“Her death lies at my door!” he thought, in a passion of remorse.
They bore Jessie tenderly from his presence to a beautiful white and gold room near Mrs. Dalrymple’s own, and there the lady’s favorite maid robed the lovely form for the grave in beautiful white robes fit for a bride, selected from the wardrobe of her mistress. Then, laid on a soft, white couch with her golden locks drifting about her like sunshine on snow, and fragrant flowers between her waxen hands, she lay like one asleep in her calm, unearthly beauty.
And by her side Mrs. Dalrymple kept lonely vigil, distracted by doubts and fears lest this prove to be her own lost darling restored to her only in death.
Toward midnight a stealthy figure glided in—Cora Ellyson, in a crimson silk dressing gown with her raven hair streaming loose over her shoulders.
“Aunt Verna, you will make yourself sick, staying up like this! And what is the use?” remonstratingly.
There was no answer from the heavy-eyed woman brooding over the dead girl’s couch, and Cora continued eagerly:
“I beg you to reconsider your decision. Send this body away to the undertaker’s and let the funeral be from there, so that my wedding need not be overshadowed by so evil an omen.”
“I cannot grant your request, Cora. The funeral will take place from this house, and your wedding must be postponed,” came the sad but firm reply.
“I tell you it shall not. I will not be disappointed for a hysterical sentiment. This poor girl is nothing to you, nothing! I give you notice that unless you do as I wish I will remove to-morrow to my Cousin van Dorn’s and have my wedding from his house Thursday!”
“Please yourself, Cora, but do not presume to dictate to me! And now, go; leave me, I prefer to be alone!” with a flash of spirit.