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Page 18
Her room was on the first floor, and the windows, furnished with
balconies, opened to the floor. She stood looking out into the night for
a moment, then gathering up her flowing drapery, and covering herself
with a heavy cloak, stepped from the window. The damp earth struck a
chill to her delicately-shod feet, but she did not notice it. The mist
and fog dampened her hair, unheeded. She went swiftly down the shaded
path, the dead leaves of the linden trees rustling mournfully as she
swept through them. Past the garden and its deserted summer-house, and
the grapery, where the purple fruit was lavishing its sweets on the air,
and climbing a stile, she stood beside a group of shading cypress trees.
Just before her was a square enclosure, fenced by a hedge of arbor vitae,
from the midst of which, towering white and spectral up into the silent
night, rose a marble shaft, surmounted by the figure of an angel, with
drooping head and folded wings.
Margie passed within the inclosure, and stood beside the graves of her
parents. She stood a moment silent, motionless; then, forgetful of her
bridal garment, she flung herself down on the turf.
"Oh, my father! my father!" she cried, "why did you doom me to such a
fate? Why did you ask me to give that fatal promise? Oh, look down from
heaven and pity your child!"
The wind sighed mournfully in the cypresses, the belated crickets and
katydids droned in the hedge, but no sweet voice of sympathy soothed
Margie's strained ear. For, wrought up as she was, she almost listened
to hear some response from the lips which death had made mute forever.
The village clock struck half-past eight, warning Margie that it was
almost time for the ceremony to take place. She started up, drew her
cloak around her, and turned to leave the place. As she did so, she felt
a touch on her hand--the hand she laid for a moment on the gate--as she
stood giving a last sad look at the mound of earth she was leaving, a
touch light and soft as a breath, but which thrilled her through every
nerve.
She turned her head quickly, but saw nothing. Something the sound of
receding footsteps met her ear, nothing more, but she was convinced there
had been a human presence near her. Where? Her heart beat strangely; her
blood, a moment before so chilled and stagnant, leaped through her veins
like fire. From whence arose the change?
She reached her chamber without meeting any one, and unlocking the door,
rang for her attendants. The house was in a strange confusion. Groups
were gathered in the corridors, whispering together, and some unexplained
trouble seemed to have fallen upon the whole place.
After a little while, Alexandrine came in, pale and haggard. Margie saw
her white dress was damp, and her hair uncurled, as if by the weather.
"Where have you been, Alexandrine?" she asked; "and what is the matter?"
The girl turned from white to crimson.
"I have been in my room," she replied.
"But your clothes are damp, and your hair uncurled--"
"The air is wet, and this great house is as moist as an ice-shed,"
returned the girl, hurriedly. "It is no wonder if my hair is uncurled.
Margie, the--the--Mr. Linmere has not arrived."
"Not arrived! It must be nine o'clock."
As she spoke, the sonorous strokes of the clock proclaiming the hour,
vibrated through the house.
"We have been distracted about him for more than two hours! he should
surely have been here by half-past six! Mr. Trevlyn has sent messengers
to the depot, to make inquiries, and the officekeeper thinks Mr. Linmere
arrived in the six o'clock train, but is not quite positive. Mr. Weldon
went, himself, to meet the seven-thirty train, thinking perhaps he might
have got detained, and would come on in the succeeding train, but he did
not arrive. And there are no more trains to-night! Oh, Margie, isn't it
dreadful?"
Alexandrine's manner was strangely flurried and ill at ease, and the hand
she laid on Margie's was cold as ice. Margie scrutinized her curiously,
wondering the while at her own heartless apathy.
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