245 
THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
not more at her beauty than her strange insensibility. 
No statue could be colder or more indifferent to the ad¬ 
miration which would make another girl’s cheeks glow 
and heart beat with natural, girlish pleasure. 
Without a word or a glance she turns and leaves us. 
I am chilled and vaguely uneasy. But the idle talk 
ripples easily along. Things are never awkward when 
Mrs. Easteu is by. 
The storm has set in in roal earnest now, yet the 
guests come, and are much splashed and spattered, 
with rain above and water beneath. Dampest, most 
spattered of all, is the minister. The sight of him seems 
to remind Mrs. Easton of Marguerite. She beckons me 
to her, and as I draw near I notice, inadvertently, that 
the unwonted application of soap to her countenance 
has given it a gloss, as if freshly varnished for the occa¬ 
sion. 
She peers into my face with her short-sighted eyes, 
.and says in a bland undertone : 
“My dear cousin, will you be so kind, so obliging as 
to step up stairs and see if Marguerite is ready? A 
thousand thanks,” as I turn to go. 
■ Not having seven-league boots, and, being very tired, 
I toil again up to my lady’s chamber. Marguerite has 
refused all offers of assistance at the bridal toilet, not 
relishing probably her mother’s afternoon attempt as 
tire-woman. The sound of swift, hurrying footsteps in¬ 
side ceases as I knock, but there is no answer. I knock 
again, and, when still no answer comes, I push the 
door open and enter. The wind swings it to behind 
me with a crash. The flickering lamp lights the room 
but dimly. The window is wide open, and the storm 
•beats in. 
“My dear child,” I commence, in alarmed remon¬ 
strance ; but the words die upon my lips as I look at 
her. 
She still wears the muslin she has worn all day. The 
silver brocade lies in a heap upon the floor, just as it 
must have fallen that afternoon. She stands close to 
the open window, heedless of the rain, a dark shawl 
about her and over her head. She turns and faces me 
with deathly white, rigid face. 
“Marguerite,” I begin again, “what can you be 
thinking of ? The guests and the bridegroom already 
come, and you not dressed ! Let me help you,” gently 
attempting to draw away the shawl. 
“ Get away! I will kill you if you touch me 1” breaks 
out this silent white creature, with such passionate vio¬ 
lence I recoil aghast, trembling. 
The girl, with a shudder, gathers the shawl more 
■closely about her, and turns again to the window. It 
is all so incomprehensible. I am at first almost stunned; 
then the thought flashes through me that the girl is 
inane, and I spring toward the door. I am not 
■quick senough; she glides before me, and stands 
against it. 
“You needn’t try to stop me! It’s too late 1 I 
thought I could get away before any of you came. 
None of you should have come in if there had been a 
lock on the door. 
This is said in a vehement, rapid voice, which I 
scarcely recognize as hers. 
“Marguerite 1 Marguerite!” I cry, “are you out of 
.your mind? Where are you going?” 
“Where?” with a wild laugh,which makes me shrink 
•away from her, “where? I don’t know—I don’t care. 
. . . What does it matter? . . . What does any¬ 
thing matter any more ? . . . I am going away with 
Millard Beeve. . . . What does it matter about his 
whining wife ? He don’t love her—he loves me '.—me ! 
And 1 love him . . . with all my heart and my soul 
. . . and my mind and . . . my strength! ” 
The passionate fervor of the gad’s voice thrills me 
through all the paralyzing terror of the moment. I do 
not speak—I have scarcely power to think. Presently 
she speaks again—more gently now: 
“I know what you are thinking, and you can say 
nothing I have not said to myself . . ■ over and 
over again . . . even last night, I wouldn’t go. . . • 
But it is ended now, and I would go just the same . . . 
if I knew we should both be lying at the bottom of the 
river . . . roaring out there, when the sun rose in 
the morning ... 1” 
Her dark eyes, which have so unflinchingly met my 
blurred ones, at a slight sound turn eagerly toward the 
window. My own gaze instinctively follows. Nothing 
there, only the wind, the rain, and the distant 
thunder. 
Motionless she stands, with strained agonized eyes 
upon the dark casement. I sieze one of the quivering 
hands at her side. The dumb horror which has numbed 
tongue and senses passes away. I doubt if she hears. 
I do not know what I say, but I plead with all the power 
which lies within me. 
At Judge Granger’s name she hears. She tears her 
hand from my grasp, and flies to the window with a 
shuddering cry. 
“That is it—what is driving me. . . . I hate him! 
. . . I loathe him ! . . . No one noticed ... no 
one cared !” 
She sinks down upon her knees beside the window, 
lays her head upon the sill, moaning and sighing. 
Afraid to leave her alone, I make no further effort, but 
lean, nerveless and helpless, against the casement beside 
her, weeping bitterly now. There are no tears in the 
beautiful eyes lifted suddenly to mine. 
“ Why does he not come ?” piteously. “ He is to throw 
a pebble to me ! I wish I had gone last night! . . . 
I wish I had gone !” And the fair head drops down 
again, and the rain beats unheeded upon it. 
A heavy step comes along the hall. I make a despair¬ 
ing dash for the door and fling it open. Cousin David 
stands upon the threshold, gazing in with silent surprise. 
There is no time for preparation, and I pour out the ter¬ 
rible truth with a cruel bluntness that makes this big, 
careless man totter and put out a hand blindly to steady 
himself. He comes in, closing the door. The white 
face, lifted from the sill, meets his gaze with steady, 
mute defiance. Then a perfect silence falls save for the 
storm and the roaring river. 
“Tell my wife to come,” he says, after a time, almost 
in a whisper. 
Only too gladly I go ; but with swollen eyes and dis¬ 
ordered dress, cannot enter the parlor. Annette is loiter¬ 
ing on the stairs, and I send her - . I wait to see her de¬ 
liver her father’s message, and see Mrs. Easten come 
leisurely toward the stairs; then I pass swiftly through 
the outer door and run toward the hedge, floundering 
and plunging through the storm and darkness. 
I have no distinct purpose in mind. The one thought 
which fills my brain is the tragedy hanging over this 
strange household—a sickening realization of what will 
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