THE BRIDE AND THE WIFE.
Arnold entered the hotel with an imperious step, and a storm in his
eyes. With these feelings he had no wish to meet his mother, and
received Hannah’s affectionate greeting almost with a rebuff. He was
annoyed at Paul’s presence, and, drawing Hannah aside, whispered in rude
haste,
“Where is she? Where is Amy Leonard? I must see her alone.”
“I don’t know, Ben,—she went out I fancy. But what is the matter,—you
look so strange, and father too? Dear father, you are pale.”
Before the old man could answer, there was a quick sound of feet in the
passage, and Laura de Montreuil entered, leading Amy by the hand. When
the proud girl saw her brother, she stopped short and drew a sharp
breath, but directly her eyes fell upon Benedict with a clear, stern
light that pierced through his audacious assurance.
“Sir,” she said, with grand self-possession, “look upon this fair
creature, and then, if you can, refuse the redress I have come to
demand.”
Arnold cast a withering glance at Amy, but she bore it meekly. He went
up to her, seized the hand which Laura held, and drew her aside. “Is
this the way you keep an oath, traitoress?” he hissed through his
clenched teeth.
Amy drew back, briefly saying, “It is kept. Arnold, I have told
nothing.”
He gained a little courage at this, and, approaching Laura, would have
taken her hand, but she stepped back, rebuking him like a queen.
“Let me speak with you one moment alone,” he pleaded.
“When this lady is your wife,—never till then.”
“Laura, do you, can you cast me off, because a jealous girl pursues me
with accusations that are false?”
“She false! Look at her,—is that a face to doubt?”
“You never loved me, Laura, or this person would have no power to change
you so.”
She silenced him with an imperious gesture.
“Remember,” he said, drawing so close that his breath swept her cheek,
“the ceremony of to-morrow night. Nothing can prevent it. Why expose
your delicacy by this public scene?”
His breath made Laura faint, she turned away dizzy and pale.
“Go home and let me settle this,” he urged, triumphing in her emotion.
“Paul, Paul de Montreuil, take your sister home; she is excited; I have
been cruelly maligned to her. Dear Laura, I intreat you, go home. In the
morning I will explain.”
Laura called back her strength, the noble pride flashed into her cheeks
again. She turned to her brother, who came up greatly agitated. The
scene had taken him completely by surprise.
“Paul, Paul, let us go away. This man—oh! Paul—this man——”
She could not finish the sentence. All the anguish and pride of her
nature rose up and overpowered her words
“What is this? Give me some explanation,” said Paul, with dignity. “Is
it that you have refused to marry this gentleman?”
“Yes, brother, I refuse.”
“Beware, Laura, or I may take you at your word,” whispered Arnold.
She regarded him for a moment with lofty pride, then turned to her
brother.
“Yes, Paul, I do most solemnly refuse to marry this bad man.”
“And you mean this?” whispered Arnold.
She did not answer him, but looked at her brother.
“There will be a marriage to-morrow night, and at your house, Paul; but
the bride is changed. See, I have dragged my wedding-dress through the
streets in dust and dew. Hers shall be pure and white as snow. She gave
me life, I give her—oh! Paul, Paul, take me home.”
She moved toward the door and attempted to lift the latch. Arnold
started forward and seized her hand.
“One word more. Do you, Laura de Montreuil, break our engagement here
and forever?”
“Now and forever!” she answered, solemnly.
“And you wish me to marry this girl, Amy Leonard, at your brother’s
house to-morrow night?”
“I do!”
She was pale as marble, and her voice seemed passing over ice.
“Laura, reflect—take a little time. I have struggled and dared a great
deal for you. Be brave—be yourself—and defy those who would separate us.
I tell you this girl can bring forward no proofs of a claim against me!”
Laura stood looking at him wildly. His voice, passionately tender, had
stirred her heart into revolt against its own generosity.
“Wait till to-morrow, dearest!”
He bent toward her and said this in a whisper which no one heard but
herself. She did not answer him, but a look of yearning regret swept her
face while her hand unconsciously answered his pressure with a faint
clasp. His heart gave a triumphant bound, and anxious that she should go
before any new appeal could be made to her gratitude, he opened the door
that she might pass through.
Laura was about to advance into the passage, but started aside, for,
close by the door, as if about to enter it, stood a person whose
presence drove her back. It was a clergyman, whom she had often seen in
his pulpit, and once or twice in the street, but so pale, so
travel-worn, and disturbed in his appearance, that she recognized him
with dismay. This man saw her bridal robes, and staggered back against
the wall of the passage ghastly white. Arnold saw her recoil from the
threshold and stepped forward again, looking past her into the dim
passage, to learn the cause of her retreat. Osborne had recovered
himself and stood before him, pale as ever, but stern with a solemn
resolve.
For that one moment in his life Arnold lost all self-possession; but it
was only for a moment. Quick as lightning his intellect resumed its
vigor. He saw the peril of that man’s presence, the certainty of defeat.
All his plans had been laid on the assurance that this one man, the sole
witness of his marriage, and the only person who could establish it as a
fact, was safe on the ocean. The peril once seen, his decision was made.
He retreated into the centre of the room and called out, “Lady, come
back one moment, I have yet another word to say.”
Laura turned upon him, wild with new apprehension. There was not room to
pass her in the doorway; but Osborne was visible close behind her in the
passage.
Arnold turned his bold eyes steadily upon this man, and even made a
gesture that he should keep silent. “As for the wedding,” he said,
throwing his arm around Amy, “I cannot, with propriety, indulge you, as
Amy Leonard and I have been married considerably over a year: look up,
little wife, and tell this good company if I speak the truth.”
