She rose slowly.
"Well, I will go, and leave you to finish your novel," she said; "but if you take my advice you will retire instead. It is growing late. Good-night."
"Good-night, my love, and pleasant dreams," her mother answered.
She went out as quietly as she had entered, her dark hair flying wildly over her shoulders and her white robes trailing noiselessly after her. She was twisting her hands together, and again Mrs. Arnold thought of Lady Macbeth washing her hands and crying in her sleep, "Out, damned spot!"
Ah, Felise Herbert! There was a stain on your soul as red as that on Lady Macbeth's hand!
[CHAPTER XV.]
The morning after the rejection of Colonel Carlyle, Bonnibel Vere sat alone in a pleasant little morning-room that was thrown out from the main residence as a wing. It was daintily furnished in blue plush and walnut, and had double glass doors that looked out upon a lovely little garden that in this pleasant May season was glowing with bloom and fragrance.
Bonnibel had been trying to read, but in the perturbed state of her mind she could not fix her attention upon the book. It had fallen from her lap upon the floor, and as she sat in the luxurious arm-chair she leaned forward with her little chin buried in one pink palm and her blue eyes gazing into vacancy, as if lost in thought.