"She cannot be _dead_!" he cried, falling on his knees and clasping the beautiful form to his wildly-beating heart. "Oh! G.o.d, give her back to me, my darling, my own!"

"Queenie, my little pet, my precious child, speak to me," cried the gray-headed old father, bending over her in agony.

"My daughter, oh, my daughter!" shrieked the mother, and Georgina wailed aloud, both of them forgetting their coldness and estrangement, and remembering only the little Queenie they had loved and petted and teased so long ago, and who now was dead.

Alas! they might have stood aloof as silent and as cold as Sydney stood, for all the answer they won from those pale lips that the bridegroom kissed so pa.s.sionately, as though those agonized caresses could have beguiled her back to life and love again.

One by one the bridal guests stole away and left them alone with their dead, the silent domestics crept about closing windows and doors, and dimming the brilliant lights; the banquet stood untasted under the glitter of flowers and lights and silver, the music was hushed, the garlands drooped low, and the house of feasting was turned into the house of mourning. The fairest daughter of the house of Lyle lay dead.

Mr. Lyle fell down in a fit after the dreadful certainty of his loss became manifest to him. He was removed to his chamber, attended by skillful physicians, but their potent art was of no avail. Entire consciousness never returned to him again. He lay through the long hours of the night tossing restlessly on his pillow, and babbling of the dead girl who lay in the chamber above, deaf to his agonized appeals as to those of her lover-husband. They thought he was delirious, he talked so strangely.

"I knew she would die," he said. "Her spirit face came and looked at me through the window one night--it was when she was away"--a shudder shook him from head to foot--"I knew it was a token of her death! Ah! but I forget--did she not tell me it was herself that came, full of love, and pity, and sorrow, and looked at her poor papa, sitting lonely for lack of his little girl? Queenie, Queenie, where are you? Come back, dear!

Papa forgives you! He will take you home again out of the cold and wet, and the dark, stormy night."

He started up and held out his arms to clasp her to his heart, but instead he encountered the form of the bereaved bridegroom who sat by the side of his bed. They had persuaded, nay, almost forced him away from the side of the dead bride to the relief of the suffering living.

He sat there half dazed with grief and horror, hearing dreamily the strange ravings of his father-in-law--ravings that he scarcely heeded then, but which burned themselves into his memory, and were recalled in after years with inexpressible pain.

"Ah, Ernscliffe, it is you," said the poor father, when the yearning arms that sought for Queenie touched him instead. "Are you waiting for her, too! You must not blame her very much. She was very young and temptation found her an innocent victim. You remember the woman in the Bible who was forgiven much--because she loved much? Ernscliffe, you will not be hard upon little Queenie--you will forgive her--for she also loved much!"

The physician tapped his forehead significantly with his forefinger.

"Do not heed him--he raves," he said.

"Queenie, Queenie," called the poor sufferer, "come back, dear, I forgive you, but you must ask G.o.d to forgive you, too. Get your Bible, pet--read what Christ said."

Sydney, standing near the foot of the bed, looked strangely at her mother. The dying man, as his restless glance roved about, saw that look, and beckoned her with a warning finger.

"Come nearer, Sydney--you were cold and hard to her when she came home--you, and mamma, and Georgie. Women are always hard to each other.

How could you be so cruel to the little one?"

He paused a moment, as if for reply, but Sydney turned her pale, changeless face aside, and Mrs. Lyle was sobbing too wildly for words.

He went on babbling to himself on the one theme that held his thoughts:

"She was such a sweet child--was she not, mamma? So lovely, and so loving! I can see her now with her golden curls flying on the breeze and her light feet dancing over the turf! Little Goldilocks, we used to call her sometimes. Goldilocks, Goldilocks, come, and kiss me. Papa forgives you!"

Georgina, who had stood apart weeping against Lord Valentine's shoulder, came forward and fell on her knees by the bed, thrilled to the heart by the tender recollections his words awoke.

"Oh, papa, papa," she sobbed, "poor, little Queenie!"

