CHAPTER XXI.

THE BREAKING OF THE SPELL.

Recalled to herself by the shutting of the street door, Muriel started from her trance, and flew upstairs into her chamber. Falling on her knees by her bedside, she covered her eyes with her hands, and buried her face in the coverlet, floods of dazzling light pouring upon her brain.

“I see it all!” she cried, springing to her feet, and throwing up her hands, her face radiant, and a smile breaking upon it like March splendors from the wild clouds; “I see it all now! Wentworth and she are lovers. Oh, let me not die with joy!”

Her luminous face upturned, her arms upthrown, she flew across the room, stopped suddenly, and covering her eyes with her hands, stood still, light, perfume, and victory rushing upon her soul and mantling through her veins.

“Yes, I see it all!” she cried, flinging her hands from her eyes, and clasping them before her, “they love—they love. It is a lover’s quarrel. To vex Wentworth, she paid court to Harrington. It was on Richard’s account that she was jealous of me. And that is why Richard was so devoted to me—yes, to vex her. And I who patronized him, that she and Harrington might be together—ah, that made Harrington think I loved Richard. I see it—I see it! That is what he meant when he asked me to tell him who my fairy prince was! Oh, noble heart, you hid your pain—you sacrificed your love—you tried to be happy in the happiness you dreamed for me! And I, who made you suffer—I, who could be so misled, as to think, even for an instant, that you loved another—Oh, blind, blind!”

Her eyes swam, and her beautiful head drooping like a flower, she stood motionless, her fallen hands clasped before her, thinking, thinking, thinking of it all. Swiftly, as in the fairy tale at the touch of the prince’s wand the tangled floss unravelled, and all the colors lay assorted, so in her musing the whole tangle of misapprehension and illusion unwound and fell into orderly and candid form.

“Ah, Richard, you scamp!” she gaily soliloquized, half to herself and half aloud, “you shall make amends for this! But you, too, must have suffered. Now what could have made them quarrel? Let’s consider. What have I ever seen Richard do to Emily? Nothing but look cold, and glum, and piqued. All that was clearly in response to her manner. Then that ugly speech he made—but that was the finale. Stand aside, Richard, my friend. Now, Emily. What have I seen Emily do to Richard? Let me see. Why nothing either for a commencement of the trouble. My observations began in the middle of it all. Stay—there was that little affair of the violets for a sample. But that was in the middle, too. And that was due to our sweet friend Fernando. Oho!” she cried, opening her eyes with a comical air, “I have an idea! Wait, wait, now, my little idea, till I put a pin in you! Let’s see. With one subtle speech, one artful tone, one delicate lift of those expressive eyebrows, one curious non-significant, all-significant, anything-significant look, this clever Witherlee contrives to put it into my simple Emily’s head to slight and wound her lover. That was a delicious proceeding, and I saw it in all its indescribable beauty. That was a sample of Fernando’s method. That was one of his fine touches. Still that is but one. But suppose he has been playing this sort of game with Emily from the first? So gently, so delicately, so skillfully poisoning her mind against Wentworth. Her intimate friend—so close with her, so confidential—ah, ha! my daughter of Eve, has the serpent been at your ear, too! Oh, my poor Eveling, has he been putting you up to this mischief? Good! I’ll engage that we shall find Witherlee at the bottom of the whole imbroglio when all is known.”

And Muriel, ineffably delighted at her own sagacity, her nimble mind having glanced from point to point to this conclusion, threw back her charming head, and gave way to a rivulet of low, delicious laughter.

“Shame on me to laugh about it,” she resumed, looking very grave. “It has cost too much suffering to laugh about. And yet,” she ran on, rippling again into golden laughter, “I can’t help it. I’m so happy! And it is such a pleasure to have found the track of the fox that stole the grapes! Well, Fernando! you’re a nice young man! And oh, Cupid, Cupid, you weren’t painted with the bandaged eyes for nothing, you rogue! But, bless me, here am I chattering to myself, and Emily to be covered, dinner nearly ready, and I not dressed.”

She broke off to hasten to a bureau, from a lower drawer of which she took a grey silk coverlet to lay over Emily, and went swiftly from the room.

