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Page 69
All was still in the darkened chamber, and the rich tapestry hung
mournfully from the walls. The things of earth make the earthly heart
ache in the presence of death. But how joyously the eye of faith kindled
up, as it rested on the face of the meek sufferer!
The door opened softly, a light step entered, and a female servant
whispered something to the countess. She started and looked suddenly at
Margaret. The invalid had caught the whisper, low as it was. A slight
tinge was visible on her cheek, as she pressed her white fingers to her
breast and said, in a low tone:
"God be praised! It is my father! Bring him to me."
Is this dying girl his daughter! Is this attenuated form all that
remains of his noble, his beautiful, his darling Margaret? Like a
blasted pine, the stalwart warrior fell upon his knees, with a groan as
if his heart had burst, and buried his face in the curtains. Henry, all
tears and sobs, caught his sister's outstretched hand and held it to his
heart, gazing in anguish at the ruin of his idol. Behind these knelt
Father Omehr. For a moment the man triumphed over the Christian, and he
too felt the thorn of grief in his throat. But when Margaret's calm eye
rested on him, and her meek smile beamed out, he felt the rapture which
is only known to the holy, when a soul is happily returning to the bosom
whence it came.
"Let us thank God for having thus united us!" said the Lady Margaret,
and they remained some minutes in silent prayer.
"Father!" whispered the invalid.
The broad chest was convulsed and the moan deepened, but that bent,
crushed figure made no reply.
"Father!" she repeated, as her hand fell, in a caress, upon her parent's
head.
Sir Sandrit, starting at her touch, looked up and seized the hand. A
minute had changed his face, as if a year had been ravaging there: it
was so furrowed, so haggard. He gazed but an instant at his daughter;
then hid his face again, muttering but one word: "Margaret!"
"Father," said the maiden to Father Omehr, who now stood at her at her
pillow, "is Albert of Hers at home?"
The missionary nodded.
"Let him know that Margaret of Stramen, on her death-bed, entreated him
to fly here without a moment's delay."
Even the sound of that hated name produced no perceptible impression
upon the heart-broken baron. The Count Montfort, who had just entered
the room, suddenly exclaimed:
"I, myself, will deliver your message, my child, as quickly as horse can
speed."
Margaret endeavored to thank him, but, exhausted by excitement and
exertion, she fell back upon her pillow. The countess prudently led the
unresisting father from the room, and despatched Henry to administer to
his grief.
"I am changed," said Margaret to the missionary, as she recovered.
"God has changed you for Himself, my child," replied the old man,
struggling with the weakness of human nature, for he had known and loved
her from her infancy.
"I have hoped so, even in the recollection of my many sins, for His
mercy is infinite. May He uphold and strengthen my father, and teach him
to rejoice in the change he now deplores!"
The countess left the room, and once more the Lady Margaret opened her
soul to her first confessor.
The baron knelt all night beside his dying child. He watched her broken
slumbers, as if he feared each might be the last. A thousand sighs of
anguish and affection were given and returned before another day began
to dawn. How precious are the last hours of life! In our inability to
lengthen them, we strive to gather into them more feeling and action
than we could extract from as many years.
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