"Shall we have the candles, my dear?" she said, at last, as the twilight fell and compelled her to pause.
"If you like, auntie," said Violet. "Why do you not rest a while? I wish you would let me help you," and she crossed the room, bent over her aunt, and kissed her.
Mrs. Mildmay looked at her and drew her down to a footstool beside her.
"Violet," she said, "you do not seem much excited by—by the great event coming."
"No," said Violet, with a smile and a sigh, her face gradually growing abstracted and her eyes more fixed. "Aunt, am I wrong to take things so quietly? Sometimes I think it is wicked. Sometimes I fear that I am cold, indifferent, ungrateful for all Captain Murpoint's kindness."
"No," said Mrs. Mildmay. "I am sure you are not that; but——"
"I know," said Violet, "I know what you would say. But I cannot help it, auntie. I feel sometimes as if I were not myself—as if Violet Mildmay were dead and I were her shadow and wraith. Do you know what I mean? As if this were all a dream, and that I should in the end find myself dead! I am not dead, aunt, I know, and I strive to rouse myself. I do rouse sometimes, but only for a little while," she sighed. "The strange, numbed, unreal feeling comes over me again very soon, and this wedding seems to be that of some one else; but it is mine—mine—mine!"
She started suddenly, and looked up at her aunt with a look of horror.
"There, aunt, I am roused, and, see! I am shuddering. I feel as if this were some dreadful crime I was about to commit. I hear Leicester's voice warning me! I feel his hand drawing me back! No—no, I will not be Howard Murpoint's wife!"
Mrs. Mildmay rose with alarm.