Emily was sleeping deeply, with a faint color in her pallid and lovely face. Bending over her, Muriel covered her with the quilt, and kissing her forehead softly as a spirit, darkened the room, and left her. Then going down to her mother, and warning her not to disturb the sleeper, she hurried up to her chamber, and finished dressing herself just as Bridget, a comely little Irish girl who waited at table when they dined alone, came up to summon her to dinner.

Charmingly attired in a robe of black silk, with an open corsage of snowy lace, and looking more radiantly fair than ever, Muriel came down to dinner, and during the meal entertained her mother with a circumstantial account of her noon adventure. The story, of course, made a sensation, as the popular phrase goes; but as far as Muriel was concerned, Mrs. Eastman listened without shuddering or chiding. She had such perfect confidence in her daughter’s ability to take care of herself, and such a conviction that everything she did befitted her—for, like Shakspeare’s Cleopatra, Muriel shed the artistic grace of her nature on all her actions, and compelled them to become her ornaments—that she heard the part she had played in the wild scene not only without discomposure, but with considerable pride and admiration, thinking at the same time how proud Mr. Eastman would have been of the way his child had borne herself. As he would, for his wishes for Muriel were well expressed in the noble lines of Ben Jonson, of which he was very fond:

“I meant the day-star should not brighter ride, Nor shed like influence from his lucent seat: I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, Free from that solemn vice of greatness, pride! I meant each softest virtue there should meet, Fit in that softer bosom to abide: Only a learned and a manly soul I purposed her, that should with even powers The rock, the spindle, and the shears control Of Destiny; and spin her own free hours.”

A piquant incident occurred while they yet lingered at dessert. The chief result, perhaps, of Muriel’s narration, was to lend an added blazon, in Mrs. Eastman’s mind, to the character of Harrington; and, by the way, she still firmly believed—his declaration to the contrary notwithstanding—that her daughter loved him.

“I often think,” she observed, during the conversation, “how superior John is to all other men I know. The other day I met him in the street, and my first impression was of his superiority in contrast to those around him.”

“Yes, that strikes one certainly,” returned Muriel, with a nonchalant air.

“Ah, there is none like him, none!” said Mrs. Eastman. “I wish I had the rewarding of him.”

Muriel laughed.

“Virtue is its own reward you know, mamma,” she said, playfully. “But what other reward would you give him?”

“You!” quickly said Mrs. Eastman, smiling and coloring.

Muriel looked at her with a twinkling mouth and a demure face.

“You do not mean to say, mamma,” she replied, “that you would choose Harrington from the crowd of my adorers for my husband.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Eastman, with some warmth, “if I had the choosing, Harrington should be your husband to-morrow.”

Muriel now looked at her with an indescribable air of bewitching gaiety.

“To-morrow, mamma? So soon?” she said, jestingly.

Mrs. Eastman looked confused, like one who has been betrayed into saying a foolish thing, and blushing deeply, began to laugh.

“Well,” she replied, with an air of raillery, “the day after to-morrow.”

“The day after to-morrow,” repeated Muriel, her countenance beaming with gracious fun. “Well, my dear mamma, I will reflect upon it, and if I decide to oblige you by marrying Harrington the day after to-morrow, I will let you know.”

Mrs. Eastman laughed at this pleasantry, and thinking Muriel was evading the subject, said no more, but rose from the dinner-table with her. Their relation as mother and daughter also involved, as is not always the case, the relation of courteous friendship, and this was the nearest approach Mrs. Eastman had ever made to penetrate within the veil of any reservation of Muriel’s.

Immediately after dinner, Muriel wrote a note to Wentworth, bidding him come to the house instantly. This she dispatched by Patrick, bidding him find the young artist, if possible, and give it into his own hand; and Patrick, who would have gone through fire and flood for his young mistress, promised to find Wentworth if he was to be found, and started off on his errand.

It was about four o’clock when Wentworth arrived. He was shown up into the studio, where Muriel was waiting for him. Pale and wan, and grave even to coldness, he was the handsome and gallant Wentworth still; a man to be loved at first sight by women and by men, even now, when a storm had blown upon his May.

