Nellie felt that he had asked indirectly a serious question, and she was too truthful not to answer it at once. She did not speak, however—she could not; but she gave her hand to Roger, and made one step forward.
"Come nearer," whispered her mother, "come nearer, that I may see and hear."
Roger drew Nellie nearer, until they both were standing close to the sick woman's pillow.
"Raise me up," the latter whispered faintly.
He lifted her in his strong arms, for she was as helpless as a child, and placed her in a sitting posture, with her back supported by the wall near which her bed was placed.
As soon as she had recovered a little from the faintness consequent on this exertion, she waved her hand to Roger as a signal that the ceremony should begin. The priest turned at once to the young couple, and commenced his office, making it as brief as possible. Brief, however, as it was, and bare of outward ceremonial, Ormiston, as he stood a little in the background, could not help feeling that he never before had looked on, might never again behold, such a strangely touching scene. The wasted features of the poor mother, for whom death seemed only waiting until her anxiety for the safety of her child had been set at rest for ever; the fair face of Nellie, pale now with grief and watching, but ready as a budding rose to flush into yet brighter beauty with the first return of sunshine; Roger, with such a look of grave yet conscious gladness in his eyes as best suited the mingled nature of the scene in which he was a foremost actor; the priest, who, at the risk of his own liberty or life, was fulfilling one of the most solemn offices of his sacred calling; the vaulted roof above, glistening in the damp as the light flashed on it, and the bare, bleak walls around, with the names of many a weary captive inscribed upon them; joy and sorrow, hope and fear; life springing forward, on the one hand, to its brightest hours, and sadly receding, on the other, into the shadows of the tomb—all were gathered together in that prison-cell, and combined to form a picture which would have needed the pencil of a great master to render in its full force and truth.
It was done at last! Nellie had said the word which made her a wedded wife, and Mrs. Netterville folded her in her arms, and whispered, "Thank you, dearest, thank you; for I know what this must have cost you!" and then placing her hand in Roger's, added, "Take her, my son—take her; God is my witness that I give her to you without a fear for her future happiness. To you in whose arms the father died I may well intrust the daughter!"
"You shall never repent it, mother—never!" said Roger, with that calm, determined manner which better than many words, brings assurance to the soul, of truth. "I loved her from the first day I saw her, not so much for her brightness and her human beauty, as for that higher beauty which I thought I discovered in her soul, and which she has bravely proved since then. Over beauty such as that time has no power; the love, therefore, that springs from it must last for ever."
"It is well, my son," replied Mrs. Netterville, "I thank you, and believe you. And now, be not angry if I bid you go! For this one day Nellie must be all my own—to-morrow there will be no one to dispute her with you."