But, with a gesture of almost awful solemnity, she waved him away, and, silent as a visitant from the grave, passed through and left the room.
Ralph gazed after her in consternation, and then turned upon his father a look of mute inquiry.
The colonel gravely shook his head, and remained silent.
Margaret did not return.
Some hours subsequent to this, near midnight, were assembled, in the chamber of death, old Colonel and Mrs. Compton, the Houstons, Dr. Hartley and Mr. Wellworth—all the family and friends, in fact, except Margaret. She had not made her appearance since. With that look of annihilated youth, she had passed through the parlor, and gone out. All wondered at her absence from the dying bed of her idolized mother; but none expressed an opinion upon the subject.
The chamber was dimly lighted by a shaded lamp that stood upon the hearth, and, reversing the natural course of light, threw the shadows, in strange, fantastic shapes, to the ceiling. It projected the shadow of Mr. Wellworth, who stood at Mrs. Helmstedt’s feet, up over the bed, until it looked like the form of some dark spirit, swooping down to snatch the soul of the dying.
Mrs. Helmstedt lay on her back, with her head quite low, and her hands wandering gently over the white quilt, as if in search of some other clasping hands—sometimes murmuring softly to herself in calm delirium, and occasionally opening her eyes and looking around cognizantly, as though recognizing all who were present, and missing one who was not.
Nellie stood at her right hand, often bending anxiously over her.
Another hour passed; and still Marguerite Helmstedt lay in a state of gentle, whispering delirium, varied with brief lucid intervals. Was it in the former or the latter of these conditions that she breathed the name of her mother, then of her father, then of Nellie?
At the sound of her own name, Mrs. Houston bent to listen to her words.