"Nothing," was the hurried reply, and the earl hastened on.
He passed through the hall—through the broad terrace to the staircase leading to his daughter's suit of rooms.
The door was open—he saw that at one glance—open, so that in all probability she had risen and gone out in the grounds. His heart gave a great bound of relief; she was out of doors—there could be no doubt of it; gone, probably, to enjoy one last glimpse of her home.
There was a strange feeling of oppression, a strange heaviness at his heart. He raised his hand to his brow, and wondered to feel the great drops there.
"I will go to her room," he said to himself, "she will be there soon; she is dreaming her time away, I suppose."
Yet he went very slowly. Ah, dear Heaven! what is that?
A thin, crimson stain stealing gently along the floor; a horrible crimson stain!
Great Heaven! what did it mean?
The next moment he is standing, with a white, terrible face, looking at the ghastly sight, that he is never to forget again, let him live long as he may. The lurid light of the lamps contrasts with the sweet light of day. There on the floor lies the wedding-dress, the veil and wreath—torn, destroyed—out of all shape—stained with that fearful crimson; and lying on them, her golden hair all wet and stained, her white neck bare, her dead face calm and still, was Doris—his beautiful, beloved daughter.
He uttered no cry; he fell on his knees by the fair, dead girl, and looked at her.