Guy Kenmore's Wife, and The Rose and the Lily

"Where shall I find her?"

"In her own room, I think. I have not seen her in all the bustle. I will wait here. If she says yes, bring her to me."

And Vane turns away with a white, set face, to obey him.

CHAPTER IV

Vane Charteris enters the room and motions the maid to withdraw, closes the door, and stands face to face with Reine Langton. It strikes him suddenly on what a ridiculous errand he has come. This morning he offended her, and she refused to pardon him. Tonight he has come to ask her to be his wife.

But Reine—passionate, impulsive Reine—has quite forgotten all that now. After that one startled moment of indecision and surprise, she goes forward to him, she puts her small hand on his coat sleeve, she looks up into his white, haggard face with dark, pitying eyes.

"You are come to tell me," she says, forgetting in her eager excitement how strange it would be for him to seek her sympathy. "But I have heard. Believe me, I am very sorry for your disappointment. It was mean and cruel," indignantly, "in Maud. I would not have done it, bad as you think me."

How soft the dark, uplifted eyes; how gentle the pitying voice, how kind the words! Can this be Reine—sharp-tongued, restless, gibing Reine? He stares in great surprise.

"I should not care if I were you," she goes on. "I should be too proud to grieve for one so false and unkind. She never loved you; I saw that as soon as I came here, but I did not know she could be so mean. I will never speak to her again."

"You take my part," he says, unconsciously pleased.

"Yes, because you have been treated unfairly," she says, warmly. "You have been jilted at the very altar—you so handsome, so noble–" she stops, biting her lips, vexed at herself for these outspoken words.

But Vane Charteris smiles.

"Thank you for those words," he says. "They give me courage to ask what I came for—Reine, will you be my wife?"

The white hand falls from his arm, she steps backward a pace, and stares at him mutely, with great, wondering, dark eyes.

He repeats the words:

"Reine, will you be my wife? Will you go down-stairs and marry me, a jilted man? Will you take the man your beautiful cousin deemed worthless?"

A passionate sarcasm quivers in his tone. She looks at him, the deep, rich color flushing into her cheeks.

"You do not mean it; you are jesting!" she cries, in a vaguely troubled tone.

"I do," he answers. "The guests are here; the feast is provided; the minister waits. Nothing is lacking but the bride, who has fled to the arms of another. Will you throw yourself into the breach, Reine, and make everybody happy?"

"If I thought I could," she begins, with a questioning glance, and a delicious thrill at her heart. Something whispers to her that he would wed her to spite Maud, yet her instinct prompts her to take him at his word. In time her tender love must win a return from him.

"You must not stop to think," the strange wooer says, impatiently. "Everyone is waiting, and your uncle is most impatient. I have his permission to win you if I can."

"Uncle Langton wishes it?" she asks, wondering.

"Yes. What is your answer, Reine?"

"It is yes," she answers, simply, frankly, and happily.

"Thank you," he says; "come, then, Mr. Langton is waiting for us."

Then, softened by her gentle mood and the sparkling beauty he cannot help but acknowledge, he says, with a dash of mischief:

"You are changed from this morning Reine. So you do not hate me after all?"

A spark of the morning's diablerie flashes into the bright eyes again.

"Yes, I do," she retorts, "and I am only taking you that I may torment you to death."

He checks the impatient sigh, and leads her to Mr. Langton.

"Sensible girl," he chuckles, beaming upon her. "Knew better than to refuse uncle's fortune, didn't you, Reine?"

She stares at him, her rosy cheeks grow pale.

"I don't understand," she falters.

"Didn't you tell her?" Mr. Langton demands of Vane.

"No, I forgot. After all, it wasn't necessary," he answers.

"Cunning dog," the old man laughs. "So she took you for yourself alone? Well, I told you so. She has a true heart in spite of her wild ways."

But Reine stares from one to the other, vaguely troubled.

Mr. Langton bends and kisses the fair, low brow.

"Reine, you are my heiress now," he says. "I shall cut Maud off with a shilling. You and Vane will have all my money when I am dead."

"Oh, if you please, Uncle Langton, I'd rather not," she cries, breathlessly, then she looks at Vane. "Is he taking me for the money?" she says, with a flash of disdain in her great, black eyes.

