A Strange Summons.
Madelaine Van Heldre closed the book and sat by the little table gazing towards her father’s bed.
Since he had been sufficiently recovered she had taken her father’s task, and read the chapter and prayers night and morning in his bedroom—a little later on this night, for George Vine had stayed longer than usual.
Madelaine sat looking across the chamber at where her father lay back on his pillow with his eyes closed, and her mother seated by the bed’s head holding his hand, the hand she had kept in hers during the time she knelt and ever since she had risen from her knees.
Incongruous thoughts come at the best of times, and, with the tears standing in her eyes, Madelaine thought of her many encounters with Aunt Marguerite, and of the spiteful words. She did not see why a Dutchman should not be as good as a Frenchman, but all the same there was a little of the love of descent in her heart, and as she gazed at the fine manly countenance on the pillow, with its closely-cut grey hair displaying the broad forehead, and at the clipped and pointed beard and moustache, turned quite white, she thought to herself that if Aunt Marguerite could see her father now she would not dare to argue about his descent.
The veil of tears grew thicker in her eyes, and one great drop fell with a faint pat upon the cover of the prayer-book as she thought of the past, and that the love in her heart would not be divided now. It would be all for those before her, and help to make their path happier to the end.
“‘And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us,’” said Van Heldre thoughtfully. “Grand words, wife—grand words. Hah! I feel wonderfully better to-night. George Vine acted like a tonic. I’ve lain here hours thinking that our old companionship would end, but I feel at rest now. His manner seemed to say that the old brotherly feeling would grow stronger, and that the past was to be forgotten.”
He stopped short, and a faint flush came into his pale checks, for on opening his eyes they had encountered the wistful look in Madelaine’s. He had not thought of her sufferings, but now with a rush came the memories of her confession to him of her love for Harry, on that day when she had asked him to take the young man into his office.
“My darling!” he said softly as he held out his arms; and the next moment she was folded sobbing to his heart.
No word was spoken till the nightly parting; no word could have been spoken that would have been more touching and soothing than that embrace.