As he spoke, the stranger raised his head, and turning to them his pale, now ghastly, face, gazed at them for a moment with eyes that were dark, singularly piercing, and intensely melancholy; there was something in their expression which chilled the blood of Vane; but for a moment only did he so look, and then the face and figure melted, and in that moment a thrill of unnatural horror ran through the heart of Trevor Chute, who stood rooted to the spot, and next, as a wild cry escaped him, fell senseless on the carpet, for he had beheld the visual realization of that which he had begun to fear was Ida's haunting spirit—the face and form of Beverley, or of a demon in his shape.
And ere he sank down where he lay, even when the eyes of this dread thing had turned upon him, there stole over his passing senses, quickly, the memory of the hot air of that breathless Indian morning, when the notes of the réveille seemed to mingle with the last dying words of his comrade—his farewell message to Ida!
All this passed in the vibration of a pendulum.
Vane was in equal terror and perplexity, all the more so that the name of 'Beverley' had mingled with the cry of Trevor Chute.
'Beverley!' he thought. 'My God! can we look upon such things and live!'
Like Chute and many others, he had ever prided himself on his superiority to all thoughts of superstition and vulgar fears; he had ever scoffed at all manner of warnings, dreams, visitations, and spiritual influences, believing that the laws of nature were fixed and immutable; and here, amid the blaze of light, he had been face to face with the usually unseen world! He was face to face with more—death!
His beloved Ida was found to have been dead for many minutes. Her heart was cold, her pulses still, and when the cry of Chute brought, by its strange and unnatural sound, all the household thronging to the room in alarm and amazement, Vane was found hanging over her, and weeping as only women weep, and with all the wild and passionate abandonment he had never felt since childhood.
Had she seen, as they had at last, this haunting figure, whose vicinity caused that mysterious icy chill and tremor which nevermore would shock her delicate system and lovely form? Had the—to her—long unseen been visible at last—that pale, solemn face with its sad, dark eyes and black moustache?
It almost seemed so, for terror dwelt on her still features for a time, then repose, sadness, and sweetness stole over her beautiful face—still most beautiful in death.
Had she died of terror, of grief, or of both, inducing perhaps a rupture of the heart? The pressure of her hands upon her breast would seem to say the latter, but all was wild and sad conjecture now in the startled and sorrowing household.