Vane flushes an angry crimson, but his old friend interferes.

"No, you little goose," he replies, severely, "He's taking you because you're a deuced pretty girl, and worth a dozen disobedient Mauds. Now will you put on that wedding-veil there, and go down-stairs with him and show those gaping, gossiping simpletons that there's a bride after all, and the wedding-feast will not be spoiled by the groom's sorrow?"

He rings the bell with the words. A trim maid appears with a quickness that would argue that she had been listening outside the door.

"Put that wedding-veil on Miss Langton," commands her master. "She will be the bride, and also my heiress."

"Miss Reine, let me congratulate you," the girl exclaims, with a heartiness that shows how Reine has won her way since she came to Langton Villa.

In five minutes the veil is on, with the trailing sprays of orange flowers meant for Maud. The rich, white silk, with its lace flounces, makes no inappropriate bridal dress. But Reine stands still, a lovely bride, grown suddenly strangely pale and grave-looking.

"Now, Mary, hunt up the bride's-maids while I go down and notify the minister," adjures Mr. Langton.

They go, and the bride and groom remain alone together. She stands shyly in the center of the room, with drooping eyes, dark, slender, lovely, but strangely unlike the fair and stately Juno Vane Charteris has pictured these many days as his bride.

They speak no word to each other, and the laughing "men and maidens" come in and surround them.

"It is just like a novel," one says; and another: "It serves Maud right," and all agree that it is "just too romantic for anything," and are glad there will be a wedding after all.

But the two principals say nothing in all the babble of idle tongues. Arm in arm they go forward to the marriage altar, side by side they breathe those solemn vows that bind together their antagonistic lives. It is all like a dream to Reine: the wedding march, the wedding flowers, the curious faces, the solemn words, the circle of gold upon her finger. But as she turns to meet the congratulations of the guests, one precious thought is blooming like a full and perfect rose in her passionate heart:

"He is all my own now. I shall not be parted from him to-morrow."

After the hum of congratulations is over there ensues a momentary pause. The bride is led to a seat, and Vane Charteris drifts away from her side. The good wishes, the pretty sentiments of the guests fall meaningless on his ears.

"What happiness can I promise myself as the husband of that little vixen?" he says to himself, darkly.

So he stands apart in moody silence, and the curious glances of a hundred eyes note the handsome, troubled white face, and turn again pityingly on the girlish young bride.

"She will never be happy with him," they say, decidedly. "He has only married her to spite Maud."

Suddenly, in that momentary lull and stillness, the door is flung violently open, a tall, queenly figure, clad in a gray traveling-dress, wavers a moment on the threshold, then rushes across the room to Mr. Langton. She falls on her knees before him.

"Oh, for God's sake, tell me I am not too late," she cries. "Uncle Langton, I have repented my folly before it was too late. Forgive me, uncle. I have come back to marry Mr. Charteris."

CHAPTER V

Dead silence falls. Every eye turns on that graceful, kneeling figure, and fair, uplifted face, with the gold braids crowning the graceful head so royally.

Mr. Langton stares stupidly a moment.

Maud puts her hand on his arm and shakes him.

"Uncle, don't you understand?" she says. "I have come back to marry Vane. I repented as soon as I saw Mr. Clyde. I knew in a moment that I did not care for him enough to sacrifice everything for him. I told him so, and he was very angry, but I came away in spite of his terrible threats. I—I like Mr. Charteris best."

Vane Charteris starts forward like one awakening from a nightmare.

"Hush; do not perjure your soul, Maud," he breaks out, sternly. "Say what you mean. You do not care for Vane Charteris, but you love Mr. Langton's money too well to give it up for love in a cottage with Mr. Clyde."

She starts to her feet, half extending her arms.

"This from you, Vane!" she cries, dramatically. "Surely you have not turned against me after all your professions of love. Do not be so hard, Vane. You see I have come back to you. Forgive me, I pray you. I do care for you, I want to be your wife!"

"You can never be my wife. By the folly of an hour you have barred yourself out of my life forever," he answers her with a strange, icy sternness.

She stares at him mutely a moment, then turns to Mr. Langton.

"You see," she says, triumphantly, "it is Mr. Charteris who refuses me—I do not refuse him. I am willing to keep to my contract—he declines my hand. Surely you will forgive me now, dear uncle, and take me back. I have not forfeited your love nor your fortune."

