Copyright Story. An Unwilling Bride.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXI, Issue I, 4 July 1903, Page 8

Copyright Story. An Unwilling Bride.

R. W. WE EKES.

By

(Author of “Prisoners of War.” ete.)

The Ghurch was ready, the guests were waiting; already the half hour had struck, yet the bridegroom had not arrived. Kind friends near the front began to whisper that the Marquis de Chatillon was repenting of his choice; for Mademoiselle de Saint-Laurent, in spite of her dower of beauty and of gold, varied in temper between an iceberg and volcano. Many men had wooed her, but she sent them all away; she had only accepted de Chatillon to please the Comtesse de Lusignan, her sister, who was in despair at Agnes’ persistent refusals. Now it seemed that Mademoiselle de Saint-Laurent’s own turn to be slighted had come; for the houi sounded from the carillon, and still the bridegroom’s place was vacant. All the Court was there, with the ex ception of Prince Heinrich himself. Heinrich of Neuberg, so gossip said, was ill-contented by mademoiselle’s marriage, because he had been pleased to cast approving eyes on her himself, and he was not used to being thwarted. Some people whispered that Lis displeasure augured ill for the success of the match It seemed, however, that there would be no mateh. Five minutes past the hour, and still no bridegroom: while a stir and whisper among the guests in nouneed the arrival of the twelve prettygirls whom Agnes had ehosen as her bridesmaids. They waited at the door, a picturesque group in their Court dreases of white satin and gold, embroidered with purple pansies. Next, on the arm of her brother-in-law, eame rhe unconscious bride, wearing silver brocade and a tiara of diamonds, under which her beauty sparkled like a winter sunrise, rose-colour above the snow. But before she had time to discover the absence of her husband that was to be, before she had reached the ehancel steps, another late arrival pushed his way up between the curious friends, and touched her arm. ■‘Mademoiselle.” he said urgently. "Mademoiselle, I must speak to you." Then Agnes lifted her demure eyelids and saw the humiliating truth. Andre had deserted her. She wheeled round on Andre’s friend, anger on her brow. "Where is the Marquis de Chatillon? Why is he not here?” ‘’That is what I have to explain.” "It will take much explanation?” “If you would come with me, mademoiselle. 1 think I ean satisfy even you.’’ Here Agnes’ escort, horrified and nervous, plucked at her gown. “Agnes. Agnes, but this is impossible! We must

go home at once! Consider, my dear “I do consider. Must I not hear whether Andre has an excuse? I will go with M. de Beaurepaire.” “It is sacrilege!” cried M. le comte. almost weeping with anguish. He had meant to say saere, but he converted it into the other word, regardless of sense. It did not matter much. “Nonsense, Jules,” Retorted his ward, in audible tones. M. le eomte had lowered his voice out of delicacy. And go she lid, in defiance of laws, sweeping down the aisle beside de Beaurepaire. Little enough did Agnes eare for what the people thought. When she readied the of the saeristy, she faced round upon her escort imperiously. “Well, air?” she demanded. “Why is Andre not here?” “Because he is in prison, mademoiselle.” Mademoiselle started. “In prison? Oh! What for?” “For conspiraev against Prince Heinrich.” Agnes’ colour came and went: she turned away and began to play with the flowers in her bouquet. This put a different complexion on the affair. Prince Heinrich was an autocrat, and he had a taste for refined torture. He was in all things an artist, in the decoration of a ballroom or in punishing a criminal. No one could foretell what eruel and fanciful doom he might not pronounce on a man who a week before had been on familiar and intimate terms with him: and, whatever Andre’s innocence on the charge of conspiracy, he had committed one serious crime: he had meant to marry Agnes. “What is to be his fate?” she asked at last, nervously glancing at de Beaurepaire’s calm, impassive face. Yves de Beaurepaire hesitated over his answer, and flushed a little. “Prison is to be his fate, mademoiselle, for the present.” “And then?” “Then, death! unless you ehoose to save his life.” T? What can I do?” Yves looked her in the face. “Prince Heinrich is willing to release him. on one condition: that you consent to marry me.” The absurdity of the proposal struck first on Agnes, and she laughed aloud. "He must be mad! ” she said. “Mad or sane, he is the Prince.” "But this is too absurd!” Agnes cried, beating her little white foot on the ground. “I—marry you? What does he