He bowed coldly and constrainedly to Muriel as he entered, though he was struck by her exceeding beauty as she glided forward with her natural affable smile and curtsey to greet him. But Wentworth was sick of all the world at that moment, and affecting not to see Muriel’s outstretched hand, he looked aside and reached her a chair.

“What is it you wished to see me for, Muriel?” he said, half coldly, half carelessly, drawing up another chair for himself.

“Richard?” Her voice carried a soft rebuke, though it was gentle and low. “Not glad to see me, your friend, your sister, Richard.”

He kept his gaze fixed upon the floor, but his lip quivered, and the faded colors of the carpet suddenly swam. The next instant he felt her arms around him, and blind with tears, he let his forehead sink upon her shoulder.

“Forgive me, Muriel,” he faltered, in a moment, lifting his face to hers, and wanly smiling through his tears. “Indeed I love you, but my heart is half broken, and I am weary of the world.”

“Ah, Richard,” she said, with tender gaiety, “there is a fairy prince here who mends broken hearts, and makes the world-weary glad again.”

Her arms fell from him, and as they fell, he caught her hand and pressed it to his lips.

“Your magic is strong, dear fairy prince,” he said, with sad playfulness, “but there are spells no magic can unbind. Come—let us speak of other things.”

“Good!” said Muriel, sinking into the chair, while Wentworth also seated himself—“and since we must speak of other things, let us speak of Witherlee.”

Wentworth reddened instantly.

“And he _is_ a thing!” was his scornful answer. “I abhor him.”

“Abhor the good Fernando!” she exclaimed, with a jesting face. “Why Richard, I am astonished at you! Abhor so talented a young gentleman!”

“Talented!” scoffed Wentworth. “What has he a talent for?”

“A talent for poisoning, dear skeptic,” she replied, lightly. “A splendid talent for poisoning. No poisoner of the Middle Ages was ever more skillful.”

Wentworth looked confused.

“Poisoning? What do you mean?” he murmured.

“Only those old poisoners wrought on life,” she pursued, “while he, you know, works on character, minds, hearts. They could add a deadly perfume to a harmless rose. He, now, can do the same with an innocent bunch of violets.”

Wentworth looked at her silently, with a strange feeling rising within him.

“Confess, Richard,” she went on, “that you scented something deadly to your love after he had dropped a word over those violets!”

“I understand you,” he replied, slowly, “he said something which prevented Emily from giving me the violets.”

“And that wounded you sorely,” she remarked.

“I confess it did,” he answered. “It was a very trifling thing, to be sure, but at that time it meant a great deal, and to be frank with you, Muriel, I was hurt. No matter,” he added, “there were other things for which he was not responsible, which hurt me far more. I cannot now be hurt again.”

“But consider,” said Muriel, quietly. “If that morning Emily had given you the flowers, the gift would have gone far to reconcile you to her. Would it not?”

“It would,” cried Wentworth, vehemently. “One little act of kindness from her to me at that time, would have made me forget all her former slights, and try to win her to me again. But, Muriel, why dwell on this? It was her intention to trifle with me from the first. Come, I must not talk of her. Let it all go. It amounts to nothing.”

“It amounts to just this,” she replied, coolly. “That Mr. Witherlee was interested in your affairs to the extent of making fresh dissension between you and Emily, and that he widened a breach already made. Now do you imagine his interest extended no further than that moment? But, Richard, tell me frankly, how did your difference with Emily arise!”

“Muriel,” he replied solemnly, “as Heaven is my witness, I do not know. I never did anything to cause it. I left her here one afternoon, and I was happy, for though I thought she loved me before, I was never sure of it till then, when we met in the first embrace, the first kiss, and the last, she ever gave me. Witherlee appeared at the parlor door, and retreated again for a minute or so. Then you came into the parlor from the conservatory, and he entered at the same moment. You will recollect that afternoon—you brought in a bunch of flowers, and as he came in you held out the bouquet to him, which he took from your hand. Do you remember?”

Muriel nodded.

“Well,” continued Wentworth, “I felt a little abashed at Witherlee’s entrance, for I thought he had seen us, and in fact, it was so awkward for me, that I took my leave in a few minutes.”

“And that evening—I remember it well”—interrupted Muriel, “he and Emily talked together in a corner the whole time, while mother and I were busy with a roomful of guests.”

