Miss Meyerstein expatiated on Hilda's abrupt departure, and the little luggage with which she had provided herself.
"Only her dressing-bag and a small portmanteau," said the Fräulein. "She left all her pretty frocks hanging in the wardrobe; all her laces and ribbons, and gloves and ornaments in her drawers. She must have had to buy everything new. And there is her wedding-gown, just as it came from the dressmaker's the day after she left home."
And then, at Bothwell's urgent, reiterated entreaty, Miss Meyerstein went into the adjoining room, and came back, after a rattling of keys, bringing with her a white object which looked like the sheeted dead being carried away from a plague-stricken house.
It was only Hilda's wedding-gown, wrapped in voluminous coverings of white linen.
Miss Meyerstein flung off the coverings, and shook out the white satin gown, satin of so rich a fabric that it took all manner of pearly and opal hues in the autumn light—a smart little frock, with a round skirt, and just one big puff at the back of the waist, like a carelessly-tied sash.
"Short, for dancing," said Miss Meyerstein, as she held out the frock at arm's length, dangling in the air.
"But she didn't expect to dance upon her wedding-day!" ejaculated Bothwell stupidly.
"No, but afterwards. She would go to dances, and she would be expected to appear as a bride."
"Of course," muttered Bothwell, wondering how many dances—save the dances of pixies in a moonlit glen—might be expected to occur within easy reach of Trevena.
He knelt and kissed the hem of the white satin frock, and then turned away with a sigh that was almost a sob.