"Ay, but you were coming to your mother, and the world itself could say no evil of one bent on such a mission. To-morrow, Nellie, you will be motherless, and I will not have it said of you hereafter, that you went wandering through the country protected by a man who had no husband's right to do it. Child, child!" Mrs. Netterville added, in a tone of almost agonized supplication, "if you would have me die in peace, if you would not that your presence here (instead of joy) should cast gall and vinegar into the cup of death, you will yield your will to mine, and go back to your grandfather a wedded woman."
"Mother!" cried Nellie, terrified by the vehemence with which her mother spoke, "dear mother, say no more! It shall be even as you wish. I promise. Alas! alas! this weary bleeding has commenced again—what shall I do to aid you?"
Mrs. Netterville could not speak, for blood was gushing violently from her lips, but she pointed to a jug of water on the floor. Nellie took the hint at once, and dipped a handkerchief into the water; with this she bathed her mother's brow, and washed her lips, until by degrees the hemorrhage subsided, and the dying woman lay back once more pale and quiet on her pillow.
Just then, to Nellie's great relief, the jailer entered, bearing a lighted torch; for the sun was going down, and the cell was almost dark already.
After him came Ormiston and O'More, accompanied by the gray-haired man who had been with Mrs. Netterville at the moment of their own arrival in the prison. Ormiston took the torch from the jailer's hand, and placing a gold piece there instead, dismissed him, with orders to close the door behind him, and to give them due notice before shutting up the prison for the night. As he set the torch in the sconce placed for it against the wall, the light fell full upon Mrs. Netterville's face, which looked so pale and drawn that for a moment he thought that she was dead, and whispered his suspicion to the stranger.
The latter drew a small vial from his bosom, and poured a few drops upon her lips. They revived her almost immediately; she opened her eyes, and a smile passed over her white face as they fell upon her visitant. "You here again, my father!" she murmured beneath her breath. "I thank God that you have had the courage. You know the purpose for which I need you?"
"I know it—and, under the circumstances, approve it," the stranger answered quietly. "The sooner, therefore, that it is done the better it will be for all."
"Poor child—poor Nellie!" murmured Mrs. Netterville, as she caught the sound of the low sobbing which, spite of all her efforts at self-control, burst ever and anon from Nellie's lips. "Poor little Nellie! no wonder that she weeps. It is a sad, strange place for a wedding, is this prison-cell!"
"These are strange times," said the priest kindly, "and they leave us, alas! but little choice of place in the fulfilment of our duties. Nevertheless, sad as all this must seem at present, I am certain that your daughter will, some day or other, look back upon her wedding in this prison-cell with a sense of gladness no earthly pomp could have conferred on marriage; for she then will understand, even better than she does now, how, by this concession to a mother's wishes, she has secured peace and happiness to that mother's death-bed. That is," he added, turning and pointedly addressing himself to Nellie, "if sorrow for her mother's state is the sole cause for all this weeping?"