hope to gain by it! Why should he think of such a thing!” Yves answered her patiently, his clear voice making the explanation the more lucid. “As I take it, he means to make an experiment on us. He wishes to punish de Chatillon: he deprives him of his bride. He is angry with me for pleading De Chatillon's cause: he sends me to you to make this proposal. He is still more angry with you, mademoiselle; he puts you in the awkward position of either accepting an insult or signing De Chatillon’s death warrant. As you know, the play of passions is an enthralling spectacle to him; he likes to take on the part of Destiny, and inweave the threads of human fate. He has done it well this time. He is amusing himself right royally at our expense.” . Tap. tap went the little foot. “It is preposterous! I won’t submit to it. How dared Heinrich think of such a thing? How da veil you come to me on such an err and ?” . “You refuse?” “Of course I refuse!” Y’ves waited a minute: his voice fell very low and crime unevenly. “Am I so repulsive to you? You love Andre no more than you love me: and my name is at least as good.” "This is intolerable!” cried Agnes! sweeping round on him scornfully. “You actually dare to ask me to submit? Is this plan of your devising, pray?” “I do ask yon to submit; yes. Andre de Chatillon is my friend, mademoiselle.” But Agnes had already repented of her not very reasonable anger. “I—l beg your pardon!” she faltered; and stopped, and looked at him. She did not love Yves; no. but then she did not love Andre either. Both were well-born, handsome, and young: both equally eligible. And it was no light thing to her, now she thought about it, to throw away a man’s life. Agnes was very tenderhearted; she had been known to rescue drowning wasps and nurse them back to health. Perhaps she was not always consistent. but that was because she generally acted first and thought afterwards. She was horribly ashamed of the taunt she had offered to De Beaurepaire. He really did not look like a villain. She stole a glance at him. He stood by the window, his handsome head slightly bent, his fine profile white as a cameo against the dark woodwork. Film lips, a little scornful; dark grey eyes, over which the long lashes drooped superciliously; the thin features of a student, a high forehead, and a curve of dark hair over the temples. De Beaurepaire had had a barrister’s training: and he had the air of it, with a dash of sombre reserve. And to-day there was something else in his face, an expression which Agnes could not define. lie was something of an enigma ; no one knew why he stayed at Prince Heinrich's eccentric court. Agnes, like other people, felt a curiosity about him; mystery is a great attraction. Perhaps she went so far as to stare. Certainly, De Beaurepaire became conscious of her gaze; he raised his head, and met it rather wearily. Agnes averted her eyes and coloured. “I should not force myself upon you.” Yves pleaded. "Of course, under the circumstances, you would be as free as you are now, except in so far that you would bear my name and live under n y roof. Mademoiselle, you hold Andies fate in your hands, and he has no one but me to plead for him; are the conditions so unbearably hard?” “I will accept them.” ' ! “You will? You will marry me—to save his life?’ Yves almost broke down over the words. What a good friend ha is! thought Agnes. “I will do just what you like,” she answered, grown quite docile all at once. “I will lie quite good,” she went on, laying her hand on his arm and looking up. Agnes’ eyes were black and clear like woodland pools, and they had the innocent look of a child. Few people had seen her in this mood; she was •Usually very proud, very self-willed. Her submissiveness was fascinating. “Will you find marriage with me such a dreadful trial?” Yves asked, smiling. “I daresay I shall be able to support it. I think you’re nice; nicer than Andre. We’ll be friends.” Agnes clapped her hands. “I shall be perfectly free, without the bother of having a husband! Oh, I shall get on very well. 1 hope you will, too.” “I? I shall save my friend's life.” “What do you mean? Are you making a sacrifice! Do jk>u lave anvone else!”

