An Artist in Crime

CHAPTER XIV.

AN INTERRUPTED WEDDING

During the time spent by Mr. Barnes in the South, his spies in New York discovered little, or nothing, against the persons whom they had been charged to watch. Indeed from the standpoint of a detective, the actions of all had been most uninteresting. The usual round of social affairs, the customary number of theatre or opera parties, the regular afternoon teas, in fact the ordinary routine life of the man or woman of fashion, was all that could be observed. Yet of course these weeks did not pass without any occurrence of note. The chief one perhaps, was the naming of the day, upon which the wedding of Mr. Mitchel and Miss Remsen was to occur. This was May 5th, the very day upon which Mr. Barnes would reach New York with Mr. Neuilly.

Thus, fate seemed hurrying on a climax which was to occur on the wedding day. In New Orleans a detective was seeking evidence upon which he hoped to convict a man of the heinous crime of murder, whilst in New York a beautiful woman was bestowing her faith upon this same man, and with the assistance of many fingers, preparing to bedeck herself in bridal finery for his delectation. Meanwhile, the man himself acted most unconcernedly. He seemed to consider himself beyond the risk of danger, and he accepted his happiness as does one who had honorably earned it.

Of much interest to us, in the light of fast approaching events, was the curious conduct of Dora Remsen during this period. It will be remembered that Mr. Randolph had lost an opportunity of declaring himself, and that he warned the young lady against Mr. Thauret as one not to be trusted. This kind of advice, it is to be presumed, is offered by the one giving it, with some idea, however distant, that it may be accepted. Yet the histories of many lives would show that only a small percentage of similar advice has ever been received with acquiescence. Indeed, it might also be said that many persons have been hurried into each other's arms by the interference of wiseacres, when perhaps, if left to themselves, they would have drifted apart. At least so it seemed in this case. Mr. Thauret had become not only a constant visitor at the home of the Remsens', but he seemed a welcome one. He certainly was a most entertaining man, and his manners utterly unapproachable. He had travelled, and not only had seen the world, but had observed it, which is another thing. The result of this was that he had a fund of narrative always at his disposal, and his conversation was so attractive that he easily monopolized the attention of a coterie at any social gathering. Mr. Randolph noted with growing uneasiness that Dora was always one of the group who listened to these tales. What disturbed him most, was that after the greatest amount of time spent and wasted, in seeking some flagrant defect in the man's character, he was at last compelled to acknowledge to himself that he had nothing against Mr. Thauret, except a prejudice. But that prejudice was as great, if not greater, than ever. He determined at length to speak to Mr. Mitchel about it, and did so one afternoon when the rooms were crowded, his rival being as usual the centre of an attentive group.

"Mitchel," he began, "how the deuce did that fellow Thauret get into this family?"

"Dora met him somewhere, I believe. Why?"

"Why? Can you ask that?"

"Can I? Why certainly I can. I did ask you, – Why?"

"I declare, Mitchel, you are either as blind as a bat, or else you have eyes only for Miss Emily. Don't you see the danger that the younger sister is in, associating with that man?"

"Well now, Randolph, to be candid, I must admit I do not see the danger. What is it?"

"Why, suppose – suppose she fell in love with him? Suppose she married him!"

"Well, what then?"

"What then? You would provoke a saint. You talk as coolly about that child's throwing herself away on a – a nobody – as though we were discussing a shot at billiards."

"Randolph, my friend, let me give you a bit of advice. When a man wishes to marry a girl, there are two important rules which he must observe, and both of them I believe you have neglected."

"What do you mean?"

"Before I explain, let me ask you a question. Am I right in supposing that you wish to marry Dora yourself?"

"Well, that is rather pointed. However, I will admit the truth. I would be happy to have her love."

"Very well. I will tell you those two rules. The first is, 'Never speak ill of your rival.' The second is, 'Don't be too late asking for the young lady.'"

Randolph looked at Mr. Mitchel a moment intently, then offered his hand, which was grasped warmly. He said simply "I thank you," and walked over to the group where Dora was. After awhile, taking advantage of an opportune lull, he leaned over her and said in an undertone:

"May I have a few words of conversation with you?"

She looked up at him, evidently surprised at his tone, and asked:

"Is it important?"