Amy did not answer. Her cold lips would have refused utterance had she
attempted it.
“I am married to this pretty little soul, and consequently must decline
acting at any other ceremony. My good father has been greatly exercised
about my matrimonial plans of late. I hope he is satisfied now.”
The elder Arnold looked sorrowfully on his son.
“You seem to doubt me. The tidings have struck you all dumb,” continued
the young man, looking around with a fierce, mocking laugh. “My proof is
close at hand. It was the Rev. Jared Osborne who married us; and,
providentially, he is in the house, eager, I dare say, to bear testimony
to the fact.”
Laura had staggered away from the door. Osborne stood in the opening. A
beautiful smile lighted up his face, which had been haggard as death the
moment before. He had proceeded directly to the hotel in his
storm-beaten and travel-stained garments, resolved at all hazards to
arrest the crime he dreaded. When he saw a woman come forth from
Arnold’s room in dazzling white, all strength forsook him and he felt
ready to die. Arnold brought him to life again. Without his
interposition the marriage was proclaimed. The good man comprehended
nothing of what had gone before. He only knew that a terrible weight had
been lifted from his soul and his pale face glowed with the new joy.
“Yes,” he said, in a sweet, grateful voice, advancing towards the
strangely united couple, “it was I who called down God’s benediction on
this young couple. In as much as I did wrong in uniting them in secret,
I ask forgiveness of God and of all who may have suffered by it.”
His words were received in dead silence; not a breath seemed drawn.
Arnold alone gave evidence of real vitality. The rest were like statues.
Arnold turned to his father: “Now, sir, let us end this scene forever.
This young person is my legally married wife. I acknowledge her as such
before the whole world,—the more willingly because I know it will
torture this haughty lady. Tell your deacons and our good neighbors in
Norwich that they must carry their church discipline somewhere else. _My
wife_ is no subject for it. As for the old folks at the saw-mill, let
them know that in forcing a wife upon me before I was ready to claim
her, they have lost a daughter.”
The father thus addressed turned sorrowfully away.
Then Paul de Montreuil started from the window against which he had
leaned, and stood up stern and tall before the man who had offered this
outrage to his sister,—his proud, beautiful sister, whose faculties were
all locked up in mute astonishment. The insult hurled upon her was so
stupendous that his pride refused to understand it.
“To-morrow,” he whispered, with deadly scorn in his voice, “to-morrow I
shall demand an explanation.”
“It is here,” answered Arnold, laughing hoarsely. “And a fair one you
must admit. Why, man, it is of no use to look daggers. A fellow with one
pretty wife cannot marry another,—fond and willing as ladies sometimes
are. Is not this explanation enough?”
Paul looked at him steadily. These mocking words made him quiver from
head to foot.
“Are you coward and villain both?”
The words dropped from the young Frenchman’s lips like leaden bullets.
His eyes, lurid with rage, lighted up the pale features with deathly
meaning.
Arnold was brave as a wild beast, and felt it in every drop of the hot
blood that boiled in his veins. He almost shouted back the answer.
“Coward! You know better. Name your time and place.”
His arm had been girding Amy’s waist till then, but as this frenzy of
passion seized upon him, he pushed her away, and she fell like a dead
creature at his feet. This mournful sight restored Paul to his better
self.
“This is no time nor place,” he said. “But to-morrow.”
“To-morrow be it then,” cried Arnold, lifting his wife from the floor,
and carrying her into another room “Mother! mother! Come here. They have
killed her among them.”
Paul turned towards the window. Hannah was sitting on the high-backed
couch, with her white face pressed against the crimson cushions. She was
seized with a shivering fit as he drew near her.
“Hannah,” he said, “must this part us?”
The answer came from her lips in broken gasps: “I—I don’t know.”
The minister interposed: “Young man, dare you ask that question with
murder in your heart? Are you not even now planning the death of her
brother?”
“Sir!” answered Paul, in haughty anger. “When the honor of a family is
outraged we do not go to the church for council.”
Hannah leaned forward in her seat, and looked wildly from Paul to the
minister.
“Is it death that he means?” she questioned in a hoarse whisper.
No one answered. Her face, locked and cold a moment before, began to
quiver. The hands, that lay like dead things in her lap, clasped each
other and were uplifted.
“Oh, Paul, Paul! He is my brother!”
“And she is my sister,—my insulted, wronged sister,” he answered,
pointing to Laura, who stood transfixed, her white face fearfully
contracted, and her eyes burning like fire.
She turned her head, and came up to Paul.
“What is that you are saying?”
Paul threw his arm around her.
“Do not let us talk here, Laura.”
“I thought some one spoke of killing him,” she said. Then, with a sudden
blaze of intelligence, and a firmer grasp of the hand, she cried out:
“Do it, Paul! do it, or I will.”
Hannah arose to her feet, but her strength gave way, and she fell back,
holding out her arms and crying piteously:
“Paul! Paul!”
The young man was overwhelmed by the terrible passion of his sister, and
could only turn his face towards her in answer to that pathetic cry.
All at once Laura changed. She sat down by Hannah with a dreary gesture
of desolation.
“Did I frighten you, Hannah?” she said. “Don’t be terrified; nothing
shall harm you. My wrongs must rest with myself. Paul, forget what I
have been saying. It was wild, wicked, unwomanly. I charge you now,—most
solemnly charge you,—not to harm this man.”
“Laura,” said Paul, in a voice that was stern, though compassionate;
“the men of a house take care of its honor. Hannah, my beloved, trust
me. I will do nothing that a just man should avoid. Have faith in me
even in this painful trial.”
He bent down with mournful grace and kissed Hannah upon the forehead,
passing his hand over her hair with a mental blessing. Then he led his
sister from the room.