And Mr. Langton, finding voice at last, answers her, angrily:

"You have forfeited both by your cursed madness. Henceforth you have no part in my heart nor my home. Yonder sits my heiress, and Vane Charteris' wife!"

With a gasp like one dying, Maud follows the direction of his pointed finger.

She sees a slight, girlish figure that has suddenly come forward to the side of Vane Charteris as if mutely claiming him for hers. Her own costly wedding veil drapes the dainty, lissome figure.

"Reine Langton," she cries, furiously, "have you dared to rob me of my fortune and husband?"

Reine lifts her flashing, dark eyes.

"Remember, Maud, you flung them both away," she answers, indignantly.

"Fool that I was," Maud wails, despairingly. "I have lost all, all, by my brief madness! Oh! Uncle Langton, surely you will forgive me, and take me back now when I am so bitterly repentant. Let her have Mr. Charteris—I can do without him—but do not send me away!"

He looks coldly at the pleading blue eyes, and the eager, upraised hands. If possible he is more bitterly angry with her now than he was when he received her note an hour ago.

"It is useless to plead with me," he says, coldly. "You should have thought of all this before. It is too late now. I have flung you out of my heart forever. Reine will be my heiress—you can go."

"I have nowhere to go," she says, looking at him with wide, frightened eyes and parted lips.

"It matters not to me," he answers, cruelly. "Go back to the fine, gay lover that lured you from your duty and your plighted word. See if he will take you, now that you have lost all chances of the Langton fortune."

Reine comes bravely forward to the side of the discarded girl.

"Oh! uncle, let her stay," she says, imploringly; "I do not want your fortune, I have Vane. That is enough for me. Let Maud come home and have the money—or at least share it."

"No," he thunders, stormily; "I have said my say—I will abide by it. She is nothing to me henceforth. Let her go."

Maud looks around at the bride.

"It is all your fault," she says, bitterly. "If you had not married Vane before I came, my uncle would have forgiven me. Vane does not love you, he has only taken you for my uncle's money. Beware that you do not rue this night in dust and ashes."

"If I had only known that you would come back, Maud, like this," Reine begins, wringing her hands in a passionate kind of self-pity.

Maud crosses to the door before them all, with that proud, imperial step that had become Mr. Langton's heiress so well, but is mockingly out of place now. The bride follows her.

"Maud," she whispers, anxiously, "send me your address to-morrow, and I will come to you. Indeed, indeed I am anxious to befriend you."

Maud puts her aside without a word, and steps over the threshold. She walks with her light, proud step down the hall, and disappears in the outer darkness, looking regretfully back, as Eve might have looked when she was driven from paradise.

"My friends," Mr. Langton says, rising, "do not let this unpleasant episode damp the wedding festivities. You came to do honor to my heiress, and Vane Charteris' bride. She is here, and the banquet waits."

"The queen is dead, long live the queen!" that is what he means. They understand that Maud is dethroned, and Reine reigns in her stead. They obey his implied wish. No one speaks the name of Maud either in praise or blame. The festivities go on. The luxurious banquet duly discussed, the joyous music invites the young and gay to "trip the light fantastic toe." This is a country wedding where all is freedom and simple enjoyment. The guests "don't go home until morning."

In the pale dawn-light some of the young men, who left with gay words and light hearts, came hurrying back with blanched faces and startled eyes. In the woods near-by, they have found the blood-stained body of a dead man—Maud's lover, Mr. Clyde.

CHAPTER VI

Wearied with the long festivities of the night, Reine goes to her room, in the pale light of the new day, and lays aside the bridal veil and dress, donning a cool white wrapper instead. She bathes her face in some fresh water, brushes out her silky, dark tresses, and loosely tying them back with a scarlet ribbon, slips quietly down the stairs again.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Langton and Vane Charteris coming into the deserted parlor, find her standing with one of the maids before the long table, on which the numerous and costly bridal presents have been displayed. Friends have vied with each other in the elegance and beauty of their gifts to Mr. Langton's heiress. Silver and gold, and precious stones flash back the expiring light of the flickering lamps. The house-maid has brought in a large box, and she and Reine are deftly restoring the wrappers to the various articles, and packing them carefully into its capacious recesses.

