Emily, a bright-looking young woman, who had none of the airs and graces about her which are too frequently assumed by ladies' maids, and who, moreover, had the further recommendation of being devotedly attached to her mistress, received her instructions with her usual pleased readiness, and set about loosening her lady's hair for the night. As she unwound the glistening mass and let it fall, Delicia suddenly started up with a smothered cry of pain.
'Oh, my lady, what is it?' exclaimed Emily, startled.
Delicia stood trembling and looking at her.
'Nothing, nothing,' she faltered at last, faintly forcing a smile. 'I have just found out something, that is all—something I did not quite understand before. I understand it now—I understand—my God, I understand! There, Emily, don't look so frightened. I am not ill; I am only a little tired and puzzled. You can go now; I would rather be alone. Be sure you call me in good time for the train, and have everything packed in readiness. I shall take Spartan with me.'
'Yes, my lady,' stammered Emily, still looking a trifle scared. 'Are you sure you are not ill? Can't I do anything for you?'
'No, nothing,' answered Delicia, gently. 'Go to bed, Emily, and get up early, that's all. Good-night!'
'Good-night, my lady!' and Emily reluctantly retired.
Left alone, Delicia moved to the door and locked it. Then, turning, she drew aside the curtain which hung before the niche she called her 'oratory,' where an ivory crucifix hung white against draperies of purple. The anguished eyes of the suffering Saviour looked down upon her; the thorn-crowned head drooped as it were towards her; the 'Man of Sorrows acquainted with grief,' with arms outstretched upon the cross, seemed waiting to receive her,—and with a sudden, sobbing cry she fell on her knees.
'Oh, my God, my God.' she wailed, 'I know now what I have lost! All my love and all my joy! Gone, gone like a foolish dream,—gone for ever! Gone, and nothing left but the crown of thorns called Fame!'
Shuddering, she hid her face on the cushion of her prie-dieu and wept slow, passionate tears, that rose from a breaking heart and scalded her eyelids as they fell. Veiled in the golden glory of her hair, she fretted like a little ailing child, till finally, exhausted and shivering with emotion, she lifted her head and looked straight at the sculptured Christ that faced her.