Countess Vera; or, The Oath of Vengeance

John Stuart Mill · en
COUNTESS VERA.
    CHAPTER I.
    CHAPTER II.
    CHAPTER III.
    CHAPTER IV.
    CHAPTER V.
    CHAPTER VI.
    CHAPTER VII.
    CHAPTER VIII.
    CHAPTER IX.
    CHAPTER X.
    CHAPTER XI.
    CHAPTER XII.
    CHAPTER XIII.
    CHAPTER XIV.
    CHAPTER XV.
    CHAPTER XVI.
    CHAPTER XVII.
    CHAPTER XVIII.
    CHAPTER XIX.
    CHAPTER XX.
    CHAPTER XXI.
    CHAPTER XXII.
    CHAPTER XXIII.
    CHAPTER XXIV.
    CHAPTER XXV.
    CHAPTER XXVI.
    CHAPTER XXVII.
    CHAPTER XXVIII.
    CHAPTER XXIX.
    CHAPTER XXX.
    CHAPTER XXXI.
    CHAPTER XXXII.
    CHAPTER XXXIII.
    CHAPTER XXXIV.
    CHAPTER XXXV.
    CHAPTER XXXVI.
    CHAPTER XXXVII.
    CHAPTER XXXVIII.
    CHAPTER XXXIX.
    CHAPTER XL.
    CHAPTER XLI.
    CHAPTER XLII.
    CHAPTER XLIII.
    CHAPTER XLIV.
    CHAPTER XLV.
    CHAPTER XLVI.
    CHAPTER XLVII.
    CHAPTER XLVIII.
    CHAPTER XLIX.
  THE MYSTERIOUS BEAUTY.




CHAPTER I.


"Dead!"

Leslie Noble reels backward, stunned by the shuddering horror of that
one word--"_Dead_!" The stiff, girlish characters of the open letter
in his hand waver up and down before his dazed vision, so that he can
scarcely read the pathetic words, _so_ pathetic now when the little
hand that penned them lies cold in death.

"Dear Leslie," it says, "when you come to bid me good-bye in the
morning I shall be dead. That is best. You see, I did not know till
to-night my sad story, and that you did not love me. Poor mamma was
wrong to bind you so. I am very sorry, Leslie. There is nothing I can
do but _die_."

There is no signature to the sad little letter--none--but they have
taken it from the hand of his girl-wife, found dead in her bed this
morning--his bride of two days agone.

With a shudder of unutterable horror, his glance falls on the lovely,
girlish face, lying still and cold with the marble mask of death on
its beauty. A faint tinge of the rose lingers still on the delicate
lips, the long, curling fringe of the lashes lies darkly against the
white cheeks, the rippling, waving, golden hair falls in billows of
brightness over the pillow. This was his unloved bride, and she has
died the awful and tragic death of the _suicide_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Let us go back a little in the story of this mournful tragedy, my
reader, go back to the upper chamber of that stately mansion, where, on
a wild night in October, a woman lay dying--dying of that subtle malady
beyond all healing--a broken heart.

"Vera, my darling," says the weak, faint voice, "come to me, dear."

A little figure that has been kneeling with its face in the
bed-clothes, rises and comes forward. The small, white face is drenched
with tears, the dark eyes are dim and heavy.

"Mamma," the soft voice says, hopefully, "you are better?"

The wasted features of the invalid contract with pain.

"No, my little daughter," she sighs, "I shall never be any better in
this world. I am dying."