The Widowed Bride — page 56: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE WIDOWED BRIDE. 47 than the wall, as she stood there. ‘‘How did it happen? Whose hand did the deed? Quick! Tell me more!” It was not necessary, for, through the half-open door of the breakfast-room, her startled eyes could see the dead weight laid upon a shutter, and covered with sheets, carried into the softiy carpeted corridor, which led into the south garden, and Miss Clive’s insensible figure borne after; and before Mrs. Wadesleigh could interfere, the countess had rushed past her, and was holding Antonia’s white face to her bosom. “Oh, my poor, poor darling!” she murmured, ‘‘my wounded dove, it were better to have stricken you dead at once! Antonia! Antonia! speak to me! Oh, blessed Heaven!” with a despairing thrill of anguish in her tone, ‘she does not know me?” “And it’s a great blessing, my lady, that she doesn’t,” Mrs. Wadesleigh interposed. ‘‘The worst of 1t will be when she comes to again. And now, my lady, don’t think Pm making too bold, but take an old servant’s advice, and go back to your room; this is no sight for such as you, and the earl will say so, too, when he comes.” Lady Glenhampton turned to the head gamekeeper, who was directing the men where to lay their ghastly burden. ‘“Have you told him?” she asked, almost inaudibly. ‘““My lord met us at the lower gate, my lady,” the man answered, and Lady Glenhampton allowed herself to be led back into the breakfast-room. Meanwhile Lord Glenhampton had paused to speak with Martin Valpy, the bailiff, who had imparted to him the conjecture, magnified into fact by the mute witnesses which had been already exhumed from the ruins of the fire, that — human life had been sacrificed in the fall of the old lodge walls! The earl listened in silence, with folded arms and droop- ing head, the greenish shade of pallor, which crept over his features being the only index to his feelings. He stood motionless a moment or two, after Martin had finished his tale, and then only broke the silence by saying: The hand of Fatel—ay, neither more nor less thau the hand of Fate! There isa blight hanging over this 11l-omened spot—an evil cloud, which thrives on blood only! Nothing ‘but ruin and desolation ever came near this fated house. My best friend hes murdered almost within the shadow of comicbooks a