THE DEATH BED.
Early on the morning which succeeded the arrest of Katharine Wilmot, Mr.
Gregory paid a visit to Markham Place.
The moment he entered the room where Richard received him, our hero
observed that some deep affliction weighed upon the mind of his friend.
"Mr. Markham," said the latter, in a tone of profound anguish, "I am
come to ask you a favour—and you will not refuse the last request of a
dying girl."
"My dear sir—what do you mean?" exclaimed Richard. "Surely your
daughter——"
"Mary-Anne will not long remain in this world of trouble," interrupted
Mr. Gregory, solemnly. "Hers will soon be the common lot of
mortals—perhaps to-day, perhaps to-morrow! She must die soon—God will
change her countenance and take her unto himself. Oh! where shall I find
consolation?"
"Consolation is to be found in the conviction that the earth is no
abiding place," answered Markham; "and that there is a world beyond."
"Yes, truly," said the afflicted father. "We stand upon the border of an
ocean _which has but one shore_, and whose heavings beyond are infinite
and eternal."
There was a pause, during which Mr. Gregory was wrapped up in painful
reflections.
"Come," said he, at length breaking that solemn silence, and taking
Richard's hand; "you will not refuse to go with me to the death-chamber
of my daughter? You will not offend against the delicacy of that
devotion which you owe to _another_; for _she_ herself is also there."
Richard gazed at Mr. Gregory in astonishment as he uttered these words.
"Yes, my young friend," continued the wretched father; "within the last
four and twenty hours, Mary-Anne and I have had many explanations. By a
strange coincidence, it was at the abode of Count Alteroni that
Mary-Anne passed a few days at the commencement of last month, and to
which visit I alluded the last time I saw you, but without
particularising names. I did not then know that you were even acquainted
with the Alteroni family—much less could I suspect that your affections
were fixed upon the Lady Isabella."
"And your daughter and Isabella are acquainted?" ejaculated Markham,
more and more surprised at what he heard.
"They are friends—and at this moment the Lady Isabella is by the
bed-side of Mary-Anne. It seems that the young maidens made confidants
of each other, during my daughter's visit to the Count's mansion; and
they then discovered that they both loved the same individual."
"How strange that they should have thus met!" cried Markham.
"Then was it," continued Mr. Gregory, "that my daughter learnt how
hopeless was her own passion! Oh! I need not wonder if she returned home
heart-broken and dying! But your Isabella, Richard, is an angel of
goodness, virtue, and beauty!"
"She is worthy of the loftiest destinies!" said Markham
enthusiastically.
"She was present when my daughter poured forth her soul into my bosom,"
resumed Mr. Gregory; "and Mary-Anne was guilty of no breach of
confidence in revealing to me the love which existed between the Signora
and yourself. And Isabella, with the most becoming modesty, confirmed
the truth of Mary-Anne's recital. But your secret, Mr. Markham, remains
locked up in my breast. You are too honourable and the Lady Isabella is
too pure-minded to act in opposition to the will of her father: but God
grant that events may prove favourable to you, and that you may be
happily united!"
Richard pressed the hand of his respected friend in token of gratitude
for this kind wish.
"And now you cannot hesitate to take a last farewell of my daughter,"
said Mr. Gregory; "for all danger of contagion from her malady has
passed."
Markham instantly prepared himself to accompany the unhappy parent.
Few were the words that passed between them as they proceeded to the
dwelling which was the abode of sorrow.
On their arrival Markham was shown into the drawing-room for a short
time; and then the nurse came to introduce him into the sick-chamber.
The room was nearly dark; the curtains of the bed were close drawn; and
thus the dying girl was completely concealed from our hero.
But near the foot of the bed was standing a beauteous form, whose
symmetrical shape Markham could not fail to recognise.
Isabella extended her hand towards him: he pressed it in silence to his
lips.
Mary-Anne had heard his footsteps; and she also gave him her hand
between the folds of the curtains.
"Sit down by the bed-side, Richard," whispered Isabella: "our poor
friend is anxious to speak to you."
And Isabella wept—and Richard also wept; for those noble-minded beings
could not know, without the liveliest emotion, that one so sweet, so
innocent, and so youthful, was stretched upon the bed from which she was
destined never to rise again.
