"Yes," I answered mechanically. "But Sybil--where is she?"
He made no reply.
I tried to open my eyes, but again the light dazzled me. About me
sounded soft sibilations and the frou-frou of silk, while the warm air
seemed filled with the sickly perfume of tuberoses. My left hand was
grasping the arm of a capacious saddle-bag chair, wherein I was
evidently sitting, while in my right I held something, the nature of
which I could not at first determine.
My trembling fingers closed upon it more tightly a moment later, and I
suddenly recognised that it was the hand of a woman! Again opening my
heavy eyes, I strained them until they grew accustomed to the
brightness, and was amazed to discover myself sitting in a spacious,
richly-furnished drawing-room, brilliant with gilt and mirrors, while
two men and two women in evening dress were standing around me, anxiety
betrayed upon their pale faces. In a chair close beside mine sat a
woman, whose hand I was holding.
Springing to my feet, my eyes fell full upon her. Attired in dead white
satin, a long veil hid her face, and in her hair and across her corsage
were orange blossoms. She was a bride!
Behind her--erect and motionless--was the man who had conducted me
there, while at her side stood a grave, grey-haired clergyman, who at
that moment was gabbling the concluding portion of the marriage service.
The veil failed to conceal her wondrous beauty; in an instant I
recognised her.
It was the woman I adored. A wedding-ring was upon the hand I had held!
"Speak, Sybil!" I cried. "Speak! tell me the reason of this!"
But she answered not. Only the clergyman's droning voice broke the
silence. The hand with the ring upon it lay upon her knees and I caught
it up, but next second dropped it, as if I had been stung. Its contact
thrilled me!
Divining my intention, the man who had brought me there dashed between
us, but ere he could prevent me, I had, with a sudden movement, torn
aside the veil.
Horror transfixed me. Her beauty was entrancing, but her blue eyes,
wide open in a stony stare, had lost their clearness and were rapidly
glazing; her lips, with their true _arc de Cupidon_, were growing cold,
and from her cheeks the flush of life had departed, leaving them white
as the bridal dress she wore.