A hundred confirmatory occurrences flashed into her mind. A long chain of evidence linked itself before her eyes. She had thought herself so clever,—how unutterably stupid had been her proceedings! She had set a ball rolling that would crash in pieces this ancient house. She saw herself discovered and dishonoured, her aunt's gray hairs brought down in sorrow to the grave. She herself had pointed out the game to the hunter below. Nothing would stop him. Nothing could restore her to her lost estate of guiltlessness.
This was revenge,—revenge indeed,—a blow that would strike her as well as her victim. She would lose French Cross. Her aunt would cast her off; she would be a beggar. The thought was maddening, stunning. She had never had any sorrow like this. Bernal Huntington's loss had occasioned her sullen grief,—and even in the midst of her terror a passionate remembrance of him swept into her mind,—but that was grief of the mind only. She had suffered then, but not like this, not like this.
Her whole body was now in agony,—the delicate pampered body that might soon be snatched from the luxuries so necessary to it. It would have to suffer privations that would be strange and fatal.
A deathly sickness overpowered her, and she buried her face in her hands. Relentless figures flitted, before her,—Miss Gastonguay grim and inexorable, Derrice agitated and weeping, Justin with a face turned sternly from her.
Her mind gave way under the strain imposed on it, and her shrinking body grew weak. The pale faces grew black, faded into mist, and she fell headlong on the floor.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CAPTAIN WHITE'S BALL PLAY.
Prosperity and Tribulation had set out a prettily equipped table on the patch of green grass beside the tranquil river.
Capacious baskets stood beside them, and their slow moving figures showed slim and black against a dull green background of firs.