“He says that he is as rich as the Vanderbilts, and that he has a palace in Chicago fit for a king. Violet could live like a queen and be covered with diamonds if she chose, but she prefers Cecil Grant’s love with a crust. So do I, alas, although riches would not go amiss, even with the man one loves,” sighing heavily.
But if everything went as she hoped, Amber would have all that she most desired—wealth and the love of the man for whom she was willing to risk her immortal soul.
CHAPTER V.
THE BRIDE OF DEATH.
Meanwhile Violet had risen from her white couch, strong with the force of fever, and stolen, unnoticed, from the room and the house.
Her poor brain, crazed with the news of her lover’s falsity, had conceived a dreadful plan.
She would seek the spot by the river where Cecil had uttered those sweet, sweet vows of love that he had so quickly broken, and cast herself into the darkling waves, that would hide her forever from the bitterness of her sorrow.
“The bride of death!” she murmured, and sped with tender, bare, white feet, across the daisied lawn.
It was the last night of summer, and the first faint chill of approaching autumn was already in the night air. But the full moon poured a flood of radiant white light over the beautiful country landscape, and the dew, glittering on the grass and flowers, made the world look like fairyland.
Cecil Grant had not gone away as he had told Amber. His heart failed him at the last moment. He had heard in the village that Violet was dying, and he could not tear himself away, although he dared not venture up to the great house, for fear of a scene with the irascible old man, who had been so cruel to him and Violet.
He sought the river-bank, where he had been so happy with his darling, where he had clasped the lissom form in his arms and kissed the sweet, rosy lips.