These reflections even increased the usual fondness of Mrs. Galton's manner to Selina, when, on her return from the garden, she answered the anxious child's inquiries for her father. She had a hard task to fulfil—fearful of telling her too much or too little. To avoid any direct reply, she informed her she might now go to Sir Henry's room, and Selina, without a moment's delay, was at his bed-side. The poor old man, anxious, if possible, to postpone the misery of his child, assured her he was now easy, and desired her to tell him all she thought of the night before. The innocent girl, on hearing this request, flattered herself with all the delusion of hope, that her aunt's fears had exaggerated the danger; and, elated by the idea that her father's complaint had subsided, talked with much of her usual vivacity, which increased as she perceived her lively ingenuous remarks cheered the sick man's face with many smiles.—Little was she aware, they were the last her own would ever brighten on beholding.
An express, without delay, was dispatched to Mordaunt, requesting his immediate presence at Deane Hall. When Selina heard of her father's anxiety for his arrival, her spirits again sunk, and she reflected in an agony of sorrow, that "Yesterday she could not have supposed it possible the idea of seeing Augustus could have been a severe affliction to her." The night of that sad day Selina requested she might pass in attendance on her father. Her aunt, fearful of what the morrow might bring forth, gratified her desire. Dreadful were the reflections that night gave rise to, as she contrasted the awful stillness of Sir Henry's chamber with the noisy gaiety of the one, in which she had spent the night before.
Two or three days of dreadful suspense thus passed over Selina's head: whenever she was permitted she was at her father's bed-side, passing in an instant from the utmost alarm to hope. But though she saw despair expressed in every face, her mind still rejected it. She could not bring herself to believe her beloved father was indeed to die!
Those who most fervently love most ardently hope, and building their faith on the most trifling circumstances, cling to it with a force none less deeply interested can imagine. It is well they do. Their fond hopes make them use exertions, and bestow comforts, they would be otherwise incapable of. And thus affection is enabled to cheer the bed of death to the last moment.
And as for the survivors! no anticipation can prepare them for the overwhelming despair of the moment in which they lose what they most prize on earth!
Grief, rising supreme in this her hour of triumph, will have her dominion uncontrolled, and defies alike the past and the future,—even religion must be aided by time to subdue her giant force.
On the evening of the third day of Sir Henry's illness Augustus Mordaunt arrived at Deane Hall; the domestics flocked around him, each conveying to his agonized ear more dismal tidings,—he spent a dreadful half hour alone in the library, without seeing either Selina or Mrs. Galton, as Mr. Temple was at that time administering the sacred rites of the church to Sir Henry, whilst they joined in prayer in the antechamber. When Sir Henry had finished his devotions, he asked for Selina, and his voice brought her in a moment to his bed-side; where, kneeling down, in a half suffocated voice, she implored his blessing, which never father gave more fervently, nor amiable child received more piously.
"Selina! you have always been a good child, and obeyed me; when I am gone, mind what Mrs. Galton says to you. If I had followed her advice, I should have been better now." The baronet spoke with much difficulty, and, exhausted with the effort, closed his eyes in a temporary lethargy. Selina answered not, but with streaming eyes kissed his hand in token of obedience. At last, raising his head from his pillow, "Where is Augustus? he is a long time coming."—at that instant footsteps were heard slowly and softly traversing the anteroom. Selina opening the door admitted Augustus: she would have retired, but her father signed her approach; and recovering his strength a little, faltered out, "Happy to see you, my dear boy—I have been a father to you, Augustus, be a brother to this poor girl."
Augustus poured forth his feelings with more fervency than prudence, and was stopped in the expression of them by Selina, who perceived her father was quite exhausted: he once more opened his eyes, saying, "I die content;" he struggled for utterance, but his words were unintelligible, and he could only articulate, "Go away,—Send Mrs. Galton." Augustus flew to bring her, whilst Selina hung in distraction over her dying parent: as they entered the room, her exclamation of "Oh! my father, my dear father!" gave them warning, that all was over; and when they approached the bed, parent and child were lying side by side, the one apparently as lifeless as the other.
Augustus, in his first distraction, thought he had lost Selina as well as his beloved and revered friend, but being recalled to his senses by Mrs. Galton, assisted her in removing Selina to another room. At length their exertions revived Selina to a dreadful consciousness of her misfortune—how agonizing was that moment, when, in her frantic grief, she upbraided their kind care, and wished they had left her to die by her father's side! "I have no parent now." "Dearest child of my heart, have I not ever been a mother to you, and will you refuse to be still my daughter when I stand so much in need of consolation?" Selina threw herself into her aunt's arms, and gave vent, in tears, to the sorrow of her bursting heart; at length she cried herself to sleep, like a child, and her aunt remained at her side all night, ready to soften the horrors of her waking moments.