Mr. Langton stares.

"Child, what upon earth are you doing?" he exclaims.

Reine looks around, brightly.

"Only packing these things away for Maud," she explains.

"For Maud?" Mr. Langton gasps.

"Yes, sir. I shall forward them to her as soon as I find out where she is staying," she replies, pausing to admire a richly-chased bracelet, set with rubies, before she closes the satin-lined case.

"The deuce you will," Mr. Langton growls. "Upon my word I never saw such cool impertinence in my life. Who authorized you to do such a thing?"

"I took the liberty myself," Reine responds, flashing a laughing glance upon his indignant face.

"Very well. Let me inform you, Mrs. Charteris, that these things belong to you, not to Maud. They were given to my heiress, and Vane's bride, therefore they are your own."

The beautiful color flows into her face, but she shakes her small head resolutely.

"You must pardon me, uncle," she says, "but, indeed, I think your ideas of meum et tuum are rather confused. All these pretty things belong to my cousin by every right in the world, and I am determined she shall have them."

"I say she shall not," he cries, violently.

"And I say she shall," Reine reiterates, laughing, but in earnest, the golden lights fairly dancing in her eyes.

"Why, you audacious little spitfire," the old man begins to splutter, but Vane Charteris interrupts him gravely.

"I think Reine's idea is the true one," he says. "The gifts really belong to Maud, and she ought to have them."

The bride flashes him a dazzling look of gratitude from her brilliant eyes.

"There, now, Uncle Langton," she cries, with pretty triumph. "You see my husband sides with me."

"Sides with Maud, you mean," Mr. Langton mutters, between his teeth.

"He will always be on the side of justice, I hope," Reine says, with a smile at her husband, that he does not see, consequently does not return.

But Mr. Langton frowns at the pert little lady.

"See here, Reine," he says. "I won't be set at naught by a child like you, if you were fifty times my niece. Have your way this time, but don't begin your rule too soon. Remember, I haven't made my will yet."

"That does not frighten me one bit," she laughs; then she rises on tiptoe to put her rosy lips to his ear. "You cannot take my husband from me," she whispers, archly. "I do not care for the rest."

He looks at her half-pityingly, and turns away without a word.

But something born of that pitying thought makes him say to Vane Charteris, as they pass from the room:

"There is no reason you should regret Maud. Reine is quite as charming and beautiful, though in a different way from her cousin."

And Vane answers, readily enough:

"She is beautiful, certainly no one can deny that. She has the brilliant beauty of the rose. But one must beware the thorns. She is a perfect contrast to Maud, who always reminded me of a tall, white, stately lily."

"The rose is the sweeter, to my thinking," Mr. Langton replies. "Besides, the rose is the true emblem of love."

They pass through the hall, and out into the soft light of the early day. The cool, dewy breath of the morning, freighted with the scent of countless flowers, blows in their faces, the matin songs of myriad birds make music in their ears. Roses, honeysuckles, jessamines and lilies, open their perfumed chalices to greet the rising sun that begins to color the eastern sky with tints of purple and rose and gold.

And up the graveled path came a trio of young men who had left the house but a little while ago, laughing and jesting in the light-heartedness of youth. They come silently now, with blanched and solemn faces, and heavily-beating hearts.

"Something dreadful has happened," they tell Mr. Langton. "We have found a dead man in the woods. It is Mr. Clyde. He is cold and stiff—has certainly been dead several hours. And, worst of all, he has most probably been murdered. There is a bullet-hole through his heart."

Found murdered! With what an icy chill the words strike upon the senses in that beautiful, peaceful summer dawn.

Having finished the packing of the box, Reine comes out, attracted by the hum of voices.

The rich color pales in her cheeks at the dreadful news.

"Oh, how terrible," she cries. "It was Maud's lover, and she loved him, poor girl!"

She sees Vane Charteris wince, and feels as if she could bite her tongue off for the thoughtless words. Her heart sinks heavily.

"He has given me his hand, but not his heart," she says to herself. "I must be very patient. Perhaps I may win his love yet. I must do so, for I cannot live without it."

As she thinks all this, he comes to her side. The heart of the unloved bride beats quick and fast as the blue eyes fall upon her.

