CHAPTER XXVI.

THE PALL OF DEATH.

“Seeing is believing,” pertinently runs the old saw.

Although Lelia was not inclined to be superstitious, she could not doubt the evidence of her own senses.

When she saw the face of the dead, wild, dark, beautiful, staring in at her through the window, all her exultation fled; her heart leaped into her throat, her face went ashen white, her limbs trembled under her own weight, and that startled shriek rang from her lips:

“I am haunted!”

She believed that the unburied dead in the old well had returned to mock her in her bridal hour and cast the shadow of undying remorse over her new-found happiness.

With the cry that rang from her tortured lips, she sank heavily in a swoon to the floor, but no arm was outstretched to arrest her fall, for every eye had turned to gaze at the window.

All saw, all recognized, the wild, white face framed in a cloud of dark, curling hair, all stared in a trance of horror till it disappeared, seemingly fading into thin air, “luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, fading without a sound.”

Cries of wonder and horror commingled echoed through the room, and as the face disappeared, several darted to the door.

One of these was Laurie Willoughby.

Unheeding his swooning bride, remembering nothing but a wild hope that Gipsy Darke had returned from the dead, he rushed through the hall and out into the moonlit summer night, running hither and thither like a madman, beating about the dark shrubberies in a vain hope of finding the lost girl.

But not a shade of success rewarded his frenzied efforts.

The earth might have opened and swallowed Gipsy Darke for any sign he found of her presence.

In vain he called her name aloud in frenzied accents of love and longing, vainly he lifted his eager face to the moonlit sky as if adjuring Heaven for a solution of the mystery--there came no reply to his prayers save the plaintive murmur of the wind in the pines and the echo of his own agonized voice borne back to him on the breeze of night.

He was irresistibly forced to the conclusion that he had looked with his mortal eyes on the beautiful shade of the hapless girl he had loved too late.

Dejected and sorrowful he returned to the house, whither the other men who had come out to join in his search had long preceded him, hopeless of success.

Lelia, very ill and frightened, had been removed to her own room as soon as she was restored to consciousness. She was calling for her husband with every breath, begging that he be brought to her side.

When he came she wound her arms around his neck and hid her face on his breast, sobbing in hysterical reproach:

“Oh, why did you leave me?”

It rushed over him that he had indeed acted rudely, rushing off from his swooning bride in such mad haste.

He did not return her caresses, but he smoothed the golden hair gently back from her brow, replying soothingly:

“You must forgive me, Lelia, I was so startled seeing that face at the window I forgot everything else but the hope that poor Gipsy Darke was yet alive, and just in hiding from us. I flew to capture her if I could.”

“But you were disappointed?” she murmured, trying to keep the note of malicious joy out of her voice.

“Yes. I could find no trace of that poor girl! She must, indeed, be dead! It was her restless shade gazing in upon us,” Laurie Willoughby answered, in a tone of profound grief and despondency that made her secretly furious.

She could not help saying, spitefully:

“I don’t see why she should choose to make herself an unbidden guest at our wedding! I hated her living, and I do not crave her company now that she is dead!”

“Lelia!” her mother cried, in warning expostulation, while Laurie started back so suddenly as to release himself from her clinging arms.

“You have forgotten that we should speak no ill of the dead, Lelia,” he said sternly.

“I do not care! I will not play the hypocrite!” she was beginning angrily, when a hasty rap at the door gave them all a violent start.

Laurie flew to open it, thankful for an interruption to his bride’s hysterics.

It was Miss Willoughby’s faithful maid, tearful and nervous.

“Oh, do come quick as you can to my mistress. She has taken a sudden turn for the worse, and Mrs. Goodwill says she is almost gone!” she sobbed.

“Laurie, do not leave me! Mama, you may go, but I cannot bear to see Aunt Cyrilla die!” cried Lelia, burying her face in the pillow; but Laurie, without reply, darted from the room to that of the invalid, whither Mrs. Ritchie followed, presently, dragging her sullen, reluctant daughter by the hand.

They saw Laurie kneeling by the bed, wiping away the death dew from the blue, pinched face, and gazing in tender sorrow on the beloved relative sinking away so fast into the eternal silence of death--a few faint gasps and all was over, and again the pall of woe hung darkly over The Crags.