Montague hastened to Mr. Claremont's room, hopeless of learning any thing of his situation from his cousin. The physician and surgeon were both there, and there was Margarette—pale as a statue, and apparently as firm, supporting her uncle's head on her bosom. There was a deathlike silence in the room, while the medical gentlemen were endeavoring to restore animation; while all feared that their endeavors would prove useless. A groan at length announced that the vital spark was not extinguished, and Mr. Claremont opened his eyes on his niece.
"Dear uncle," said Margarette, "do you know me?"
"Margarette!" murmured Mr. Claremont.
"Away with her, Mr. Montague," said the physician—"she is gone!"
Montague clasped her in his arms, and bore her out of the room, while a servant hastened after with restoratives. "She must be mine!" thought Montague, as he supported her lifeless frame, while the servant resorted to the usual means of restoration,—"she must be mine! Such benevolence without ostentation,—such firmness and deep feeling,—such exalted worth and true humility, are a rare combination! She must be my own!"
Mr. Claremont was scarcely able to leave his room, to which he was confined several weeks, ere Montague asked him, if he would bestow upon him his niece.
"Yes, take her Montague," said Mr. Claremont,—"take her as the choicest treasure one man ever bestowed on another. I know no man but yourself, worthy of her hand and heart."
An almost convulsive pressure of the hand, was the only sign of gratitude Montague could give.
Well, who was at the wedding?—and when did it take place?—It took place in a few months, and a large company was assembled,—for Mr. Claremont hated a private wedding. The Black Prince was one of the guests.
"Are they not a beautiful—a fine-looking couple, Mr. Gordon?" said Alice, after the great cake was cut, and the congratulations were over.