"Very," he replied succinctly, and excusing herself to the company she permitted him to lead her into the next room, where she sat beside him on the sofa, to which he invited her with a motion. After a brief silence, during which each thought intently, he began:

"Miss Dora, I wish you to listen to me, if you please, to the end. I think you know that I love you." He paused just a moment, whilst she trembled slightly, blushed, and drooped her head. He continued: "I have never told you this before in words, I know, but you are a woman, and must have read my heart long ago. You are all so clever at that sort of thing. I am only a man, and I have not been able to read yours at all. I really do not know whether you care for me or not. Once I thought that you did, but of late – but no matter, I will not go into that. In brief, then, I have only to say that it would make me supremely happy to know that you would some day be my wife. In exchange, I offer you a lifelong devotion. And now – I think – that is all I have to say. Dora – little sweetheart – do you, could you trust yourself to me?"

He had gently taken her hand whilst he spoke, and the fact that she had neither resisted nor withdrawn it had encouraged him to the more affectionate terms which he used at the end of his love speech. She hesitated awhile, then gently disengaging her hand, and looking at him with just a suspicion of a tear in her eye, she said almost in a whisper:

"Do you care very much?"

"Very much! I cannot tell you how much." He tried to recapture her hand, but she eluded him. Again she asked a question:

"Money is not an object to you, in this?"

"Miss Remsen, you insult me."

"No, no!" she said quickly, "you misunderstand. I did not mean my money. I can't explain, yet you must answer my question. Would you mind if – oh, how shall I say it? Suppose I did something that cost you a lot of money – "

"Oh! I see," exclaimed Mr. Randolph, brightening up. "You mean you are extravagant. Don't let that bother you a minute. You may cost me as much money as you can possibly spend. I will never complain."

She seemed much relieved, but she did not speak at once. Her eyes wandered away from him, and following her gaze he saw them reach and rest upon Mr. Thauret. A jealous pang darted through his heart. He was about to speak when she turned to him and said with suppressed emotion:

"I hope you will not be angry with me, and that you will not think evil of me. There is something I cannot explain, yet which, if I could, you would not object to. But until I can tell you about it – I cannot – I cannot – give you an answer. Would you – would you be willing to wait?" There was a tone of entreaty in her voice.

"How long?" asked Mr. Randolph, still irritated, and wondering if the something which she could not tell was in any way connected with Mr. Thauret.

"Would you mind – if I asked you to wait till – well, say the New Year?"

"That is a long time, but if it is your will, I must."

"Oh, thank you!" That was all she said; but there was a hint of rapture in her speech, there were tears in her eyes, and for one brief ecstatic moment he thought that there was love in her heart, and that that love was for him. With an impulse that he could not control, and which she did not check, he drew her to him, and softly touched her lips with his own. He felt satisfied, though she left him immediately and went at once to Mr. Thauret, who greeted her with evident warmth. There is something, magnetism if you please, but a something that binds two true lovers' hearts so that an impulse in the one excites an answering sensation in the other. The oddest fact in this connection is, that though one may fancy himself deeply in love, he is not, till he has received one of these instantaneous messages which Cupid ticks over Love's telegraph. After that he is enslaved. His better judgment is gone. He will argue in the lonely hours of the night that he has made a mistake, that the woman is not destined to make him happy, that she has this, that, or the other fault, but it counts for nothing, save that he suffers. That one stab has slain his manhood, and he cannot control his actions. As soon as he meets the woman again, act as she may, his love is aflame once more. She may ill-treat him, she may ignore him, it matters not; she attracts him.

Thus it was with poor Mr. Randolph. Throughout the many weeks that followed he suffered much. He called his love all the unpleasant things that jealousy could suggest. But invariably the recollection of that one moment, when she had seemed in that indistinct, indescribable way to have yielded her whole self, her whole soul to him, would flash across his mind, and at once his reason was silenced, and he would say:

"She could not have done that if she were false. She loves me, but there is something that I do not understand which makes her treat me so. She told me so, and said that when she could tell it to me, I should not mind. Well, I must be patient and wait. I must trust her; she must be, she is, true!" And then gradually all the old doubts would creep over him again, and the suffering would be as poignant as before.

