The candles had burned down to their sockets; the light of one had died out, and only a curling line of dark smoke issued from the fallen wick; the other cast around its dull, yellow light, revealing to the eye of Arabella a scene which even her proud, cold spirit could not contemplate without a sensation of horror.
A form still sat upright in its high-backed, cushioned chair,—a form attired in amber satin, and adorned with magnificent gems; but the ghastly hue of death was on the brow, the glaze of death on the dull, fixed eye, the hand hung down motionless and stiff. Arabella uttered a faint cry, for the first glance was sufficient to reveal to her the terrible truth—she was gazing on the corpse of Lady Selina!
CHAPTER XXVIII
CONCLUSION.
Once again we will pass over seven years—their lights and shades, their joys and their sorrows—and join on their path over the fresh green-sward, bright with dew-drops that glitter in the sunshine, a party on their way to an ivy-mantled church. We recognize at a glance the tall, manly form of Effingham, though there are now deeper lines on his features, and broader streaks of silver in his hair. Perhaps we may also trace in his countenance an expression of thought more subdued and earnest,—the expression of one who has known much of the trials of life, but who has had the strength to rise above them,—an expression brightening into cheerfulness whenever his gaze is bent on the gentle partner who rests on his arm.
The face of Clemence can never lose its charm, for it wears the beauty of holiness,—that beauty which time has no power to wither, and eternity itself can but perfect. Grace is at her mother’s side, a bright and blooming girl, whose type may be found in the fragrant blush-rose which she has culled in passing from the spray.
But whose is the drooping form, clad in widow’s attire, which Mr. Effingham supports with the gentle tenderness of compassion? It is a bruised reed, a withered blossom,—one over which the harrow has passed—one which the rude foot has trodden down. Louisa, broken-spirited and weary of the world, has come to seek rest in her father’s home, as a wandering bird, pierced by the shaft of the fowler, with quivering wing and ruffled down flies back to the shelter of its nest.
“Mother!” exclaimed Grace, “you once told me that you had but one great earthly wish unfulfilled, and that was to see our dear Vincent in the pulpit, preaching the gospel of peace. That last wish will be gratified to-day, mother; are you now quite happy?”
“As happy, I believe, as a mortal can be on this side heaven,” replied Clemence; and the beaming sunshine in her blue eyes, as she raised them for a moment towards the calm sky, expressed more even than her words.