Captain L’Estrange now entered, accompanied by his wife. Although a weak and foolish woman, her heart was not dead to those natural affections of a mother which the present scene might be expected to call forth; she wept long and violently over her dying child, and perhaps her grief might be embittered by a whisper of conscience that her sufferings were more or less attributable to neglected education. Fearing that her mother’s excessive agitation might exhaust Nina’s scanty store of remaining strength, Ethelston suggested to Captain L’Estrange to withdraw her into the adjoining apartment; and approaching the sufferer, he whispered a few words in her ear. A sweet smile played upon her countenance as she answered, “Yes, and without delay.”
Following her retiring parents from the room, he motioned to the priest, who was waiting at the door, to enter; and the sad party remained together while the confessor performed the rites of his sacred office. Madame L’Estrange was so overpowered by her grief, that she was removed, almost insensible, to her own apartment; while, upon a signal from the holy man, Ethelston and the father re–entered that of Nina.
Addressing the latter, she said, in a faint voice, “Dearest father, I have made my peace with Heaven; let me add one more prayer to you for peace and forgiveness on earth!”
“Speak it, my child; it is already granted,” said the softened veteran.
“Pardon, for my sake, Fanchette and Jacques: they have committed a great offence; but it was I who urged them to it.”
“It is forgiven; and they shall not be punished,” replied L’Estrange: while Ethelston, deeply touched by this amiable remembrance of the offending slaves at such a moment, whispered to her in a low voice—
“‘Blessed are the peace–makers; for they shall be called the children of God!’”
A grateful pressure of the hand which he had placed in hers was the only reply, as she continued, addressing L’Estrange, “And let them marry, father; I know they love each other; and those who love should marry.” Here her voice became feebler and feebler, as, once more opening her dark eyes, which shone with preternatural lustre upon Ethelston, she added, “You, too, will marry; but none will ever love you like your ... sister!—closer—closer yet! let me feel your breath. Father, join your hand to his—so! This death is—Par——“
The closing word died upon her lips; but the angelic smile that lingered there seemed to emanate from that Paradise which their last moments strove in vain to name. Her earthly sorrows were at rest, and the bereaved father fell exhausted into Ethelston’s arms.