Chapter XLI: The Bridal Toilet

Arnold was with Laura that evening, and a more perfect contrast between the dim room where the Arnold family sat, and the exquisite boudoir in which the young man was lounging away the last few hours that was to intervene before his marriage, could not well be imagined.

Laura stood before him in her wedding-garments. The crimson curtains, sweeping over the windows, served that lovely picture as a background,—the lights of a gilded candelabrum fell athwart her robe of thick, white silk, and made the silver bouquets with which it was brocaded glitter with frostlike brightness. Diamond drops fell like dew among the white roses that crowned the sweep of her beautiful hair, and lighted up her stomacher in clusters of rainbow flame. The sleeves, which fitted close down to her elbow, terminated in a mist of lace, like that which left a scarcely perceptible shadow on her bosom.

From the rustling folds of her robe her little feet peeped out, clad in dainty satin shoes, balanced on heels that seemed cut from coral, with rubies lying like frozen flame in the heart of each white rosette.

With his usual haste for gratification, the bridegroom had urged her to don this dress, that he might know how beautiful she would be when the wedding evening came. Why should he wait till then and share her presence with so many others?

He had been praising her: you could have told it by the peachy bloom on her cheeks, the shy gladness that broke through those curling lashes. Yes, she was beautiful, and he had told her so. The fever of half-sated admiration glowed in his eyes; the triumph of his “ruling passion” was so vivid that she could not help thinking it love.

“Now,” she said, blushing and shrinking like an overdressed child; “may I go and put these things away before the gloss is brushed off? or have you some defect to point out?”

“Defect!” exclaimed Arnold with ardor. “Who shall presume to question any thing you wear or say? Not I! To the depths of my heart I feel how beautiful you are. Not the natives here! When have they seen any thing approaching this? Such magnificence will astonish them!”

“I hope so, if that pleases you,” she said, blushing happily, as she swept past him and tried to make her escape.

He caught her hand and kissed it ardently. She laughed and struggled till the dimples came to her cheeks; then, with a half-tender, half-coquettish protest, obeyed his gesture, and sunk to an ottoman which stood by his chair. Thus, with those rich garments settling around her like crusted snow, she formed another picture, at which he gazed in greedy triumph.

There is seldom perfect equality in marriage, because from depth of affection or circumstance the balance of love usually preponderates on one side, thus rendering one party the monarch, and the other a subject. That man or woman is generous, indeed, if he or she never presume upon the power which is obtained through excess of love in another. Arnold was not of this class. He delighted in testing the extent of his authority over that queenly nature, and kept her at his feet, as we trifle with a child.

“So you like the dress?” she said, looking down upon it. “But I was very foolish to indulge you. It will seem old and familiar on our wedding-day.”

“Perhaps so,” he said carelessly: “but I am always brushing the down from my fruit. Never mind, it is pretty enough for a second examination, and one never tires of these things: there is power as well as show in them.”

He touched the cluster of jewels on her bosom with a gleam in his eyes that made her shrink. Did he, indeed, care for those things so much, not because they were hers, but from the value that they represented?

She felt this question in her heart without putting it clearly before her intellect, but, for the moment, it made her thoughtful. He saw it, and touched her cheek.

“Do you love me?” he said, in a voice that was in its very tones a caress.

She blushed, like a flower when the sun rises, but only answered with a brilliant flash of the eyes and a smile that fell upon him like a glow of light.

He leaned back in his chair, toying with the rings upon her fingers, and smiling in the fullness of his content.

That instant a heavy knock sounded from the front-door, and directly after a servant passed in from the hall, announcing an old gentleman who was in search of Mr. Arnold.

Laura started up, blushing crimson beneath the admiring eyes of her servant, which were fixed on her singular costume. She stood a moment irresolute, then fled through a side door, while Arnold followed her with an earnest glance. He saw the white folds of her dress fluttering through the darkness beyond, and, half-tempted to follow her, moved a step toward the door.

“Go, go,” cried a laughing voice. “It will take me a good hour to get into a civilized dress again. But come in the morning early perhaps they will have arrived; but any way don’t fail to come. _Au revoir!_”

She glided back a few steps, kissed her hand, and darted off, calling out, “_Au revoir! au revoir!_”

Arnold turned away, and followed the servant, who stood outside the door.

An old man was in the hall waiting.

“Ah, is it you, sir?” said Arnold, holding out his hand with some constraint. “I did not expect you quite so soon.”

The old man took the hand reached out to him; but Arnold noticed that the hard fingers which closed on his were cold as ice.

“They have all come, I suppose,” said Arnold, dropping the hand, as he turned to search for his hat. “I will go with you at once. You must have had a good wind?”