It was about a month after the conversation related, when a somewhat similar one occurred between the same young lady and Mr. Thauret. He had called one afternoon, when Dora was alone, and so had the field to himself. He spoke to her of all those things which he had found most interesting to her, and she was enjoying his society very much, when suddenly, as twilight approached and the room grew slightly darkened, he began to touch upon a more tender theme. He spoke of himself, of the wandering life that he had led, of the fact that he was alone in the world, without a living relative. He mentioned, as though it were of no importance, that he was of noble blood. Then he drew a touching picture of a man who, whilst really of a most affectionate nature, was compelled to live a loveless life, because there was none to whom he could turn for that sort of comfort. Then he asked her gently, very gently, whether she had ever thought upon the subject herself, and whether she had felt a yearning for the companionship of one who would be all in all to her. His pleading was very pretty to listen to, and she heard him as though much impressed but her reply was not exactly what he evidently hoped it would have been.

"Oh, yes," said she, "I have thought of all that in a vague sort of way. But, you see, I have been in love with my beautiful Queen, for so long that I cannot imagine a life without her. And yet" – there was a tremor in her voice – "I am going to lose her soon. She will go away for awhile, and then I fancy I shall feel that loneliness of which you speak. So, if you want to hear my real ideas upon that subject you must wait till after the wedding." She said this last with a tone of deep meaning, and Mr. Thauret seemed to accept her remark as a hint, for he changed the subject. Shortly afterwards he went away. As he walked down the avenue, there was almost a triumphant smile upon his face. This, however, was not reported to Mr. Barnes, for the spy was behind and could not see his face.

It was only a few nights after this that Mr. Mitchel was walking home from the club, accompanied by Mr. Thauret, when the latter turned the conversation upon the Miss Remsens.

"They certainly are charming girls," said he, "but one would need to be rich to afford the luxury of marrying one of them. I suppose they have nothing until the death of the mother."

Mr. Mitchel thought that he understood the object of the question, and for reasons of his own was glad to reply to it.

"O, not at all," said he. "The father left each of them a handsome sum, fifty thousand in fact, which they are to receive as soon as married. The bulk of the money, of course, went to the widow, but her interest is only for life, and then it is to be equally divided between the girls. I think it is somewhere near half a million."

"You are a fortunate fellow. I wish I had your luck."

"My dear Thauret, can a man of your intelligence believe in such a stupid thing as luck? It no more exists than its antithesis, ill luck. Every man succeeds or not, according to his own skill in guiding his life. Now you envy me my marriage to Emily, when certainly her sister Dora is just as charming, and richer, too."

"Miss Dora is charming, true; but that does not make me a successful suitor. But what do you mean by saying that she is richer?"

"Why, you see, her sister is devoted to her, and has promised her a gift of ten thousand dollars the day she marries, upon one condition."

"And that condition is?"

"That the husband shall be satisfactory to her."

There was a silence for several minutes, finally broken by Mr. Thauret:

"Well, in the light of your approaching marriage, which will make you the only man in the family, I presume your influence would count. If I should wish to marry Miss Dora, I suppose you would favor my suit?"

"That is not a new idea to me, I assure you. All I need say is that when you gain Dora's consent, you shall have mine."

"Thank you." Mr. Thauret said this with suppressed emotion, and after that neither man spoke until they said good-night at Mr. Mitchel's hotel. Mr. Thauret, upon reaching his own room, smoked a cigar, and blew little ringlets over his head, thus occupying himself till long after midnight. He seemed to be building castles, and from the satisfied expression on his face, they must have been grand ones.

Thus matters stood when the day dawned upon which the marriage was to occur. Everything was bustle and confusion at the home of the Remsens. The bridesmaids arrived early, helped to deck the bride, and then stood around in delighted admiration. Dora was in ecstasies. Two magnificent bouquets had been sent to her, one entirely of carnation pinks, from Mr. Randolph, and the other a fine assortment of cut-flowers, amongst which were three beautiful Calla lilies, tied with long white satin ribbons. These were the gift of Mr. Thauret. She stood admiring the flowers for a few moments, then tenderly untied the pinks, and, taking a few of each color, made a small bouquet, which she pinned just at the opening of her dress near the throat. Thus they were near enough to exhale a fragrance of which she would be continually conscious. Just before leaving the house, however, she took the Callas and carried them with her in her gloved hand.

Before the day was over a little tragedy occurred, of which she was not only innocent, but unconscious. In the throng entering the church her pinks were swept from her breast, and in her excitement she did not observe her loss. Mr. Randolph, however, the groom's best man, noted carefully that she carried flowers, and that they were not his. Subsequently she, in reply to a question from him, admitted who had sent them, and though he made no remark, he slept little that night. Thus easily men suffer.