Markham seated himself by the side of the bed; and Isabella was about to
withdraw.
"Stay with us, my dear friend," said Mary-Anne, in a plaintive but
silver tone of voice, which touched a chord of sympathy that vibrated to
their very souls.
Alas! that dulcet voice could not move the tuneless ear of Death!
Isabella obeyed her friend's wish in silence.
"This is kind of you—very kind," continued Mary-Anne, after a brief
pause, and now evidently addressing herself to Richard. "I longed to
speak to you once again before I left this earthly scene for ever; and
that angel who loves you, and whom you love, earnestly implored my
father to procure for me that last consolation. And now that you are
both here together—you and that angel, by my bed-side,—I may be allowed
to tell you, Richard, how fondly—how devotedly I have loved you; and I
know you to be the noble, the enduring, the patient, the high-minded,
and the honourable being I always believed you to be. Oh! how rejoiced I
am that you have not loved me in return; for I should not like to die
and leave behind me one who had loved me as tenderly as I had loved
him."
"You will not die—you will recover!" exclaimed Markham, deeply affected,
while Isabella's ill-suppressed sobs fell upon his ears. "Yes—yes—you
will recover, to bless your father and brothers, and to make _us_, who
are your friends, happy! It is impossible that Death can covet one so
young, so innocent, and so beautiful——"
"Beautiful!" cried Mary-Anne, with a bitterness of accent which
surprised our hero, and which served to elicit a fresh burst of sorrow
from the sympathising bosom of Isabella: "beautiful—no, not now!"
Then there was another solemn pause.
"Yes—I shall die; but you will be happy," resumed Mary-Anne, again
breaking silence. "Something assures me that providence will not blight
the love which exists between Isabella and yourself—as it has seen fit
to blight mine! Such is my presentiment; and the presentiments of the
dying are often strangely prophetic of the future truth. Oh!" continued
the young maiden, in a tone of excitement, "brilliant destinies await
you, Richard! All your enduring patience, your resignation under the
oppression of foul wrong, will meet with a glorious reward. Yes—for I
know all:—that angel Isabella has kept no secret from me. She is a
Princess, Richard; and by your union with her, you yourself will become
one of the greatest Princes in Europe! Her father, too, shall succeed to
his just rights; and then, Richard, then—" she said, with a sort of holy
enthusiasm and sybilline fervour,—"_then_ how small will be the distance
between yourself and the Castelcicalan throne!"
At that solemn moment, Isabella extended her hand towards Richard, who
pressed hers tenderly; and the lovers thus acknowledged the impression
which had been wrought and the happy augury which was conveyed by the
fervent language of the dying girl.
"Oh! do not think my words are of vain import," continued Mary-Anne, in
the same tone of inspiration. "I speak not of my own accord—something
within me dictates all I now say! Yes—you shall be happy with each
other; all obstacles shall vanish from the paths of your felicity; and
when, in your sovereign palace of Montoni, you shall in future years
retrospect over all you have seen and all you have passed through,
forget not the dying girl who predicted for you all the happiness which
you will then enjoy!"
"Forget you!" exclaimed Richard and Isabella in the same breath;
"never—never!"
And the tears streamed down their cheeks.
"No—never forget me," said Mary-Anne; "for if it be allowed to the
spirits of the departed to hover round the dwellings of those whom they
loved and have left in this world, then will I be as a guardian angel
unto you—and I shall contemplate your happiness with joy!"
"Oh! speak not thus surely of approaching death," exclaimed Richard.
"Who knows that your eyes may not again behold the light!"
"My eyes!" repeated the invalid, with an evident shudder. "But for what
could I live?" demanded the young maiden: "what attractions could life
now offer to me?"
"You are young," returned Markham: "and hope and youth are inseparable.
You can mingle with society,—you can appear in the great world—a world
that will be proud of you——"
"Oh! Richard, Richard," murmured the soft tones of Isabella; "you know
not what you say!"
At the same time that the Signora thus spoke in a low whisper, deep and
convulsive sobs emanated from behind the curtains.
"Pardon me, Mary-Anne," said Richard, not comprehending the meaning of
Isabella's words; "I have probably touched a chord——"
"Oh! I do not blame you," said Miss Gregory; "but my father ought to
have told you all!"
