Doubly false

It was not exactly a dressing-room, nor was it a boudoir, in which Cora Lander stood robing herself for that secret marriage, but one of those elegant snuggeries which bespeak unbounded resources and a taste so luxurious that it almost revolts the imagination.

A toilet table was there, standing against the blue of the wall; its tall mirror framed in with a sumptuous enwreathment of gilded flowers, drooping lilies and clustering roses. From the bell of each lily a slender jet of gas shot forth and lighted up the whole toilet with quivering fire, indescribably beautiful. Above the mirror, and floating down each side of the table, was a cloud of filmy lace, grasped in the hands of a flying Cupid that seemed to float in the air and bathe itself in starlight, so adroitly were the wires hidden that connected it with the ceiling.

The table beneath the glass was an elaborate combination of ivory, satin-wood and gold, which stood upon a low platform of the same delicate workmanship, curved back at the sides just far enough to support two figures carved in ivory, with bands of gold about their heads and touches of gold gleaming along the draperies. These figures seemed to have just seized upon the floating lace flung to them by the Cupid, with uplifted hands and with feet advanced, gracefully poising themselves to dance off with it.

Upon this table the malachite dressing-case lay open, with all its crystal and golden equipments flashing in the light, and close by was a jewel-box, with the lid flung back from which came the flash of diamonds through a rope of pearls that coiled over the edge and trailed half across the table.

Beyond this superb article of furniture there was little indication that the room was used for anything but a place of rest. All the more commonplace appointments of the toilet were contained in the spacious bath-room, seen through an open door, which had evidently just been used, for the bath of snow-white marble, lined with some silver-plated metal, was half full of water that sent a faint perfume of roses into the dressing-room. The fur of a white bearskin rug, which lay on the marble floor, had been lately trampled on by wet feet, and on a marble slab, beneath a mirror let into the wall, lay combs and brushes, with a crystal array of pomade boxes, perfume bottles, carafes of water, all in confusion, as Cora Lander had left them ten minutes before, when she entered the larger dressing-room.

A dress of white silk half covered the blue damask of a couch that stood in the room, and over a large Turkish chair close by the delicate frost-work of a Brussels veil was thrown out in exquisite relief by the richer color of the damask.

Alice Ruess stood near her mistress, who was surveying herself in the glass, well pleased with the effect of her own work. Never had Cora Lander appeared more beautiful than she looked that night, even before the bridal robe had fallen over that cloud of muslin skirts and the delicate Valenciennes edging that cast its almost imperceptible shadows on her arms and bosom. The hair was rolled back from her forehead in rich folds, ending on the left side in a single long heavy curl, which fell in coils of ruddy gold on her white shoulder.

“It is beautiful,” said Cora, turning toward Alice and taking up the rope of pearls; “shall we twist these around the back hair?”

“Not for the world, mademoiselle is lovely as it is. The veil will be enough.”

Cora relinquished the pearls with evident reluctance; but she recognized a genius in the woman before her, and was wise enough to submit.

“What will you fasten the veil with then?” she inquired.

“These, mademoiselle; they are fresh as May dew and white as snow, just one little blush of pink at the heart—no more.”

Alice went to an alabaster vase that stood in a corner of the room, and took from the flowers crowded in it a handful of white roses, warmed, as she said, with blushes at the heart. These she laid carefully upon the dressing-table after pulling away all the green leaves.

Then there was a rustling of heavy silk, delicate satin gaiters laced over symmetrical ankles, and at last what seemed a shower of frost-work cast over a dress white and shimmering like crusted snow.

No wonder the waiting-woman stepped back and surveyed her mistress with clasped hands and exultation in every feature. Never had high art a lovelier object to exhaust itself upon. Some sweet, womanly feelings had crept into that young heart, spite of its ambition. The long, curling lashes swept a cheek brighter than any damask rose that ever bloomed; a smile parted those red lips. When she looked up the love-light in those soft almond-shaped eyes made the heart yearn toward her; for the time she was natural, womanly, almost good.

