Chapter XXXVI: Double Ties

When the marriage of Laura de Montreuil was settled upon, her brother, always kind and over-indulgent, purchased one of those fine, old mansions that are now almost swept away from the shades of New Haven, and fitted it up for her future home. With the quick tact which accompanies refinement like his, he saw that the future bridegroom would be best pleased by a broad display of that wealth and elegance which it had always been his ambition to obtain. So he gave way to Laura’s rather sumptuous taste, and out of the fine old mansion, with its grounds stiffly ornamented with box borders, tall poplars, and groups of old-fashioned shrubbery, she wrought for herself and lover a sort of fairy palace. Silken and snowy draperies floated over the windows. Thick carpets yielded, like wood-moss, to the tread. Chairs, sofas, and cabinets that might have graced the room of a court lady, gave imposing grandeur to the low-ceiled rooms and heavy mantlepieces; andirons of bronze and glittering brass stood guard in each broad fire-place, and upon the upper leaf of the massive hall-door, a ponderous brass knocker reverberated the announcement of each visitor as he entered the house.

The house was cheery and sumptuous, consequently the more fit for that brilliant and queenly girl who seemed born for a palace, and to be the sovereign of any hall she trod.

Laura, like many another loving and noble girl, could have made herself content in any place with the husband of her choice; but she was not the less in love, or the less charming, because the power of gathering objects of beauty around her existed to an almost unlimited extent.

She had been accustomed to beautiful surroundings all her life, and in her own nature was luxurious. But, deep beneath all this, lay a character so grand and strong that she could have flung all these outside belongings from her life without a sigh, had the real good of a beloved object required it.

But the luxuries which wealth gives are pleasant things, and love nestled in velvet is not the less love, if the spirit of self-sacrifice broods there even with folded wings.

With Laura, life was full of superb happiness. Proud of her lover, glorying in his fine person and strong character, she worshiped where a weaker woman would only have loved. She exulted in the power of bestowing upon the princely man—for such he was to her—opulence that a monarch might have been content with. If she could have gathered the rosy clouds of morning, and looped them above his couch with stars from heaven, she would have left the skies so much darker for his sake. His step, as it fell on the oaken floor of the hall, thrilled her like music; his smile made her happiness more perfect; her cheek bloomed and her lips parted redder beneath it. The white eyelids grew tremulous as they drooped to shade the exquisite joy that sparkled beneath them. At such times love made her very, very beautiful.

Arnold was happy, too, after a fashion. Indeed, it may be considered doubtful if men like him, wax in principle and iron in self-love, can ever experience those keen regrets which wing every wrong with a pang to those of more sensitive natures. With his strong, hard, fervid character, to will was to be right, and every effort of conscience to reach his heart, fell away unheeded as rain drips from the plumage of a bird, only touching the outer surface. Strange as it may seem, the young man was cheerful; for, with the arrogance of a powerful organization, he looked with contempt upon the efforts of those less boldly gifted, and had cast all fear of consequences from his mind. Was that weak, pretty girl by the saw-mill at Yantic Falls to break up his magnificent fortunes,—she who still blushed with pleasure if he but looked upon her? As for “the old folks at home,” were they not chained to his wishes by their own exceeding love for himself? Besides, if they attempted any annoyance, was he not equal to the occasion?

Arnold was a traitor, but never a coward! His sins were all strong and audacious. Money, pomp, and power were his ruling passion. To the shrine of ambition he was ready to lay down every honest affection, every honorable feeling. The glitter of life won his idolatry: its solid gold he trampled under foot, without feeling its value or regretting its loss.

Thus Arnold was happy—if the best moments of such men can be called happiness—even in committing an act of domestic treason more cruel than that which has left his name black on the lips of posterity. His intellect was powerful, its perversion complete; while the feeble conscience, that sometimes fluttered through his better moments, was like a helpless bird beating its way through a storm.

Another man would have asked for a quiet, if not secret marriage; but to Arnold half his ideas of happiness lay in the eclat of a splendid festival. So, with his usual reckless daring, he sent out boldly and proclaimed his coming grandeur, by scattering invitations far and near. With him success was nothing, if the world were not challenged to admire and envy.

When Paul de Montreuil returned from Norwich, bringing word that the whole Arnold family would come to the wedding, Arnold asked a few careless questions about his visits, and, among others, if he had seen any thing of the Leonards.

Yes,—Paul remembered seeing Joshua Leonard swinging some children in the minister’s orchard, and having admired the pretty Amy as she came in from a supper-table under the apple-trees, where she had been busy as a bee, her companions told him.

Arnold listened attentively, and a cloud came to his forehead. Did he wish to hear that Amy was pining herself to death? Could his clamorous self-love be appeased with nothing less than that?

After this conversation Paul relapsed into uneasy silence. The color—a strange thing—came and went in his face. Laura, who came in just then, saw his embarrassment, and vaguely guessed its cause. She drew close to her brother and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“And Hannah, Benedict’s sister,—you say nothing of her, Paul?”