"All!" echoed Richard. "What fresh misfortune could he have
communicated?"
"Did he not tell you that I had been attacked with a grievous malady?
that——"
"I remember! He spoke of a dangerous malady which had assailed you; and
he remarked that all fear of contagion was now past. But I was so
occupied at the time with the afflicting intelligence of your severe
illness—so surprised, too, when I learnt that Isabella was here with
you,—that I paid but little attention to that observation."
"Alas!" said Mary-Anne, in a faint and deeply-melancholy tone, "I have
been assailed by a horrible malady—a malady which leaves its fatal marks
behind, as if the countenance had been seared with red-hot iron—which
disfigures the lineaments of the human face—eats into the
flesh—and—and——"
"The small-pox!" cried Markham with a shudder.
"The small-pox," repeated Mary-Anne. "But you need not be alarmed: all
danger of infection or contagion is now past—or I should not have sent
to Isabella to come to me yesterday."
"I am not afraid," answered our hero: "I shuddered on your account. And
even if there were any danger," he added, "I should not fly from it, if
my presence be a consolation to you."
"You now understand," said the dying girl, "the reason why I could not
hope for happiness in this world, even if I were to recover from my
present illness,—and why death will be preferable to existence in a
state of sorrow. How could I grope about in darkness, where I have been
accustomed to feast my eyes with the beauties of nature and the
wonderful fabrics raised by men? How could I consent to linger on in
blindness in a world where there is so much to admire?"
"Blindness!" echoed our hero: "impossible! You cannot mean what you
say!"
"Alas! it were a folly to jest upon one's death-bed," returned the young
lady, with a deep sigh. "What I said ere now was the truth. The malady
made giant strides to hurry me to the tomb: never had the physicians
before known its ravages to proceed with such frightful celerity. It has
left its traces upon my countenance—and it has deprived me of the
blessing of sight. Oh! now I am hideous—a monster,—I know, I feel that I
am,—revolting, disgusting," continued Mary-Anne, bitterly; "and not for
worlds would I allow you to behold that face which once possessed some
attraction."
"The marks left by the scourge that has visited you will gradually
become less apparent," said Richard, deeply afflicted by the tone, the
manner, and the communications of the invalid; "and probably the
eye-lids are but closed for a time, and can be opened again by the skill
of a surgeon."
"Never—never!" cried Mary-Anne, convulsively; and, taking Richard's
hand, she carried it to her countenance.
She placed his fingers upon her closed eye-lids.
He touched them; they yielded to his pressure.
The sockets of the eyes were empty.
The eye-balls were gone!
"Oh! wherefore art thou thus afflicted—thou who art so guiltless, so
pure, so innocent?" exclaimed our hero, unable to contain his emotions.
"Question not the will of the deity," said Mary-Anne. "I am resigned to
die; and if, at times, a regret in favour of the world I am leaving
enters my mind, or is made apparent in my language, I pray the Almighty
to pardon me those transient repinings. Of the past it is useless now to
think;—the present is here;—and the future is an awful subject for
contemplation. But upon that I must now fix my attention!"
Markham made no answer; and during the long silence which ensued, the
dying girl was wrapt up in mental devotion.
At length she said, "Give me your hand, Richard—and yours, Isabella."
Her voice had now lost all its excitement; and her utterance was slow
and languid.
The lovers obeyed her desire.
Mary-Anne placed their hands together, and said, "Be faithful to each
other—and be happy."
Richard and Isabella both wept plentifully.
"Adieu, my kind—my dear friends," murmured Mary-Anne. "You must now
leave me; and let my father come to receive the last wishes of his
daughter."
"Adieu, dearest Mary-Anne: we shall meet in heaven!" said Isabella, in a
tone expressive of deep emotion.
"We will never—never forget you," added Richard.
He then led the weeping Isabella from the apartment.
As they issued from the chamber of death, they met Mr. Gregory in the
passage: he wrung their hands, and said, "Wait in the drawing-room until
I come."
The unhappy parent then repaired to the death-bed of his daughter.
Markham and Isabella proceeded in silence to the drawing-room.