He reached out and laid one trembling hand on the fair head still crowned with the orange wreath. His words, though they seemed to the physicians but the purposeless ravings of a disordered fancy, burnt themselves upon her memory as if written in fire.

"Georgie, forgive her--she was more sinned against than sinning--and she went mad and avenged the wrongs--remember that when she comes back."

"Queenie is _dead_, papa," sobbed Lady Valentine.

"Dead--who said that Queenie is dead?" he asked, looking vacantly about him.

The physician came forward and forced a composing draught upon him.

"Do the vagaries of illness often a.s.sume such forms as this?" inquired Sydney's clear voice from the foot of the bed, where she stood supporting the form of her hysterical mother.

"As what, miss?" inquired the physician, politely.

"These strange and dreadful fancies about--about my sister," she answered, flushing slightly. "His words, if _rational_, would imply so much."

"But taken as the ravings of a disordered fancy they imply nothing,"

answered he, quickly. "He is not conscious of what he says. The shock of your sister's sudden death has simply a.s.sumed some other form to his delirious brain. Who can fathom the mysterious workings of a mind diseased?"

Sydney glanced furtively across at Captain Ernscliffe. He was listening, and his heavy, grief-filled gaze met her strange, inscrutable one.

"Do not distress yourself, Sydney," he said, very gently, "it is only the raving of a mind distraught. Of course we know that our lost darling"--his voice broke and quivered over the words and he paused a moment and repeated them--"of course we know that our lost darling was as pure as the snow. She never could have sinned."

"Who says that she sinned?" exclaimed Mr. Lyle, rousing slightly from the stupor stealing over him. "Who says that she sinned? Let him among you that is without sin, cast the first stone!"

He fell back exhausted on his pillow, and never spoke again. With the first faint glimmer of the dawn the flickering spark of his life went out--went out so gently that they could scarcely tell what moment the soul was released from its earthly tabernacle.

His heart had been a tender one, more tender than is often found in man, and his youngest daughter had been his idol all her life long. Her protracted absence and her terrible return had strained the chords of his heart almost to breaking--her sudden death had snapped them asunder.

Two days later they buried the two who had been so fondly united in life, side by side, in a green and quiet graveyard, away from the noise and tumult of the great, crowded city, and Lawrence Ernscliffe, as he stood by the grave, calm to all outward appearance, though pale as sculptured marble, when he turned away left all the heart he ever had to give buried in the low mound that held his lost little Queenie.

And night fell, chilly, moonless and starless. The "homeless winds"

sighed over the two graves new-made in the green churchyard, and the summer rain wept over them in the darkness, as though

"The heart of Heaven were breaking In tears o'er the fallen earth."

CHAPTER X.

But, hark! who are those that disturb the peace that broods like the wing of an angel over the city of the dead?

Under cover of the darkness and the rain, two dark, cloaked forms steal along the graveled walk and pause beside the spot where the dark, fresh-smelling earth is heaped in swelling mounds over the hapless father and daughter.

The light of a bull's-eye lantern, flashing transiently over the form and face of one, shows a tall, straight form, and features as handsome as those of a Greek G.o.d. He speaks:

"To your work, Perkins! They were so cursed long putting her into the ground that I feared my plot would fail! Hasten now. There is not a minute to lose. As it is, we may be too late!"

The man called Perkins produced a spade from under his cloak, and set to work, cautiously but rapidly throwing the earth off of one of the new graves.

"Are you sure you are right now, Perkins? I believe I should kill you if you made a mistake!" said the handsome man with the lantern, grinding a terrible oath between his white teeth.

"You'll not have the chance to wreak your dev'lish temper on me," said Perkins, in a familiar tone, as if addressing one with whom he was thoroughly acquainted. "I'm sure of what I'm doing. I saw them put her into this very hole this evening."

"Hurry up, then. What do you stop to talk for? Make your strokes as light as possible. You might be heard!" said the lantern-bearer, irascibly.

Perkins redoubled his exertions, but it seemed an age to his impatient employer before the dull, horrible thud of the spade announced that the coffin was reached.