Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as white as marble, pressed her daughter's hand to her lips.
Mr. Haveloc, struck with awe at the presentiment which seemed to fall upon them all, did not venture to speak.
"Mamma--little Jane," said Aveline, after a pause.
"Yes, my love; you know we arranged that matter the other day," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, with wonderful calmness.
"Yes--yes," said Aveline.
"I think," said Mr. Haveloc, looking at Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "I had better ring for Mrs. Grant."
"Who's that?" asked Aveline quickly. "It was I who spoke," said Mr.
Haveloc. "I wished to send for your nurse, for I do not like you to be up at this hour."
"No--no; do not move me," said Aveline.
"It shall be as you like; but I know you will not sleep here," said Mr.
Haveloc.
"No more sleep," said Aveline, as if to herself.
She remained with her eyes fixed on the ceiling, where, owing to some reflection of the lights, there was a broad luminous spot.
There was a long, deep silence. Mrs. Fitzpatrick was praying inwardly.
Aveline still remained with her eyes uplifted, breathing short and quick.
All at once the stillness was broken by her voice repeating, in a distinct tone--
"'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff comfort me.'"
Those who have watched by a sick person only can tell with what touching solemnity the words of Scripture will appear invested when coming suddenly from their lips in the stillness of night.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick's firmness gave way; she burst into tears. Aveline made no remark. She did not seem to notice her companions.
At last she said, in allusion to their conversation sometime ago.
"But nurse may come."
Mrs. Fitzpatrick rang the bell. Mrs. Grant entered; but Aveline was again abstracted.
The good old woman sat down behind the sofa, making a sign to them to be silent. She had seen for some days better than any one that the end was approaching.
"Is the tide down, Mr. Haveloc?" asked Aveline, with difficulty.
Mrs. Grant shuddered. The superstition, respecting the influence of the tides over the dying is well known. She profoundly believed that her young lady would be released when the tide changed.
Mr. Haveloc walked to the window, and looked out. The long range of low green rocks, was not yet quite uncovered by the ebbing waves. The moon gleamed over their slippery surface, and the water rose and fell bubbling among their crevices.
"Not quite yet," said he coming back to the couch.
"Not quite yet," she repeated. Then with a stronger effort, she said, "I wished to thank you both."
"My dearest!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick bending over her.
"You are not crying!" said Aveline, trying to draw her hand in a caressing manner over her mother's face; "not for me!"
"No, not for you, my child," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
"Mamma, it is coming," said Aveline, almost inaudibly. "What, is coming, my love?" asked her mother.
Aveline made no answer--all her senses seemed to have failed her at once.
"God be praised!" said Mrs. Grant, rising with the dignity, that true emotion always gives: "God be praised! she is now an angel in Heaven!"
CHAPTER XIV.
And some will die, these are the gentle hearted, Shook down like flowers by early frost: and some Will grow in scorn and bitterness of heart, As giving unto others, the full measure Of that which hath been meted unto them.
Some look to Heaven, and garner up their hearts Where disappointment cannot touch them more; _And these few are the wise_; but there be many, Whose life is stronger than their agony, And one outlasts the other.--Pity them.
ANON.
As soon as it was possible the next morning, Hubert Gage, paid the visit that Margaret had almost demanded of him the evening before. The most favoured suitor might have felt gratified by the eagerness with which she evidently awaited his approach; for she was standing half way down the pathway of the garden, watching him as he neared the cottage. His embarrassment was far greater than her own, he hardly dared raise his eyes to her face, and when he did so, he was as much startled by its steady and fixed expression, as by the icy paleness that overspread her features.
"I desired to see you again," she said, when he reached her, "I was very foolish and unreasonable, yesterday; and I was anxious that no friend of mine should go away with such an impression of me. I wished to meet you when I was calm again. You see, Mr. Hubert, that I consider you as a friend."
"A friend!" he exclaimed; "if the devotion of my whole life could supply--"
"Stop!" cried Margaret, in a tone of suffering, so much at variance with the even calmness of her first address, that he felt appalled by it. "If all you have ever professed for me has not been a mockery and an insult, you will spare me this. You will feel as securely as if the future were the past, that I can never love again. You will not offend me, if you value the friendship and regard I have yet to give, by imagining that I can at any period listen to such language."
"Then, there is nothing but misery an store for both of us," said Hubert Gage.
"I do not look forward with so much despondency as you do, Mr. Hubert,"
said Margaret, "even now in the first anguish of discovery and despair; in all the shame and the agony of having been duped and trifled with--a suffering that you can never fully comprehend; I look forward more courageously than you do. Let me first speak of myself. I have often heard of a dream of entire happiness--a state of being, too brilliant to last; dispelled by accident, or misfortune, or death. My dream has been dispelled. All is over with me but life and its duties; but I have no suspense and I sometimes think that suspense is the only torture under which we cannot be still. Any thing else, believe me, Mr. Hubert, is endurable. I wake to a deeper sense of the duties of life; the great lesson which we should ever learn by the loss of its pleasures. Let me urge the same thing upon you. You have, forgive me, in seeking a happiness that has been denied you, lost sight of all that is better than happiness. As I have been somewhat the cause of this, let me, if I can, atone it. Let me, if you esteem me--I hope you do--urge you to retrieve this great mistake. Let me entreat you to resume your profession--to direct your mind to subjects worthy of your energy and your talent. You know how you would delight your father by this determination; and let it be your great consolation, as it is mine, that when happiness is denied to ourselves, we have still the power of conferring it upon others; and while we keep in mind that there is a Heaven above us, let us not concern ourselves too deeply with the thorns beneath our feet."
As Margaret spoke with an earnestness of feeling that forced the tears from her eyes, the soft but strong west wind brought distinctly to the porch where they sat, the sound of a passing bell.
The tones were so appropriate; they seemed so completely the echo of her sentiments, that both remained perfectly silent for some time. Margaret thought that her companion was moved by her words, for he remained with his face hidden in his hands; and still at intervals, the dull sound struck upon their ears.
"There," he said looking up at length, "that is the knell of the poor girl you saw yesterday."
"Is it?" said Margaret, "I envy her," and she dried her eyes once or twice; but she scarcely had power left to weep. She had passed half the night in tears, and she was now feeling the exhaustion which follows strong emotion. "But I am surprised;" she said, "I should never have imagined that she was as near her end. It is a very treacherous complaint. Is it not?"
"I believe so," he returned absently. "The poor mother!" said Margaret, her voice trembling, "what sad distress there is all around us in this world, and others are suffering too, Mr. Hubert; there is no sorrow like the death of those we love."