, even there in the Highlands--or
in her nervous condition it seemed to her to be so. She wanted more air.
She went to the window, and seated herself in an easy-chair, and looked
out.
A heavenly night!
The deep-blue sky was spangled with myriads of sparkling stars. The full
harvest moon was at the zenith and pouring down a flood of silvery
radiance over mountain, lake and island.
Right opposite the window was the elegant little bridge that spanned the
lake between the island and the mountain, at the base of which stood the
little Gothic church with the cottages of the hamlet clustered around it.
A beautiful scene!
This morning it had been gay and noisy with a rejoicing crowd come to
inspect the decorated grounds, and to triumph over the approaching
marriage of their disinherited young lord, with the present heiress of
his lost estate.
To-morrow this scene would be even more gay and more noisy, with a
greater and more rejoicing crowd. For all the Clan Scott were to gather
here to do honor to the nuptials of their hereditary chieftain.
But to-night the beautiful scene was holy in its solitude and stillness.
Hark!
A sound of voices beneath the window.
Salome started, and drew back. And the next moment, paralyzed by
consternation and despair, she overheard the following conversation:
"_Hist!_ are you there, Rose?" inquired a dear familiar voice.
"Ay, I'm here, me laird! After being turnit frae the castle like a thief,
or a beggar, or a dog! after being threatened wi' a constable and a
prison if I ever showed my face here; but once mair I hae come agen, in
obedience to your bidding! Come creeping, creeping, creeping ander the
castle wa', by night, like ony puir cat afeared o' scauding water! Ay, me
laird, I'm here, mair fule I!" replied a woman's voice.
"Hush, Rose! Do not say so, my girl. And do not call me 'lord;' I am your
slave and not your 'lord,' my lady queen! You know I love you--you only
of all women."
"Luve me? Ou, ay, sae ye tell me. But this gran' wedding is coming unco
near to be naething but a jest. How far will ye carry the jest? Up till
the altar railings? Into the bridal chamber? It's deceiving and fuling
me, ye are, me laird! But I'll tell ye weel! Ye sail no marry yon girl,
I say! Gin ye gae sae far as to lead her to the kirk mesel' will meet you
at the altar and forbid the marriage. And _then_ see wha will put me
out!"
"Hush, hush, you wild Highland witch, and listen to me. I shall not marry
that girl! How can I, when I am married to you? I have had an object in
letting this thing go on thus far. My plans could not all be accomplished
until to-night. But to-night something will happen that will put all
thoughts of marrying and giving in marriage effectually out of the heads
of all parties concerned, I will warrant. And to-morrow, you and I will
be far away from this place--together, and never to part again. Wait here
for me, my love; I shall not be long away. But on your life, do not stir,
or speak, or scarcely breathe until you see me again."
"How long will you be gone?"
"Perhaps an hour. Perhaps two hours. You can be patient?"
"Ay, I can be patient."
Here the low, whispering voice ceased. And Salome?
Before that conversation was half through, Salome had fallen back in her
chair in a deadly swoon.