It is the same as it was last night. Only instead of a taper a wax candle burns brightly before a mirror. The curtains still fall like snow-flakes along the lofty windows, the alabaster vase is still filled with flowers,—they are withered now,—and from the half-shadowed alcove, gleams the white bed, with curtains enfolding it in a snowy canopy.
Trembling, but beautiful beyond the power of words,—beautiful in the flush of her cheeks, the depth of her gaze, the passion of her parted lips,—beautiful in every motion of that bosom which heaved madly against the folds which only half-concealed it,—trembling, she led him toward the bed.
"My marriage bed," she whispered, and laid her hand upon the closed curtains.
Beverly was completely carried away by the sight of her passionate loveliness—"Once your marriage bed with a false husband," he said, and laid his hand also upon the closed curtains, "now your marriage bed with a true husband, who will love you until death—"
And he drew aside the curtains.
Drew aside the curtains, folding Joanna passionately to his breast, and,—fell back with a cry of horror. Fell back, all color gone from his face, his features distorted, his paralyzed hands extended above his head.
Joanna did not seem to share his terror for she burst into a fit of laughter.
"Our marriage bed, love," she said, "why are you so cold?" and again she laughed.
But Beverly could not move nor speak. His eyes were riveted to the bed.
Within the snowy curtains, was stretched a corpse, attired in the white garment of the grave. Through the parted curtains, the light shone fully on its livid face, while the body was enveloped in half shadow,—shone fully on the white forehead with its jet-black hair, upon the closed lids, and—upon the dark wound between the eyes. The agony of the last spasm was still upon that face, although the hands were folded tranquilly on the breast. Eugene Livingstone was sleeping upon his marriage bed,—sleeping, undisturbed by dreams.