The question came in such a whirl that Yves hesitated. "You do!’ cried Agnes. “Who is she? Are you giving her up to save Andre “1 do love a woman, you're right. But I am not giving her up. She doesn't care for me; if I did not marry you I should certainly never marry her.” Yves smiled grimly. "Set your mind at rest; I’m fond of Andre, but not fond enough for that—my faith, no!” “Who is she?” Agnes asked, wit is mingled sympathy and curiosity. Yves isad betrayed an intensity of feeling of feeling which she had not expected. Y ves bowed. “We are to be friends, mademoiselle: I could answer that question only to my wife. And may 1 re mind you that Prince Heinrich's commands were urgent, and that the priest is waiting?” Crimsoning under the unexpected rebuff. Agnes accepted his arm. and passed out of the saeristy and up the aisi. by lus side. Never had Heinrich's pic ■turesque tyranny created such a stilus on that occasion. Some people said afterwards that Agues was callous; cithers declared that she was a great heroine. The Comte de Lusignan said. “The Saints be praised that slies’ mar ned! And Agues herself ami said nothing. Meanwhile, the Marquis de Chatillon amused himself in uris.m. 11. "What a lovely morning!” Agnes remarked. She was standing at the open window, and the bright blue sky was the background for her slim, white figure. Roses were in her hair and at her waist, crimson roses, and green leaves twined round the dark window tram”. This opulent richness of colour made her beauty seem the more delicate "fs that you at last, Yves?” she went on. "How late you are!” “I have been otic for an hour, swimming. It is delicious outside," lie answered, coining to her jide. His face was more lined than at his wedding a month before. "Oh, I wish I had got up early, too! But you look tired; didn't you sleep well?” "I slept perfectly, thanks; as I always "I shall give you a rose to refres i you." Tiie Slower was duly pinned into place. "Oh, dear! How shall 1 ever go back to Neuberg? I do hate Court ceremonies, and etiquette, and all the rest of it; they make, me feel exact'!’ as if 1 were in a straight waistcoat. I could live here in the sunshine for ever and not grow tired!” "I am glad you are enjoying your honeymoon: at least, it’s not conventional.” “No: that is is. I hate being proper. You’re a much nicer comjianion than Andre. Yves. Andre would have wanted to be sentimental, and make love; and 1 hate sentiment.” said Agnes, smiling up into the sunshine. "1 hate stu pidity. too; and you have neither. You’re as interesting as a girl, and maiii more sensible. I'm growing quite grateful to Prince Heinrich, aren't you'.” "Very. I had no idea how charming you could be.” When he tried to pay Agues eonipli meats Yves’ tone was wooden. Agnes, who was used to spontaneous admiration, was piqued into trying to attract him. “Don't fall in love with me. then!” she laughed. “You forget that I am guaranteed against that.” "That is true. Otherwise, you might have liked me, might you not?” “If I had been fancy-free when I married,” Yves returned. watching her pretty, upturned face with unmoved eyes, "I certainly should not lie now.” “What a good tiling you weren’t fancy-free!” said Agnes, ruffled. Then Yves’ face made her repent, for stie saw that this shot had told. “But no, Y’ves, I did not mean that. I am so very sorry that you are in trouble.” She slipped her cool, little fingers into his. Her sweet penitence was charming and tempted consolation. Y’ves. who as her husband had the best right to console her, surveyed her with annoying coolness. “The rose is falling out of your hair,” he said. “Oh, you are unbearable,” said Agnes, under her breath; then bent her shining head. “Will you please fasten it in for me?” Yves addressed himself to the task; he pushed the thorny stem between the besom strands of dark hair. He took

his time about arranging it, putting the Hower this way and that, while Agnes' curls twisted around his fingers, and her soft breath warmed his wrist. Flower-soft, flower-sweet, the curve of her cheek and throat appeared, with the colour blooming and fading again as he touched her hair. Agnes was a tremulous and innocent coquette. But Yves seemed as little moved as if the beautiful bent head belonged to a statue. “It is right at last. I am sorry to have kept you so long.” he said, formally. “Thank you.” Agues released herself with a springy movement. “You've put it in beautifullv. You’re verv clever. Yves.” “I am glad I have pleased you.” “You haven’t.” murmured Agnes, in a woeful undertone. “There’s the postman at last! I wonder if he has a letter for me.” She was running off to see when Yve= prevented her. “My place, sureiy, ito wait on you.” “Very well, gnadiger Herr. But be quick!” Y’ves was some time absent. He canje up. presently, gravely smiling, as before, and holding one letter. "For you." lie said. "From Andre.” “From Andie? He is out of prison, then? Oil. give it me. Y’ves!" "Clive vou the letter?” said Y’ves. smiling, ■"■'hall I?” "I want to hear how he puts his gratitude, please!” “What will you give me for it?’' "Anything. Don’t tease. Y’ves. I do want it.” He held it back from her outstretch ed hand. “The price is a kiss.” Agnes blushed crimson. It appeared that he was not so stolid as she had fancied. She had been half unconsciously tempting him to kiss her, yet now she hesitated. This had not been included in their pact. Then she bethought herself: after all. why should -she not kiss him? They were the best of friends. Yforeover. Agnes was sorry for him. She fancied lie did not seem well this morning. He was pale, and there was a constrained look about his lips as if he were in pain. Besides, most potent argument of ail. she was certainly his wife. she put iier bands on his shoulderami drew him down. Serious, shy. mischievous, laughing, her lips met hi-. Agnes had never kissed a man before. "There!” she said, colouring all over her faee and throat. "Now my letter, please.” Yves handed it to her without a word. At the far end of the room was a great minor, which reflected the window, the sky. the red roses, and Agnes. Yves fixed his eyes on it. Agnes sat on the sill and tore open the’ letter. She was wearing a pretty baby fichu bodice, which left her throat bare, and .she was still pink as a rose, even down to the staid folds of white muslin. She read the first few lines, and her attention was caught. Her colour faded: she read on swiftly to the end: turned the paper and read it through again: then put it down on her knee and looked across at Y’ves. When he saw her accusing eyes he turned away from the mirrored reflection towards Agnes herself, and awaited her sentence. "What Andre says is true?” she asked. Her voice rang like steel. “What does he say?” “That you denounced him to Heinrich: that you stipulated for me as the price of your treachery: that the whole plan was of your contrivance.” "It is quite true.” Agnes folded up the letter very deliberately. “And you led me into kissing you,” she said. “I wish one could cut off one’s lips.” “Does that offend you? I am sorry.” “Sorry!” Agnes flashed at him one look of scorn. “I am ashamed. You cau hardly understand that feeling. 1 sup-