“Did they!” said Wentworth, coldly, seeing nothing in the circumstance worthy of notice. “Well, Muriel,” he continued, after a moment’s consideration, “I called the next morning to see Emily, happy as I could be, and full of love for her, and she met me with such chilling hauteur that I was frozen. It was like an ice-bath. I felt piqued and hurt, and though I thought it only a passing freak, I could not help being cool to her. Indeed, her manner prevented anything but coolness. I thought, however, it would pass over. But the next day it was the same, and the next and the next. I am proud, Muriel, and I was innocent of any fault. Could I do less, and keep my self-respect, than remain cool to a lady who was treating me so? Meanwhile, I saw her attentions to Harrington, and I made up my mind that she had trifled with me for her amusement. So it went on, till last night when she heaped contumely on me, and I repaid her with the speech you heard. There. I did not mean to speak of this, but you have led me on. Now I am quits with her.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Wentworth resumed:

“In all this, Muriel, I did, as far as she was concerned, only one wrong thing. When I saw her wooing Harrington, to show her that I could bear her injury, and to spoil her triumph, I was very attentive to you. I knew you would not mistake my assiduities for love, and I knew it would pique her. I ask your pardon. It was wrong. I did another and a greater wrong to Harrington, and I have sought him in vain to-day, to beg his forgiveness. I thought he loved Emily, and I was meanly envious and jealous of him—I was cold and reserved to him—I treated him with hauteur, which I saw he could not understand, and”—

“How did Harrington act to you when you treated him with hauteur?” interrupted Muriel, quickly.

“Like the man he is!” replied Wentworth, with impetuous fervor. “Like the nature too noble for this world! Great, grand heart, he shamed me even in my very treason to him with his unaltered kindness. He came to me frankly, unrepelled by my attitude to him, he came with a look, a word, a generous hand, and he conquered me. My envy and my jealousy arose again, and were wasted on him. I could not alienate him from me. He overlooked—he forgave all. Let me only see him again, let me ask his compassion and his pardon, and then let me go away, and hide my shame in Italy, for I am not worthy to live on the same soil with him—I am not worthy to be his friend.”

Two bright tears flowed calmly down the face of Muriel, and her smile was sweet and proud for her lover.

“Ah, Richard,” she said, gently, “had you treated Emily’s hauteur as Harrington treated yours, you, too, might have conquered her. It was not true love to answer her slights with coldness and silence.”

“Perhaps, so, Muriel,” he answered with averted eyes, feeling her rebuke. “Perhaps I might. But no. It was not her nature. She meant to play upon me. No matter. Let it pass. And as for Witherlee, I hate him. Chiefly because I believe his insidious words set me against Harrington.”

“Ah,” said Muriel, coolly, almost carelessly, “he set you against Harrington, did he?”

“He did,” replied Wentworth.

“And yet you loved Harrington,” she continued, “you loved him truly. But Witherlee could set you against him.”

“He could,” faltered Wentworth. “I own it to my shame, but he could.”

“And now, Richard,” she said, gravely, “answer me this. Would Emily be more to blame for having been set against you by Witherlee, than you were to blame for having been set against Harrington by him?”

Wentworth looked at her, and colored.

“No,” he faltered. “I could not blame her if her feeling against me arose from anything said by Witherlee. But what right have I to suppose that he has said anything against me?”

“Richard Wentworth,” she cried, starting from her chair, and her face lit, and her voice rang clear and free, “never dare to condemn Emily till you know that this is not so. Never condemn any person on any evidence till you have given that person a hearing. Here is a man who goes about, dropping the hint, the innuendo, the shrug, the hum, the ha, the meaning look, for aught I know the downright wicked lie, all the poisons used by calumny, and while you know him to be on terms of intimacy with Emily, you venture to suppose that he is guiltless of having poisoned her mind against you. Permit me to say that you venture to suppose too much. I would not condemn even him unheard, but what we know, though it is not enough for proof, is quite enough to create a presumption. You have found him fomenting strife between you and Harrington; you know him to have widened the breach between you and Emily. These things show him no friend of yours. And between the evening of your happy parting with Emily and the morning of coldness and alienation, he spent several hours conversing with her. Ominous link, Richard! Find out what it means. Do not assume that she meant to trifle with you. I know better. I know Emily Ames better than you do, and I know that a woman more honorable and loyal in her love never breathed. Go, Richard Wentworth! imitate the magnanimity of Harrington and never let me have it to say that the manliness of your friend was more than that you showed to the woman that you love!”

