No one suspected the agency of the beautiful and odorous bouquet in the
sudden and tragical death of the fair young bride. It lay upon the floor
where it had fallen when she fell, and in the grief and excitement of
the moment no one thought of picking it up. Who would have thought that
death could lurk in the fragrant breath of so beautiful an offering? So
the lovely destroyer lay unheeded where it had fallen, and in the
morning it was removed by the servants, who saw in it only a withered
bouquet that littered the rich carpet.
But its mission was accomplished, and when Lawrence Ernscliffe lifting
the drooping head of his new-made bride, he saw only the marble mask of
death on that peerless face that a moment ago was wreathed in smiles.
But he could not believe it, and when the physician who was hastily
summoned gave the verdict so often wrongly given in cases of sudden
death, that heart-disease had caused the calamity, the groan of agony
that broke from the strong man's lips was heart-rending.
"She cannot be _dead_!" he cried, falling on his knees and clasping the
beautiful form to his wildly-beating heart. "Oh! God, give her back to
me, my darling, my own!"
"Queenie, my little pet, my precious child, speak to me," cried the
gray-headed old father, bending over her in agony.
"My daughter, oh, my daughter!" shrieked the mother, and Georgina wailed
aloud, both of them forgetting their coldness and estrangement, and
remembering only the little Queenie they had loved and petted and teased
so long ago, and who now was dead.
Alas! they might have stood aloof as silent and as cold as Sydney stood,
for all the answer they won from those pale lips that the bridegroom
kissed so passionately, as though those agonized caresses could have
beguiled her back to life and love again.
One by one the bridal guests stole away and left them alone with their
dead, the silent domestics crept about closing windows and doors, and
dimming the brilliant lights; the banquet stood untasted under the
glitter of flowers and lights and silver, the music was hushed, the
garlands drooped low, and the house of feasting was turned into the
house of mourning. The fairest daughter of the house of Lyle lay dead.
Mr. Lyle fell down in a fit after the dreadful certainty of his loss
became manifest to him. He was removed to his chamber, attended by
skillful physicians, but their potent art was of no avail. Entire
consciousness never returned to him again. He lay through the long hours
of the night tossing restlessly on his pillow, and babbling of the dead
girl who lay in the chamber above, deaf to his agonized appeals as to
those of her lover-husband. They thought he was delirious, he talked so
strangely.
"I knew she would die," he said. "Her spirit face came and looked at me
through the window one night--it was when she was away"--a shudder shook
him from head to foot--"I knew it was a token of her death! Ah! but I
forget--did she not tell me it was herself that came, full of love, and
pity, and sorrow, and looked at her poor papa, sitting lonely for lack
of his little girl? Queenie, Queenie, where are you? Come back, dear!
Papa forgives you! He will take you home again out of the cold and wet,
and the dark, stormy night."
He started up and held out his arms to clasp her to his heart, but
instead he encountered the form of the bereaved bridegroom who sat by
the side of his bed. They had persuaded, nay, almost forced him away
from the side of the dead bride to the relief of the suffering living.
He sat there half dazed with grief and horror, hearing dreamily the
strange ravings of his father-in-law--ravings that he scarcely heeded
then, but which burned themselves into his memory, and were recalled in
after years with inexpressible pain.
"Ah, Ernscliffe, it is you," said the poor father, when the yearning
arms that sought for Queenie touched him instead. "Are you waiting for
her, too! You must not blame her very much. She was very young and
temptation found her an innocent victim. You remember the woman in the
Bible who was forgiven much--because she loved much? Ernscliffe, you
will not be hard upon little Queenie--you will forgive her--for she
also loved much!"
The physician tapped his forehead significantly with his forefinger.
"Do not heed him--he raves," he said.
"Queenie, Queenie," called the poor sufferer, "come back, dear, I
forgive you, but you must ask God to forgive you, too. Get your Bible,
pet--read what Christ said."
Sydney, standing near the foot of the bed, looked strangely at her
mother. The dying man, as his restless glance roved about, saw that
look, and beckoned her with a warning finger.
"Come nearer, Sydney--you were cold and hard to her when she came
home--you, and mamma, and Georgie. Women are always hard to each other.
How could you be so cruel to the little one?"
He paused a moment, as if for reply, but Sydney turned her pale,
changeless face aside, and Mrs. Lyle was sobbing too wildly for words.
He went on babbling to himself on the one theme that held his thoughts:
"She was such a sweet child--was she not, mamma? So lovely, and so
loving! I can see her now with her golden curls flying on the breeze and
her light feet dancing over the turf! Little Goldilocks, we used to call
her sometimes. Goldilocks, Goldilocks, come, and kiss me. Papa forgives
you!"
Georgina, who had stood apart weeping against Lord Valentine's shoulder,
came forward and fell on her knees by the bed, thrilled to the heart by
the tender recollections his words awoke.
"Oh, papa, papa," she sobbed, "poor, little Queenie!"
He reached out and laid one trembling hand on the fair head still
crowned with the orange wreath. His words, though they seemed to the
physicians but the purposeless ravings of a disordered fancy, burnt
themselves upon her memory as if written in fire.
"Georgie, forgive her--she was more sinned against than sinning--and she
went mad and avenged the wrongs--remember that when she comes back."
"Queenie is _dead_, papa," sobbed Lady Valentine.
"Dead--who said that Queenie is dead?" he asked, looking vacantly about
him.
The physician came forward and forced a composing draught upon him.
"Do the vagaries of illness often assume such forms as this?" inquired
Sydney's clear voice from the foot of the bed, where she stood
supporting the form of her hysterical mother.
"As what, miss?" inquired the physician, politely.
"These strange and dreadful fancies about--about my sister," she
answered, flushing slightly. "His words, if _rational_, would imply so
much."
"But taken as the ravings of a disordered fancy they imply nothing,"
answered he, quickly. "He is not conscious of what he says. The shock of
your sister's sudden death has simply assumed some other form to his
delirious brain. Who can fathom the mysterious workings of a mind
diseased?"
Sydney glanced furtively across at Captain Ernscliffe. He was listening,
and his heavy, grief-filled gaze met her strange, inscrutable one.
"Do not distress yourself, Sydney," he said, very gently, "it is only
the raving of a mind distraught. Of course we know that our lost
darling"--his voice broke and quivered over the words and he paused a
moment and repeated them--"of course we know that our lost darling was
as pure as the snow. She never could have sinned."
"Who says that she sinned?" exclaimed Mr. Lyle, rousing slightly from
the stupor stealing over him. "Who says that she sinned? Let him among
you that is without sin, cast the first stone!"
He fell back exhausted on his pillow, and never spoke again. With the
first faint glimmer of the dawn the flickering spark of his life went
out--went out so gently that they could scarcely tell what moment the
soul was released from its earthly tabernacle.
His heart had been a tender one, more tender than is often found in man,
and his youngest daughter had been his idol all her life long. Her
protracted absence and her terrible return had strained the chords of
his heart almost to breaking--her sudden death had snapped them asunder.
Two days later they buried the two who had been so fondly united in
life, side by side, in a green and quiet graveyard, away from the noise
and tumult of the great, crowded city, and Lawrence Ernscliffe, as he
stood by the grave, calm to all outward appearance, though pale as
sculptured marble, when he turned away left all the heart he ever had to
give buried in the low mound that held his lost little Queenie.
And night fell, chilly, moonless and starless. The "homeless winds"
sighed over the two graves new-made in the green churchyard, and the
summer rain wept over them in the darkness, as though
"The heart of Heaven were breaking
In tears o'er the fallen earth."