Her beautiful face, as white
as the alabaster Psyche near her, was full of wild and demoniac
expressions, which chased each other with the velocity of clouds over
her countenance. Remorse, anguish, and despair settled like a brooding
tempest on her forehead; then wringing her hands, she again commenced
her walk.
"A lie," she muttered, "a splendid, living lie. Widows and orphans
wronged--the poor defrauded--the church wounded and robbed by thee,
Helen! A husband who trusts me--who believes me--honorable and true
himself--confiding in a nature _utterly_ false--and leaning on a heart
rotten to the core! Oh, Helen! eternal loss will surely be thine--so
it is better to _die_ ere madness comes, and divulges the dark secret.
Walter is away; he will be here at sunrise. Better for him to find
thee, Helen, calm and cold in the beauty of which he is so proud, than
live to know that thou art _all a lie_--which he would tear away from
his honest heart, and throw to the very dogs!"
While these dark thoughts swept through the heart of the tempted and
despairing one, she unlocked a secret drawer in her jewel-case, and
took from it a small silver casket, which she opened. It contained a
crystal _flacon_, filled with a liquid, transparent, and of a pale
rose-color. "One drop of it," she whispered, "one single drop, and
without a pang, this unrest and anguish will be over. That which is
_beyond_ cannot be worse!" Just then a strong current of air rushed in
through the open window, and blew the jet of gas, in a stream of
brilliance, up towards the picture of the _Mater Dolorosa_.
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