A female was kneeling by the bed, too
much absorbed to be conscious of his approach: she was in the attitude
of prayer. He recognised the old nurse,--her eye glistening in the
fervour of devotion, whilst pouring forth, to her FATHER in secret, the
agony of soul that words are too feeble to express.
Bending over the bed, as if for the support of some frail victim of
disease, he beheld the lord of the mansion. His look was wild and
haggard;--no moisture floated over his eyeballs: they were glazed and
motionless; arid as the hot desert,--no refreshing rain dropped from
their burning orbs, dimmed with the shadows of despair.
Stretched on the bed, her pale cheek resting on the bosom of her father,
lay the yet beauteous form of Constance Holt. A hectic flush at times
passed across her features. Her lip, shrunk and parched with the fever
that consumed her, was moistened by an attendant with unremitting and
unwearied assiduity; her eye often rose in tenderness on her parent, as
if anxious to impart to him the consolation she enjoyed.
"Oh, I am happy, my father!" Here a sudden change was visible,--some
chord of sorrow was touched, and it vibrated to her soul.
Pages:
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519