The young man was grateful for this gentle interposition, and, turning his head, smiled upon her.

“Oh, yes!” he answered. “I saw Hannah. Indeed, it was for that purpose I went to Norwich.”

Arnold was walking towards the window. He turned suddenly, and his face flushed with eager satisfaction.

Paul saw the look, and was reassured.

“Of course,” he said, addressing Laura, but keeping a furtive glance on Arnold, “of course, you must have suspected that some little private interests of my own made me so amiable. One does not take journeys of that length more than once just to leave his sister’s wedding invitations.”

“Brother, oh, brother! are you in earnest,—real, solemn earnest? Did love of Hannah Arnold take you there? Is it all settled? Does she care about you? Dear old fellow, how I love you! Don’t answer. When a De Montreuil blushes it means love,—successful love. We turn pale when things go against us. Don’t we, Paul?—grow white, and creep away chilled all over. Now that I have got my breath, tell me all about it, you precious old darling.”

Laura sat down on a cushioned stool that chanced to be near the easy-chair in which Paul was sitting, and, leaning both elbows on his knee, dropped her chin into the palm of one hand, composing herself to listen.

“Now, _chère_, tell me all about it. I’m quite ready to listen.”

“Tell you all about what, fair lady?” said Paul, with a teasing smile.

“Why, how you managed to make the demure little angel come to terms; what the dear old people said; and, better than all, how Hagar and Dan took the news. Oh, I would give the world to see Hagar strutting about in the glory of two weddings.”

“Well, dear, as you will have all the particulars, let me sum them up in a few words. I have proposed for Miss Arnold, and would tell you how, only that I don’t quite remember exactly myself,—being deucedly frightened, spite of the impudence you give me credit for.”

“Proposed! of course you proposed; but did she accept, poor, little, modest puss? and if she did, where on earth could she find words to express it in?”

“Really, sister, you are too much for me. Have not I told you that I was half frightened to death myself? Think what it must have been with her,” answered Paul, smiling happily on the beautiful face uplifted to his with such eager delight. “All I know is, that she accepted me.”

“The darling,—the sweet dove-eyed angel! How I love her,” cried Laura, snatching Paul’s hand to her lips and kissing it. “Come here, Arnold. Are you listening to all this? he is to be your brother twice over. Was ever any thing so charming?”

Arnold came forward with his hand extended. Real pleasure beamed in his face.

“De Montreuil, I congratulate you, and a thousand times over congratulate myself. She is a good, lovely girl, this sister of mine. You cannot fail to be happy.”

Arnold’s face was grand then; indeed, when holy feelings rose uppermost in his heart a wonderful power of beauty broke over his face. Laura saw the pure look and her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, brother, Arnold, what have we done to deserve such happiness!” she said.

Paul bent down and kissed her forehead. His dark eyes were full of heart-dew, his finely cut lips quivered with intense feeling.

“We must try to deserve it and be grateful for it,” he said. And putting her gently aside, Paul left the room.

Laura went up to Arnold in the excess of her joy, and stealing an arm around his neck, crept close to his bosom. “Tell me, love, isn’t this happiness?” she said. “The bonds that unite us will be so strong.”

Arnold strained her to his heart. The ruling passion of his life was so near its gratification that this affectionate demonstration was a genuine impulse.

“Ah me!” murmured Laura, drawing a deep breath as he released her. “Can this happiness last? Will God always permit so much of heaven to his creatures here?”

A shade came over Arnold’s face. He turned away abruptly, and Laura went out with tears of supreme bliss trembling in her eyes.

Arnold watched her with anxiety. Her happiness did, indeed, seem too much. It was almost wearisome to be loved so entirely. What if she found him out? What if this new tie between the families should lead Paul to uncontrolled intimacy with the people of Norwich? Amy and his sister were fast friends. Would that wronged young creature keep her secret and her promise? Well, if she did not, was he unprepared? How could she prove a ceremony of which only one witness existed, and that one upon the ocean, which was sure to be the case, long before poor little Amy could cry out under her wrongs But would she make an effort to stem the evils of her destiny, bound as she was by a solemn promise? “No!” he answered to his thought, in a voice firm with conviction. “No, no. She is true as steel. True as steel.”

After this exclamation, which sprang out of his faith in the woman he had wronged, Arnold cast the whole harassing subject from his mind. Was he not twice safe—safe in the pledge of secrecy planted in that young heart—safe in her utter helplessness and lack of proof? The face of the hard man cleared up radiantly. What, a double marriage! would all the vast wealth of the De Montreuils pass into his own family? He had accomplished all this, and how? By sweeping aside scruples over which common men stumbled or stood still. How the man gloried over his own hardihood!

Laura was happy as a bird of paradise. Hannah, whom she loved so, should be twice her sister. Bound to her and her idol by new ties, she could hardly believe in her own happiness: it seemed fabulous. Paul was content, and Arnold, assured of the power to carry out his purpose, gave himself up to bright hopes, while each day the wedding drew nearer.