But he has only come to say, coldly and carelessly:

"Reine, you had better go in. This is too terrible a thing for a young girl's ears."

CHAPTER VII

Yesterday, Reine would have defied Vane, and taken her own way, recklessly. To-day, filled with the yearning wish to win her husband's heart, she obeys with gentle dignity, and retires into the house.

"I have read somewhere that love wins love," she says to herself. "If that be true, surely my patience, my gentleness, my devoted love will sometime win a return from him."

They hold an inquest over Mr. Clyde's body that day. No facts are elicited that throw any light on the manner of his death.

He was a stranger in the neighborhood, boarding at a quiet farm-house for his health, he said. He had few friends and fewer enemies. The people who lodged him deposed that they had not seen him since their early seven o'clock supper, the evening previous. He had been in very gay and brilliant spirits then; had dressed himself elegantly and gone out before dark. No one had seen him until he was found dead in the woods this morning, shot through the heart. The physicians examine the corpse, and decide that he has been dead since nine o'clock last night, and suddenly a baleful whisper runs from lip to lip.

There are a hundred people, guests of the grand wedding at Langton villa last night, who remember Maud Langton's abrupt entrance a little after nine o'clock, and her frank confession that she had gone away to marry Mr. Clyde, but had repented, and left him in spite of his threats.

These facts are communicated to the coroner. He looks exceedingly grave.

"It will be quite necessary to examine Miss Langton on the subject," he declares.

Someone is found who remembers to have heard that Miss Langton is at the hotel in the village, near by.

An officer is dispatched to bring her in to the inquest.

So they wait in the odorous sweetness of the green wood, the officers of justice, the silent corpse, the curious crowd; the wild birds sing on as gayly as if no dead man lay there on the sweet, green grass, with his handsome white face upturned to Heaven as if pleading for vengeance on his slayer.

He has not been murdered for purposes of robbery. His gold watch, his diamond ring, his purse, containing a hundred dollars in bills, are all secure upon his person. It is not known that he had an enemy in the world. A strange mystery centers around his death.

A few notice that old Mr. Langton goes away quietly before the officer's return with Maud. And Vane Charteris stays. Standing apart beneath the shade of a towering maple, he waits, with a strange, incensed look in his dark blue eyes, and on his handsome face that is almost as white as that of the dead. Many eyes regard him curiously; but the cold, white, inscrutable face tells nothing to their wondering gaze.

At last, after what seems a long and wearisome interval of waiting, the rumble of the carriage wheels is heard. They pause in the road near by, they catch the impatient neigh of horses, and the officer appears leading a lady through the trees and grass toward them.

She comes toward them, trembling so that, but for the support of the officer's arm, she must certainly fall to the ground. At the coroner's request she lifts her veil and looks at him with frightened, blue eyes, and a wild, white face—whiter than the lilies to which Vane Charteris likened her that morning.

She is duly sworn, and they re-cover the dead, white face, with its staring eyes they cannot close, and mute, cold lips.

"Do you recognize this man?" they ask her, and after one shuddering, quickly-withdrawn glance, she averts her face, and answers with white, pain-drawn lips:

"It is Mr. Clyde."

She is asked next:

"When and where did you see him last?"

A quiver passes over the pale, beautiful face.

"Last night, at or near nine o'clock, near this spot," she falters, yet standing suddenly erect, with stately, lily-like grace, and a proudly-poised head.

"Was he living or dead?"

"Living, of course," haughtily.

"Mr. Clyde was your lover?" the coroner interrogated.

"I have not said so," she says, flashing him a haughty look.

"The fact is well known," he answers. "You went away to marry him last night?"

The deep color flows into her cheeks, then recedes again, leaving her pale as marble.

"I cannot deny it," she murmurs, in a crushed voice.

"Then you changed your mind, as it is a lady's privilege to do, and left him. He was very angry, and used threats toward you," the coroner pursues, politely.

"Yes," Miss Langton answers, in the same low, sad voice.

"Of what nature were those threats?" they ask her.

"He threatened to destroy himself if I did not become his wife, but, oh, I did not believe it, really—I thought he was only trying to frighten me into compliance with his wish," she cries, while a look of regret and sorrow transforms this fair, beautiful face. A hum of surprise goes through the eager throng of listeners.