Countess Vera; or, the Oath of Vengeance

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.