“But was it not very injurious to his daughter’s interests to withhold her thus from all intercourse with her maternal relatives?”
“He began to realize it himself, but only when it was too late. During his illness, finding his case daily growing more serious, he made some efforts to ascertain what had become of Ludwig Dornthal, of whom we have just spoken, who was Margaret’s favorite brother, and never faltered in his affection for her. But he could ascertain nothing respecting him. Ludwig had married, and, long before, left Leipsic to settle in some other part of Germany, he could not find out what, and this fruitless effort was a source of pain, which was not the least he suffered during his last hours. He reproached himself, and not without reason, for the frightful loneliness in which he was about to leave his daughter. The poor, unhappy man bitterly expiated the imprudent and thoughtless act of alienating himself from those whose pardon he should rather have implored, or at
least accepted. But it was the consequence of his disposition, which was affectionate, enthusiastic, and fascinating, I imagine, when he was young, but weak, violent, and thoughtless. He was born neither to be happy himself, nor to make others happy, and his daughter would have been almost as great an object of pity, had he lived, as she is now.”
“Poor child!” said Mademoiselle Josephine, raising her small black eyes, with an expression almost celestial lighting up her pale and wrinkled face. After a moment’s silence, she added: “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb! You will see, brother, that some good luck will befall her, or we shall have some fortunate inspiration.”
“Well, the sooner the better, for I have none. Your confidence truly excites my admiration.”
“I trust in God,” simply replied Mademoiselle Josephine.
“Parbleu! and I too,” said the doctor. “I truly believe in his goodness; I hope in his mercy; but in this case—”
“You would prefer to have the affair in your own hands?”
“Come, come, Josephine, let us stick to the point this time. It is eight o’clock, and we must positively go for that poor child. She is more lonely than ever to-day, for the sister who nursed her father, and remained with her after his death, left this morning. She must not, after so sad a day, pass this first night all alone up there.”
“Certainly not,” said the other.