“For how long a time, sir?”
“I cannot tell, James.”
“Shall I order the carriage?”
“Anything, something! A horse; yes. I’ll have the swiftest one in the stable. A valise—no more; no, you need not come. I must be alone.”
In Dianthe’s room the attendants tread noiselessly, and finally leave her to enjoy her feigned slumber. She waits but the closing of the door, to spring from her couch with all the seeming energy of life and health. First she went to the window and flung wide the hangings, letting in a flood of light upon the pale, worn face reflected in the mirror. What a wondrous change was there! The long white drapery of her morning robe fell about her like a shroud, yet, white as it was, contrasted painfully with the livid ash-hue of her skin. Her arms were thin and blue, her hands transparent; her sunny hair hung in long dishevelled, waving masses, the picture of neglect; the sunken, wan brow, and livid lips, the heavy eyes with deep, black halos round them—all these made up a ruined temple.
“When he comes he will not know me,” she murmured to herself; then sighing deeply, turned and paced the room. What she thought of, none could say. She spoke not; never raised her eyes from off the ground, nor ceased her dreary walk for two long hours. She sometimes sobbed, but never shed a tear.
Here we drop the veil. Let no human eye behold the writhings of that suffering face, the torture of that soul unmoored, and cast upon the sea of wildest passion, without the pilot, principle, or captain of all salvation, God, to trust in—passion, adoration of a human idol, hereditary traits entirely unbalanced, generous, but fervid impulses, her only guides. She knew that her spiritual person must survive the grave, but what that world was where her spirit was fast tending, only the dread tales of fear and superstition shadowed truth; and now, when her footsteps were pressing to it, horror and dread dogged every footprint.
Hour after hour elapsed alone. O, ’twas agony to be alone! She could not bear it. She would call her maid; but no, her cold, unimpassioned face would bring no comfort to her aching heart, aching for pity, for some cheering bosom, where she might sob her ebbing life away. The door opens—and O joy! old Aunt Hannah’s arms enfold her. For hours the two sat in solemn conference, while the servants wondered and speculated over the presence of the old witch.
At last night fell. “Mother,” murmured the dying girl, raising her head from off her damp pillow. “A very golden cloud is printed with the fleecy words of glory. ‘I will return.’ ” She pointed to the golden clouds banking the western sky. “O, will our spirits come, like setting suns, on each tomorrow of eternity?”
For answer, the old woman raised her hand in warning gesture. There sounded distinct and clear—three loud, yet muffled knocks on the panel directly above the couch where Dianthe lay.
“ ’Tis nothing, mother; I’m used to it now,” said the girl with indifference.
“You say ’tis nuffin’, honey; but yer limbs are quiverin’ wif pain, and the drops ob agony is on yer po’ white face. You can’t ’ceive me, chile; yer granny knows de whole circumstance. I seed it all las’ night in my dreams. Vengeance is mine; I will repay. One comes who is de instrumen’ ob de Lord.” And the old woman muttered and rocked and whispered.
Whatever was the cause of Mrs. Livingston’s illness, its character was unusual and alarming. The maid, who was really attached to the beautiful bride, pleaded to be allowed to send for medical aid in vain. The causes for her suffering, as stated by Dianthe, were plausible; but her resolve to have no aid, inflexible. As evening advanced, her restlessness, and the hideous action of spasmodic pains across her livid face, became distressing. To all the urgent appeals of her servants, she simply replied she was waiting for someone. He was coming soon—very soon and then she would be quite well.
And yet he came not. From couch to door, from door to window, with eager, listening ear and wistful eyes the poor watcher traversed her chamber in unavailing expectancy. At length a sudden calm seemed to steal over her; the incessant restlessness of her wearied frame yielded to a tranquil, passive air. She lay upon cushions piled high upon the couch commanding a view of the broad hallways leading to her apartments. The beams of the newly risen moon bathed every object in the dim halls. Clear as the vesper bell, sounding across a far distant lake, strains of delicious music, rising and falling in alternate cadence of strong martial measure, came floating in waves of sound down the corridor.
Dianthe and Aunt Hannah and the maid heard the glorious echoes; whilst in the town the villagers heard the music as of a mighty host. Louder it grew, first in low and wailing notes, then swelling, pealing through arch and corridor in mighty diapason, until the very notes of different instruments rang out as from a vast orchestra. There was the thunder of the organ, the wild harp’s peal, the aeolian’s sigh, the trumpet’s peal, and the mournful horn. A thousand soft melodious flutes, like trickling streams upheld a birdlike treble; whilst ever and anon the muffled drum with awful beat precise, the rolling kettle and the crashing cymbals, kept time to sounds like tramping of a vast but viewless army. Nearer they came. The dull,
