"He is expected every moment," said Mr. Ravensworth. "Mr. Power is also here. Would you like to receive the Sacrament?"
"Yes, much—very much. You will share it with me, will you not?"
"I will. Shall I call Mr. Power, then?"
"Yes, now,—and Augusta."
The dying man sank back, and closed his eyes,—he seemed lost in prayer,—so much so he did not notice either Augusta, the clergyman, nor the Marquis, who had just arrived by express speed, and stood by his friend's bed with clasped hands, and eyes wet with tears. The Earl opened his eyes.
"Call Andrew and Philip. I feel death's hand upon me now. I must take leave of my faithful servants."
Some one left the room quietly; and soon afterwards the leal old butler, and Philip, as well as several other servants, amongst whom came Wilton, entered the chamber of death.
It was the hour when early dawn first glows the orient skies. That rising sun would be the last that would ever lighten the Earl's eyes! It was a lovely morning in late spring,—a dewy coolness breathed over the woods and plains,—the first rays were shedding their radiance on the distant hills,—the old Towers were just catching the descending glory,—birds were singing, flowers unfolding, and timid deer shaking the dew-drops from their flanks. It was the infancy of the day,—the birth of the light,—the morning of the natural world,—the spring of the year. It was all this without. To have walked over the verdant park,—to have wandered through the green woods, with their vernal leaf,—to have tracked the bubbling rivulet,—to have breathed the fresh morning air,—to have watched the matin glow,—to have heard the bird's early carol,—to have glanced at that fine old mansion,—who would have thought of death? Everything was life! Everything was gladness without those walls! Who would have thought of death within? And yet the owner of these broad estates,—these woods,—flood and fells,—the lord of that ancient castle,—the master of all we see,—was then dying. The lady of his love,—the mistress of all we see,—dead![I] Ah! what a different scene is within that pile! Let us open the door of the banqueting-room—the room where wine and merriment had often made the long winter evenings seem short—the room where we have seen so many of the noble family and their friends pass the wine-cup that circled the halls with glee! Let us see what is there now. The great table is clothed with crape; the walls are draped with black; and on that table lies a narrow coffin. There is nothing funeral about its appearance; it is covered with white velvet, and ornamented with silver; white silken ropes pass through the handles, and each has a wrought-silver tassel. A bright silver plate shines in the centre,—above it the coronet and arms of the Wentworths are engraved,—on it are the simple name and age of the departed one,—
Ellen, Countess of Wentworth,
Aged 31 years.
She sleeps in peace!
On the lid a wreath of white roses has been placed, as a tribute of undying love, by Augusta. There is something bright in the death of such a being,—it is the birth into glory!