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.