and Mrs. Trevlyn. He knew from whom the summons
came. Once before he had been suddenly called in like manner.
A wretched woman she was now--but once the belle and beauty of the fair
Cuban town where Castrani's childhood and youth had been spent. She had
been a beautiful orphan, adopted by his parents, and brought up almost as
his sister. Perhaps, in those days, when they played together under the
soft Southern skies, he knew no difference.
Now she was dying. So said the message. Dying, and burdened with a
secret which she could confess to no ears save his. Before, when he had
gone to her, she had rallied after his arrival, and had declined making
confession. She should never speak of it, she said, until her death was
sure. But when she felt dissolution drawing nigh, she should send for
him again. And the summons had come. He obeyed it in haste, and one night
just before sunset, he stood by her bedside.
Once, she had been beautiful, with such beauty as a pure complexion,
black eyes, raven hair and perfect features confer; but now she was a
wreck. The pure, transparent complexion was pale as marble--the brilliant
eyes sunken--the magnificent hair bleached white as the wintry snow.
She welcomed him brokenly, her eyes lighting up with the pleasure of
seeing him--and then the light faded away, leaving her even more ghastly
than before.
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