CHAPTER XVII.

Bonnibel's wedding-day dawned cloudless, fair and beautiful. The sun shone, the flowers bloomed, the birds sang. Nothing was wanting to complete the charm of the day.

Nothing? Ah! yes. The most important thing of all—the light and happy heart that should beat in the breast of a bride was lacking there.

She was beautiful "in gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls," but she looked like a statue carved in marble. No warmth or color tinged the strange pallor of her face and lips, no light of love shone in the violet eyes that drooped beneath the sweeping lashes. She spoke and moved like a soundless automaton.

Bonnibel had pleaded for a private marriage, but Colonel Carlyle had set his heart on a marriage at church, with all the paraphernalia of a fashionable wedding. He wanted to show the whole world what a peerless prize he was winning. He had urged the point with the persistency and almost obstinacy that is characteristic of age, and Bonnibel had yielded recklessly. She told herself that it did not matter what they did with her. Her heart was broken and her life was ruined.

She was not in a position to dictate terms. Wretched, dejected, friendless; what mattered this crowning humiliation of being decked in satin and pearls and orange flowers, and paraded before all eyes as a beautiful slave that an old man had bought with his gold.

Well, it was over. She had gone to the church with him, the wide portals had opened to receive her, the wedding march had pealed over her head, the beautiful bridesmaids had gone with her to the altar in their gala dresses, and carrying little baskets of flowers on their arms, and she had spoken the words that made her the bride of Colonel Carlyle. The fashionable world had flocked to witness the pageant, and nodded approval and congratulated both. And now?

Now the wedding breakfast was over, the "dear five hundred friends" had departed, and Mrs. Carlyle stood arrayed in her traveling dress.

Long Branch was to be the first destination of the wedded pair—they had made no further arrangements yet. Mrs. Arnold and Felise had promised to join them there in a few days by the groom's express invitation.

Felise had behaved so decorously after being thrown overboard[Pg 59] by her fickle suitor that the colonel felt that it behooved him to show his appreciation of her conduct by every delicate attention that was possible under the circumstances.

He had, therefore, insisted on their company at Long Branch while he and the bride remained there, and the two ladies had promised to join them there in a day or two at farthest.

Nothing but the coldest civilities had passed between the outraged Bonnibel and the mother and daughter since the day when Mrs. Arnold had cruelly insulted and threatened the helpless girl.

Bonnibel had kept her room almost entirely after that day, acquainting her uncle's wife with her acceptance of Colonel Carlyle by a brief note sent by Lucy, though she might have spared herself the trouble, for Mrs. Arnold and her daughter had both been witnesses of the colonel's happiness.

The bride-elect had been threatened by an avalanche of milliners and dressmakers at first, but she had resolutely declined to have anything to do with the details of her bridal outfit.

She had suffered a fashionable modiste to take her measure once, and after that Mrs. Arnold was forced to give her carte blanche in the whole matter of taste, expense and arrangement. Bonnibel would dictate nothing in the preparation of those hated garments in which she was to be sacrificed.

It was all over now. She stood in the hallway of the splendid home that had sheltered her childhood, waiting for the carriage that would bear her away on her honey-moon trip. She was leaving that dear home forever; a quick tear sprang to her eyes as the servants crowded around her with their humble, sorrowful adieux.

Lucy was to go with her, but the others, many of whom had been valued domestics in the house for years, she might never see again.

They all loved her, and their farewells and good wishes were the most fervent and heart-felt she had ever received.

Colonel Carlyle, though a little impatient, was pleased at these humble manifestations and distributed gratuities among them with a liberal hand. He wondered a little at the tears that crowded into the blue eyes of his girl-wife. He did not know that she was thinking of the dear uncle with whom she had spent so many hours beneath this roof. Ah, those happy days! How far they lay behind her now in the green land of memory!

"Come, dearest," he said, drawing her small hand through his arm and leading her away, "you must not dim those bright eyes with tears."

He led her down the steps, placed her in the carriage that was gay with wedding favors, and Mrs. Arnold and Felise airily kissed the tips of their fingers to them. Janet threw an old slipper after the carriage for good luck, and then Bonnibel was whirled away to the new life that lay before her.

"I came very near being the bride in that carriage myself," said Felise, turning away from the drawing-room window. "But 'there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.'"

[Pg 60]

The tone was light, almost laughing; but Mrs. Arnold, turning to look at her, read a different story in her eyes.

The slighted beauty looked very fair and handsome to-day. She had been the first bridesmaid, and her dress rivaled that of the bride itself for richness and elegance.

It was a creamy satin, heavily embroidered with pearl beads and draped with rich lace, caught up here and there with deep-hearted yellow roses. Her glossy black hair was adorned with the same flowers, and a necklace of sparkling topaz made a circlet of pale flame around her white throat. A dainty little basket of yellow roses had hung upon her arm, but she had thrown it down now and stood trampling the senseless flowers with fury in her eyes.

"My dear!" exclaimed the mother, in some trepidation.

"Don't 'my dear' me," Felise answered, furiously. "I am not in a mood to be cajoled."

She began to pace the floor impatiently, her rich dress rustling over the floor, her white hands busy tearing the roses from about her and throwing them down as if she hated the beautiful things whose crushed petals sent out a rich perfume as if in faint protest against her cruelty. There was a wild glare akin to that of madness in her dark eyes.

"'Hell has no fury like a woman scorned!'" she said, repeating the words of the great poet. "Oh, mother, how I hate Colonel Carlyle and his wife! I seem to live but for revenge."

"Felise, you frighten me with your looks and words," Mrs. Arnold said, a little anxiously. "You seem like one on the verge of madness."

"I am," she said, stopping in her hurried walk a moment, and laughing a low, blood-curdling laugh, "but never fear, mother, 'there is method in my madness!'"

"I wish you would give up this scheme of revenge," pursued the mother, anxiously. "I hate them as much as you do, I know, but then we have got rid of the girl, and the misery she feels as the wife of a man she cannot love is a very fair revenge upon her. Remember we have despoiled her of everything, Felise, and given her over to a life that will make her wretched. Is not that enough?"

"No, it is not!" exclaimed her daughter, in low, concentrated tones, full of deep passion. "But, mother, what has changed you so? You used to be as vindictive as a tigress—now you plead with me to forego my revenge."

"Because I am afraid for you, my dear," Mrs. Arnold answered in troubled tones. "I fear that your mind will give way under this dreadful strain. I have never told you, Felise, but I will do so now that you may guard yourself against yourself. There was a taint of madness in your father's family, and when I see you brooding, brooding over your revenge, I am afraid, afraid!"

The excited creature only laughed more wildly as she continued her walk.

"Felise," the mother continued, "we have wealth, power, position, and you are beautiful. We can make life a long summer[Pg 61] day of pleasure. Let us do so, and throw every vexing care to the winds."

"Mother, I cannot do it," Felise exclaimed. "I have been cruelly humiliated in the eyes of world—everyone expected Colonel Carlyle to marry me—do you think I will tamely bear their sneers and contempt? No; the man who has brought such odium upon me shall bitterly rue the day he first looked upon the siren face of Bonnibel Vere!"

"My love, do you remember the prediction of Wild Madge the sibyl? She said 'you would have everything and lose everything, because the gods had made you mad.'"

"Who cares for the predictions of that crazy old witch? What can she know of the future? I wish she were dead and out of the way!" exclaimed the angry girl, clenching her small white hands impotently together. "Mother, have done with your warnings and pleadings. I will not have them! You seem to be undergoing a softening process of the heart and brain—perhaps both," and with a mocking laugh she swept from the apartment.