She was, perhaps, the whitest, coldest, saddest bride that had ever seen a wedding morn.
Mrs. Force was standing before her dressing-glass, engaged in braiding her own bright hair. She turned and looked at her daughter again, with the often-recurring thought:
“Yes, yes, if it were not for her father’s sake, I would rather dress my child for her burial than for this bridal.”
She took the girl in her arms and kissed her, asking tenderly:
“What is it, dear?”
“Mother, I don’t know. I dare not trust myself to go through with to-day’s work. I have such strange, wild, mad risings in my heart, in my nerves, in my brain! I want something to overpower all this, and keep it down.”
“My poor, poor darling! Oh, if I could suffer instead of you! Ah me! Must the innocent always suffer for the guilty?”
“You were never, never guilty, dear mother. And you also suffer. Ah! I see that you do. Don’t grieve for me, mother, darling. Indeed, I am not—I am not——” She was about to add, “not unhappy,” but truth arrested her words, and after a little pause she said: “I only want you to give me something to steady me. That is all.” Then, seeing the anguish of the lady’s face, she smiled wanly and added: “It will all be right, mother, dear. I know it will. I am trying to do my duty, and the Lord will not forsake me. It is only the—the wildness that comes over me. I want something to subdue it.”
“Sit down, dear; sit down,” said Elfrida Force, leading her daughter to the easy chair by the fire, and leaving her reclining there, while she herself went to her dressing-case and brought out that little vial of colorless liquid, that looked as innocent as the purest spring water, and yet contained death to a dozen strong men, if administered.
“A teaspoonful of this would give her peace forever,” whispered the tempter. And the woman shuddered, and nearly let fall the bottle. She recovered herself, dropped half a dozen drops on a lozenge, and brought it to her daughter, saying gently: