"So they plotted--they deliberately wronged him, and sent him to his death. My God! and I believed him guilty!"
She was calm, but madness shone in her eyes.
"To-morrow," she laughed low and strangely--"to-morrow I'll be the bride of death. Oh, I'll cheat them of their triumph! Black Pond will hide the secret of my disappearance, for not even my father cares to go there, so many superstitions and dark traditions surround it."
She opened a door, and entered an oratory. Wax lights burned on a small altar; the incense of flowers filled the air. A white cross gleamed in the dim light, and the pictured faces of saints looked down from the walls. The influence of the place seemed to soften her.
"Mother of Christ, forgive them, and receive my poor broken spirit. Intercede for me," she prayed, falling to her knees on the cushion before the altar, with clasped hands and head bowed low. "I am friendless--friendless here on earth: death alone can save me. Pitying Christ, have mercy. Thou dost understand."
The light fell around her like a halo. It touched the gold of her hair to luminous brightness, shone on one fair cheek, round uncovered arm and graceful shoulder, and swept downward to the floor, where violet shadows lay in the rich soft folds of her gown. What incomparable loveliness to be given to death, and such a hideous death! but no shrinking, no regret moved her. The knowledge of her father's treachery had decided her. She rose, reverently kissed the crucifix, and, returning to her room, began to make her preparations. She caressed the lilac gown, as she unlaced it to exchange it for the white satin and wedding veil. They should be her shroud, instead of her bridal garments.
"Who knows but some happier, more fortunate Euphemia D'Esterre, may wear this beloved gown? If so, I pray that it may bless her with all that has been denied me."
It rustled softly, fell away from her to the floor in a shimmering heap, and--
When my friends found me I lay in the rustic chair unconscious, with the dew-wet mimosa drooping over me; but when I regained the power of rational thought and speech, it was after a week of delirious illness. The Magnoliaville physician said that it had been, coming on for some time, and was the result of overwrought nerves, aggravated by my exposure on the lawn that night, and his explanation was readily accepted, while my story of the lilac gown and Euphemia D'Esterre's sad death was set aside as a dream, or the ravings of fever. Perhaps it was a dream, but I shall always have doubts, and I shall always believe that old gown imparted to me the secret of her death, and brought back prosperity to the D'Esterres.