“You have made me beautiful, for that creature in the glass is beautiful,” she said, flinging some jewels out of the box and searching for a roll of bank-notes it contained. “Take this—and this. I hope you are poor, that it is the first money you have possessed for a long time; I would have it a surprise, for I must make some one happy to-night, or this feeling here, so sweet, so sacred, so holy, would kill me. Oh! if I were worthy of it!—Oh! if—. But I will think of nothing but him. Neither angel nor fiend shall drag my thoughts back to the old subject. In an hour, one little hour, I shall be his wife. Heavens, how I love him! And he loves me! I know it! I feel it here, deep, deep as my heart can feel! Oh! if, like Cleopatra, I could melt all that I have into a single pearl, he should drink it and I would smile as it touched his lips. If this wealth has cost me my own soul, so much the better—it is for him—all for him, and cheaply bought. But why am I thinking of that? He will never know. Heavens! must this subject forever crowd upon me? What business has it here? I, who have commanded wealth almost unlimited, should know how to crowd back my own thoughts. Oh! if I could! if I could!”

Cora had been speaking all this, wildly, brokenly, in English. Alice could not understand the language but she saw the color come and go in that beautiful face till it became pale as death. Then the features began to quiver, and tears rose slowly to those eyes so full of sparkling happiness a moment before. Spite of her resolve, the fiend and the angel of her life were having a sharp struggle that evening. She fell down into the Turkish chair, and grasping a fold of her veil in both hands, pressed them to her eyes. When her hands fell away, the lace was wet and Cora Lander’s lips were quivering. She would have given the world that moment could she have flung all her hideous wealth away and gone to her husband with a pure heart.

“Is mademoiselle displeased with her dress? Would she prefer the pearls?” inquired Alice, troubled by this new display.

“Displeased—no, no—what a child I am! The roses are lovely as innocence itself. When little girls are confirmed they wear white roses. Who shall forbid me to loop them in my bridal veil? I will not have the pearls, Alice.”

“If mademoiselle pleases, I can clasp one string about her neck and twist the other about her arm. Let me try them.”

“As you please,” answered Cora rising to survey herself once more. She bent her stately head before the glass and held forth her arm firmly while the woman wound the string of pearls over it serpentwise, and clasped another around her neck.

“There, mademoiselle, your toilet is perfect. There is your handkerchief. Now sit down awhile, it is so fatiguing; you look pale. Let me open the window, this fresh air, cool with drops from the fountain, will bring back all the lost roses to this pretty cheek. Ah, I thought so—they come back all at once. It is a footstep on the gravel.”

Cora started to her feet: a smile just parted her lips; she seemed inspired.

“Does mademoiselle expect company to the wedding?” inquired Alice.

“Not a soul, Alice. My happiness is so complete, I would not share it with an angel.”

“I thought, from the grand toilet, the quantity of flowers and the little supper, that Monsieur would bring some friends, perhaps.”

“No, the clergyman will come, perform his duties and go. We want no strangers—nor must you ever mention to a human being what you witness here to-night.”

“Lady I never will.”

“The time may come when I shall call upon you; till then promise that you will be silent.”

“I promise; on my honor I promise.”

“Truly,” said Cora, smiling at her image in the glass, “we have made a grand toilet; we have a profusion of flowers, and this new French cook has promised wonders for the supper. What then? A bride should dress for her husband, not the crowd that choose to follow her to the altar. Should I make this evening less splendid because he alone will enjoy it? No, no; love, to be perfect should be nobly surrounded. It shall be—it shall be so with us!”

“Mademoiselle, some one rings at the door.”

“It is my husband!” cried Cora, radiant. “Go down, Alice, and—stay, stay. I will go myself. Hark! there is no footstep but his?”

“None, lady.”

“I knew it. I felt sure that he would come alone. Heavens, how my heart beats!”