While the preparations for the marriage which poor, hapless Bernardine
looked forward to with so much fear went steadily on, preparations for
another wedding, in which Jay Gardiner was to be the unwilling
bridegroom, progressed quite as rapidly.
On the day following the scene in which Sally Pendleton had turned Miss
Rogers from the house--which had been witnessed by the indignant young
doctor--he called upon his betrothed, hoping against hope that she might
be induced to relent, even at the eleventh hour, and let him off from
this, to him, abhorrent engagement.
He found Sally arrayed in her prettiest dress--all fluffy lace and
fluttering baby-blue ribbons--but he had no eyes for her made-up,
doll-like sort of beauty.
She never knew just when to expect him, for he would never give her the
satisfaction of making an appointment to call, giving professional
duties as an excuse for not doing so.
Sally arrayed herself in her best every evening, and looked out from
behind the lace-draped windows until the great clock in the hall chimed
the hour of nine; then, in an almost ungovernable rage, she would go up
to her room, and her mother and Louisa would be made to suffer for her
disappointment.
On the day in question she had seen Jay Gardiner coming up the stone
steps, and was ready to meet him with her gayest smile, her jolliest
laugh.
"It is always the unexpected which happens, Jay," she said, holding out
both her lily-white hands. "Welcome, a hundred times welcome!"
He greeted her gravely. He could not have stooped and kissed the red
lips that were held up to him if the action would have saved his life.
He was so silent and _distrait_ during the time, that Sally said:
"Aren't you well this morning, Jay, or has something gone wrong with
you?" she asked, at length.
"I do feel a trifle out of sorts," he replied. "But pardon me for
displaying my feelings before--a lady."
"Don't speak in that cold, strange fashion, Jay," replied the girl,
laying a trembling hand on his arm. "You forget that I have a right to
know what is troubling you, and to sympathize with and comfort you."
He looked wistfully at her.
Would it do to tell her the story of his love for Bernardine? Would she
be moved to pity by the drifting apart of two lives because of a
betrothal made in a spirit of fun at a race? He hardly dared hope so.
"I was thinking of a strange case that came under my observation
lately," he said, "and somehow the subject has haunted me--even in my
dreams--probably from the fact that it concerns a friend of mine in whom
I take a great interest."
"Do tell me the story!" cried Sally, eagerly--"please do."
"It would sound rather commonplace in the telling," he responded, "as I
am not good at story-telling. Well, to begin with, this friend of mine
loves a fair and beautiful young girl who is very poor. A wealthy
suitor, a dissipated _roue_, had gained the consent of her father to
marry her, before my friend met and knew her and learned to love her.
Now, he can not, dare not speak, for, although he believes in his heart
that she loves him best, he knows she is bound in honor to another; and
to make the matter still more pitiful, he is betrothed to a girl he is
soon to marry, though his _fiancee_ has no portion of his great heart.
Thus, by the strange decrees of fate, which man can not always
comprehend the wisdom of, four people will be wedded unhappily."
As Sally listened with the utmost intentness, she jumped to the
conclusion that the "friend" whose picture Jay Gardiner had drawn so
pathetically was himself, and she heard with the greatest alarm of the
love he bore another. But she kept down her emotions with a will of
iron. It would never do to let him know she thought him unfaithful, and
it was a startling revelation to her to learn that she had a rival. She
soon came to a conclusion.
"It is indeed a strangely mixed up affair," she answered. "It seems to
me everything rests in the hands of this young girl, as she could have
either lover. Couldn't I go to her in the interest of your friend, and
do my best to urge her to marry him instead of the other one."
"But supposing the young girl that he--my friend--is betrothed to
refuses to give him up, what then?"
"I might see her," replied Sally, "and talk with her."
"It is hard for him to marry her, when every throb of his heart is for
another," answered Jay Gardiner, despondently.
"Who is this young girl who is so beautiful that she has won the love of
both these lovers?" she asked in a low, hard voice.
"Bernardine---- Ah! I should not tell you that," he responded,
recollecting himself. But he had uttered, alas! the one fatal
word--Bernardine.