A thousand snares, still unrevealed,
Are woven close around thee.
Nor strength, nor craft availeth now;
Thy stubborn will is riven;
The death drops hang upon thy brow,
There's justice yet in Heaven.
It was over at last. The saloon, the banquet hall, the conservatory, sleeping in the moonlight shed from many a sculptured vase—all were deserted; wax candles flared and went out in their silver sockets; garlands grew dim and shadowy in the diminished light; half a dozen yawning footmen glided about extinguishing wax lights, and turning off gas, but they seemed ghost-like and dreary, wandering through the vast mansion.
But Ada Leicester felt no fatigue; she saw nothing of the gloom that was so rapidly spreading over the splendor of her mansion. Her boudoir was still lighted by those two pearl-like lamps. It was a dim, luxurious twilight, that seemed hazy with the perfume stealing up from a dozen snowy vases scattered through the dressing-room, the bed-chamber, and the boudoir. The doors connecting these apartments were ajar, but closed enough to conceal one room from the other.
Ada entered the boudoir. Her step was imperious; her cheek burning. Pride, anger and haughty scorn swelled in her bosom, as she seated herself to wait. One of those mysterious revulsions of feeling that are so frequent to a passionate and ill-disciplined nature, had swept over her heart. For the first time in her life she felt disposed to sting the foot that had trampled so ruthlessly upon her. In that moment, all the strong love of a lifetime seemed kindling into a fiery hate.