“Yes; I think so; but didn’t notice about it,” answered the father, absently; and they went out together, falling Into dead silence as they threaded the dark streets,—not arm in arm, but walking a little apart, as if some invisible bar kept them from that close proximity which persons who love each other without stint are sure to seek.

While the elder Arnold had been standing in the hall of de Montreuil’s dwelling, a female figure, which had followed him all the way from the hotel, lingered in the shadows that lay heavily on the street, waiting for him to come forth. She had not watched long when the two men whom she most wished yet dreaded to see appeared in the open door, revealed clearly by a tall light which the servant held in the background.

She saw that the old man’s face was pale and strangely stern, while a black frown lowered on the forehead of his son. She shrank against the palings of a vast garden, whose fragrance swept across her like a mockery, as the two men passed so near that an outstretched hand might have touched them. Her heart beat so thick and fast that she grew faint in the atmosphere of his presence; but when he was gone, and she heard only the sound of his retreating footsteps, she staggered forward with a moan upon her lips, as if to follow.

The servant stood in the doorway, holding up his candle that the two guests might find their way more surely into the street. He was retreating, and about to close the door, when Amy came rapidly up the steps and asked for the lady.

It was still early in the evening, and the man naturally mistook her for one of the sewing-women who had been constantly going in and out of the house, almost at will, for the last ten days. So, merely observing that mademoiselle was in her own apartment no doubt, he turned into a side-room, and left her alone in the hall.

A broad, oaken staircase, with carved balustrades, ascended from the hall. At the first landing stood a bronze statue, holding a torch with one hand, while it pointed upward with the other. To her excited imagination this image seemed directing her to her destination; so she mounted the stairs, and glided away into the chambers above.

There was no light in the upper hall save that which came from the landing below, but that proved enough to reveal something of the chamber which she entered through a door which stood ajar. It was a spacious apartment, with a vast white bed standing in the centre, like a snow-heap, for floods of drapery brooded over and fell around it, looking grandly spectral in the dim gleams that shot up from the statue. The wind, as it stole through the window, brought with it a rustle of the silken curtains, and some delicate perfume penetrated the atmosphere, as if flowers were breathing somewhere in the darkness Beyond the bed, an arrow of light shot half across the room from a door that stood on the latch.

Amy crossed the carpet without a sound, for it was thick and heavy as velvet moss. A moment’s hesitation, a quick breath, and she knocked at the door.

There was a sweeping rustle of silks within—a slight jingle, as if some ornament had been hastily flung down, and then a clear voice called out:

“Come in!”

Amy opened the door and stood on the threshold, struck dumb by the scene which presented itself. Before a dressing-table, draped with white lace, and surmounted by a mirror so broad and bright that it flung back a dozen beautiful objects, stood Laura de Montreuil, in full bridal dress, as if she had just come from the altar. Like a white swan, that admires its own graceful image in a lake, she surveyed herself with a sort of pleasant wonder that any thing could be so beautiful. Her round arms were uplifted, and she was bending her head slightly sideways, trying to undo the wreath of white roses that crowned it.

“Why don’t you come and help me?” she cried, dropping her hands wearily.

Amy stepped forward and took the crown from her head, absolutely unconscious of the action.

Laura’s face was bent downward, and she had no idea that it was any one but her maid who offered the service till she resumed her position and saw Amy Leonard standing before her with the bridal crown in her hands. A pang of astonishment seized upon her; she reached forth her hand, took the roses, and laid them slowly on the table, keeping her fascinated eyes on that pale face.

“Amy Leonard!”

“Yes, lady, it is I,” said Amy, in so sad a voice that Laura’s heart fell to the sound.

They stood in silence, looking at each other until both grew white with intuitive dread.

“You wish to talk with me,—you have something to say,” faltered Laura at last, trembling in all her limbs.

“Yes,” answered Amy. “I came on purpose, and found my way here. How, I can hardly tell, for it seems to me as if I were walking in a dream.”

“Well,” said Laura, faintly, “we are together: you have a right to say any thing to me, no matter how cruel the thing is. You saved my life, Amy Leonard, and it belongs to you. What you want may be death, you know, but speak: I am only a coward in one thing.”

“And I in every thing,” said Amy.

“No, no, Amy Leonard, you are an angel! I only wish I were one bit like you. Coward! Great heavens! and those logs rolling and dipping you down, down, into the black waters. Still you held on. I feel your grip in my hair now. I hear the waters gurgle, and see the black streams pouring over that poor face. May God forsake me if I ever forget that fearful time, Amy.”

“That was nothing. We must not think of it, for it looks like a claim. I couldn’t help doing what I did, you know, and didn’t consider what I was about. There was no merit, not a bit. If I hung on tight to you, or the log, it was just the cowardice that was in me. So forget that. You must. I can’t have it remembered in any way.”

Laura shook her head, smiling sadly enough.