Wentworth rose from his chair, his color flashing and failing, an awful sense of the justice of Muriel’s speech mingling with an awful suspicion of Witherlee, and his love for Emily rushing like a torrent on his heart.

“Muriel,” he faltered, “you are right. I have been rash. What shall I do? Oh, if after all I have wronged Emily—if she loves me”—

“Richard,” said Muriel, solemnly, “I know she loves you. I have been blind till to-day, but now I see. No sleep came to your poor Emily’s eyes last night, and all day she has been in agony. A little while ago, Harrington was here, and he has soothed her to rest. She lies now asleep in the library. Come with me, and I will leave you to sit by her. Her wakening eyes must rest first on you, and you must make your peace with her. But you must not awaken her. Promise me you will sit patiently by her till she wakes—promise!”

Wentworth pressed Muriel’s hand to his lips, and lifting his blanched face, streaming with tears, to hers, faltered—

“I promise.”

“Oh, my brother,” she fondly said, affectionately encircling his shoulder with her arm, “all will be well with you now. Said I not that the fairy prince dwelt here? Behold, he gives you back to life and love! Come.”

Smiling with her happy and noble smile into his face, she led him forth with her arm in his and downstairs to the library door.

“Remember your promise,” she whispered. “Now go in.”

He entered softly, softly closed the door behind him, and stood in the dim room with a beating heart. For a moment, he only saw the books in their cases, the sumptuous furniture, the glimmer of the frames upon the walls, the rich, dark color of the room. Stealing to the window, he parted the curtains to let in a little light, and turning, in the faint ray he saw on the low couch, the pale face of his beloved, with the long dark eyelash sleeping on her cheek, and her black hair fallen in a thick, soft tress along the exquisite and melancholy beauty of her countenance. Still, peaceful, void of scorn or pride, lovely and mournful in her marble repose! The tears streamed from his eyes, and gliding near her he knelt by her side, forgetting, forgiving all, and resolved, though she woke upon him in anger, with hate, with contempt, to answer her only with blessings, and love her till his pulses were still forever.

The hours passed by. The room grew dark, and going to the window, he put aside the curtains, and let in the twilight. That twilight was yet early, for the sun had but just set, and the grey light again lit the sleeping face of Emily. As he watched it, he saw the color rise to it—the sunny gold and rose, the bright carnation of the curved lips, behind which glimmered the dim pearls. With his heart wildly throbbing, he kept his eyes fixed upon her countenance. Presently, a faint smile stole upon it, and she murmured softly—“he gave me that rose.” A thrill surged through him. He remembered the rose he had given her in the sunrise of their love, and knew that she was dreaming of it and of him. Gazing upon her face, he heard her faint regular breathing pause in a long respiration like a sigh, her form moved slightly under the silken coverlet, and tossing out her beautiful bare arms, they fell along her form, and she lay still. The next moment, her large and lustrous eyes unclosed slowly, and met his. She did not start, but the eyes gradually brightened, and the color rose upon her face and lips in rich suffusion. He did not move—he did not speak—he knelt beside her, gazing into her face, with his heart throbbing, and a still flush in his brain.

“It is a dream,” she murmured. “A dream of my love.”

He did not speak, but his arms softly stole around her, and hers enfolded him at first so lightly that he scarcely felt them. Lightly and softly at first, till suddenly with a double cry they were clasped together, and the disenchanted Fairyland of love burst and streamed in music and light and odor around them.

“Richard! Is it you?”

Holding him from her, with all her strength, her face impassioned, her eyes like stars, she gazed upon him, with her fervent cry still ringing in the twilight air.

“It is I. Forgive me, Emily. I love you.”

She impetuously drew him to her, and locked in each other’s arms, they were still.

The fairy prince had triumphed, and Witherlee’s work was quite undone!