The heavy curtains were undrawn, and a grey gloom filled the chamber. A fearful silence followed the crash of the breaking lock, and met him like a palpable terror. He saw Rose lying on the bed, her face buried in the pillows; and by some fantastic jugglery, the light from the open door, as it fell upon her hair,—those abundant tresses whose rich, dark glory he so loved,—seemed to silver them to the whiteness of hoary age.
“Rose!” he cried, starting forward to seize her hand which lay upon the coverlid.
The hand was cold with a chill which smote him to the very heart.
“Rose! Sweetheart!” he cried in a piercing voice, bending over and tenderly turning her dear face up to the light.
What horrible mockery confronted him? He started back like one stung by a serpent!
Along the pillow lay a crushed and withered tuberose, and he looked upon the face, ghastly in death, and old and haggard and wrinkled—of Mistress Henshaw.