And amidst it all strange reelings of the brain, her head throbbing and
wild imaginings rushing through her mind. She was married and clasped
in her lover's arms, and his kisses were showered on her lips, her veins
tingled, a strange thrill ran through her nerves, but his kisses burned
her face, her eyes, her head. And now it was not Gil who clasped her in
the ecstasy of love, but Sir Mark, and, in place of burning passion, she
froze, her heart seemed to stand still, and she was numbed with horror
as he approached his lips to hers. Why did he laugh so with such a
strange, silent, ghastly laugh? Why did he press her so tightly to his
breast? His arms hurt her, his breast was bony, and his laugh was
lifeless. It was a frightful grin, and she could not tear herself away.
It was not Sir Mark; it was a hideous skeleton, and she made a supreme
effort to rid herself of the terrible vision that clasped her to its
breast.
At last it was gone, and she was dressed in her bridal robe. She was
feverish and excited, and that was a kind of nightmare dream. There she
was, then, before the big swing mirror, gay in satin and lace, and once
more the exclamations of pleasure fell upon her ears.
"How lovely! how lovely!" And again, "How beautiful you look!" The
reflection in the mirror died away, for her eyes closed. She could not
bear to look upon it longer, and, now that her eyes were shut, once more
came the phantoms of her troubled, reeling brain. Gil, Sir Mark, the
hideous shape of death, all had her clasped in their arms in turn. She
struggled in spirit, but her body was motionless; the brain was in full
action, but muscle and nerve were inert. She could only lie there and
suffer tortures so horrible that she felt that if they lasted she must
go mad.
Then again she was gazing at herself in the great mirror, gay with satin
and lace, and once more there was the round of horrors.
How long was it to last?
There was a lucid moment when she knew that she was seriously ill. Some
terrible ailment had seized her, and then came the recollection of the
water like a flash through her reeling brain.
Was it poison?
"How beautiful! It is lovely, lovely, lovely!" and there was the vision
again of the satin gown.
"I must be going mad," she thought; "but Janet must not see. I will be
firm and wait. I must send her away soon. Let me see," she thought.
"Gil will be here at midnight. I am not too ill to go with him, and,
when once away in peace, I shall soon be well. How absurd to think of
poison. How beautiful I look. This fever seems to have given me my
colour once again. Poor fool! Why should I masquerade like this, when
I am never to wear these things? It is time I put them off and sent her
away. My poor head, my poor head! how it burns and throbs and reels
with pain."
Then again, the wedding with Gil, and his hot kisses burning her face.
No, it was Sir Mark; and then again the chilly horror of being seized by
those arms and pressed nearer, nearer, to that hideous framework of
ghastly bones, while the cold grinning teeth rested against her lips,
and in place of kisses began to tear and rend her. Now it was her fair
young cheek, now her soft bosom; and at every contact it was the burning
pain of ice that froze with a touch like heated iron. She strove to
struggle, to call for help, but it was in vain. The hideous teeth were
now meeting in her forehead, and a pang of agony ran through her brain.
"Gil, Gil, help me, help!" she tried to say; and then there was the
clash of arms, the firing of guns, the shouts of contending men--cries,
oaths, shrieks, wails. What was it? Was she really mad? Had her
sufferings robbed her of reason, or was she striving to rush from the
room down the broad old staircase when that hideous rush of fire, and
that crash of thunder, came to tear her away? Was it madness, a dream,
or was it--. Her reeling senses seemed to leave her as she asked
herself the final question, when she was stricken down, even as her lips
uttered the question.
Was it death?
Volume 3, Chapter VI.