pose: honour is beyoud your ken. Was it my money you wanted?’’ “No, it was you. 1 loved you. an<l I love you. Don't think I mean to iusult you with protestations of devotion; lait I must explain. I was jealous of Andrc. who had won you and did not prize you. I put him out of the way for a time, and took his place. You—you, his wife—no. I would not see that. But that is all 1 have dour. Do me the justice to allow that 1 have asked lor myself nothing, except that kiss which you re-ent -o bittprly : and 1 took that, knowing that it was the end. Yet. I think, if 1 had asked for moi". you would have given it : for you trusted me." "it s ea»y and safe to deceive a woman. But you iorget one thing. On such grounds as these I can get free from you: and as soon a- I am free. I can marry the Marquis de Chatillon.” “You 11 do that;" Y’ves barred her way to the- door. ’’Drag the whole affair into publii'itv and make vourself a bye-word?” "I have nothing to fear from the truth. Nor have you. for the law can't touch yo» for w hat you have done: and dishonour you don't regard.” "Inis is the only dishonourable action 1 have ever committed." "\\ hat do I care whether vo". sav vou have or no? Let me pass: I wish to rid myself of your pre-eir-e." Yves stood aside. "Then you mean to marry Andre?" “I will speak l> you no more’, liar and coward.” ishe had never seen Y’ves colour before, but lie did then: a deep, painful flush, which overspread his faee. He held the door open for her to pass out. in silence. The scent of her roses lingered after her in the empty room. Y’ves turned away. I lie blue sky and the green leaves, the sunshine patterns on tin- floor, murmur of wind, voice and in-tle of bird, these W. re still here: and the sun flaslied like lightning on the barrel of Y’ves’ pistol. He had failed, and she- would marry Andre-: there «;;< no more to say. He could not plead against her bitter scorn. Since she was set on it and he could not prevent it. Yves thought he might spare her trouble as far as lay in his power lie took up the pistol. This was the best w»y out of it. He began to polish the sil.ei mountings with his handkerchief: part he rubbed bright, the rest he left. It must seem to bean accident: pistols go off by mistake sometimes, while they are being cleaned. There: it was done. Xies raised the pistol and set it. pointing at his heart . . . Swift a- sunshine. Agnes sprang across 1 lie room and dashed it from hi- hand, turned to him, and. bound him with her arms frcin touching it again. “Y’ves'” she said. "Yves. my- husband no!" . ' Yvea’ voice she ok. Il- put his hand under her chin and tilted her taee back: no need to 1..0k twice. Close 1.. lu-Id her. and f.lt lur pul'— throb under his hand, her face glow under his ki se-. and he saw her h-l:— droop b - fore J.is pi’-ionate glance. Love and shame dyed her laec with morning colours: sl„ clung to him with a child's 'luipltcity and n woman's tenderness. Neither sjwiko: the long minutes dreamed away in a mist of golden happin. -- . it was Yves W io at last broke silence. ha ” •nought you a sorrv dower of shame, my wife,” he said, almost, sadly. “Because you married me bv a disgraceful fraud? Oh, that!” said Agnes the ismsistent. with a toss of her head. ’ j * s I in awfully vain of it/’ “l m afraid I'm corrupting vou. \nd poor Andre?" "Andre." Agnes dimpled into laughter. -.Yes. I forgot to tell you. Andre is happily married to the daughter of tin- superintendent of Prisons!"