“I cannot forget any thing, Amy, and should hate myself if that one hour of our two lives could ever leave my heart.”

Amy heard this impatiently, and put out her hands, as if to force back the gratitude that oppressed her.

“Stop!” she said, with a wild glitter of the eye. “That dress—that room—the roses with which I have decrowned you—what do they mean? Are you already married to my—to Benedict Arnold?”

Laura blushed like a crimson sunset, and gathering both hands over the jewels on her bosom, strove to hide them in the shame of her detected vanity.

“Are you married?” said Amy, with cold stillness.

“No. It was a piece of folly. He wanted to see how it would look, so I put the dress on; for oh, Amy, I can deny him no one thing that he asks. Don’t think worse of me than I deserve. Indeed I don’t care myself. It isn’t vanity or pride, only he wished it.”

Amy saw nothing of the dusky blush—heard nothing of this breathless excuse, except the first words: _She was not married._

There was no brightening of the face, only a look of infinite relief, as if the tension of some painful doubt had broken away.

Amy cast down her eyes and trembled. How was she to begin? What could she say, being just to the truth and yet keeping faith with him?

Laura looked at her visitor with anxiety, not unmingled with impatience; but Amy dropped her head upon her bosom, till the features were almost hidden; and then a strange terror came upon Laura, her eyes shone brilliantly, her lips parted and grew white. She recoiled to the dressing-table, and pressed one hand hard upon it for support.

Amy looked up, and the white faces of those two miserable young creatures read each other. Laura spoke first, but her voice, usually mellow and joyous, was so hoarse that a look of terror broke into Amy’s face, and she advanced a step, prompted to offer help.

Laura pushed her back with both hands, desperately, loathingly. Where was her gratitude then? What did she care for the life which would henceforth pray upon her soul like poison? Why was it given back to her? She fell upon her knees by the table, its filmy drapery trembled beneath the shiver of her frame. The jewels she had just taken off flung a rainbow of mocking light athwart her forehead. She crushed the white roses under the weight of her arm, and thus the glittering mirror reflected her.

A long, dead silence followed, and then Laura lifted her face. It was white, and locked.

“Is this thing true?”

Amy bent her head. She could not speak.

Laura struggled slowly to her feet. She did not look like the same being who had stood at the mirror only a few minutes before.

“Tell me all,” she said shivering.

“Ask him!”

“Him! Ask him! The traitor! The double-dyed traitor!” she cried, clenching her hand, while the hot life flamed back to her marble cheeks. “And you—you. Shameless!”

“No, not that,” said Amy, in a low voice. “I have done wrong, but not to him or you.”

“Not to me! his betrothed! his bride! his wife! Not to me!”

“No, lady, not to you. He loved me—or, God help me! I thought so—long before your face ever darkened our lives.”

“He loved you!”

“Yes, he loved me——”

“And I—I——”

The unhappy young creature seemed sinking in the whirlwind of her own passion.

“Be appeased,” said Amy, sadly. “He does not love me now, or why should you wear those garments?”

“He does not love you now—no, no. How could he?”

She wrung her hands; she clasped them fiercely above her head, and walked the room to and fro like a panther bounding to its jungle. All at once she stopped before Amy, who was following her with affrighted eyes. She gazed at her till the fiery rage in her glance burned down.

“You saved my life—you saved my life—you, Amy Leonard. Oh! if you could take it now. If I could tear it out and fling it at your feet!”

“It was not my fault,” pleaded Amy. “I couldn’t help it any more than I could help him loving you.”

“Loving me! Do you believe that?”

“Yes, I believe it.”

“You believed this and did not die?”

“Oh, me! who could help it? Neither death nor love will come for the asking, or I should not be here to torture you.”

“But you are soft and gentle—such people can change. See here, Amy, I am rich, very rich! Oh! heavens! what is this? Am I so mean?—so lost?”

Again that noble girl bent to the whirlwind of her great sorrow. Surely the outrage that man had put upon her justified even that tempest of scorn and anguish. At last she was quieter, a mournful calmness came on, through which her grand nature began to reveal itself. She went into the next room and fell upon her knees before the white bed, wrestling with herself like one who would soon learn to “suffer and grow strong.”

Amy knelt down also. Poor girl! that moment she would have given him up, could the sacrifice have been made without sin. Nay, so gentle and so true was her pure heart that she would—for such things may be and sometimes are among women—she would have gone away with her innocent shame to suffer life alone, so great was her gentle compassion for the unhappy girl in the next room.

While she was still on her knees Laura came in. A large cloak was flung over the whiteness of her robe, and the hood lined with crimson silk made the pallor of her face more impressive. She touched Amy on the shoulder.

“Come!”

“Where?”

“To the hotel where he has gone.”

Amy stood up, wondering at the calmness that had fallen upon that noble face.

Without another word of explanation they went out together.