Just at that age when the painter would have wished to fix
his likeness,--in the fair morning of his virtues, the full
spring-blossom of his hopes; just at that age hath death set
the seal of eternity upon him, and the beautiful hath been
made permanent.
SOUTHEY’S REMAINS OF KIRKE WHITE.
Months flowed on, and summer came again, and the anniversary of the
day which had hailed so proudly the dawn of a youthful life, came and
passed in silence. Months flowed on, months of bodily pain and mental
misery, till they guided a young sufferer to the gates of death.
Other eyes besides Ernest’s began to observe the symptoms of an
approaching end. They read it not only in the body’s decline; there
were other signs;--they read it in the eye that gleamed with no
earthly fire--in the brow, from which the lines of pain and care,
and even the expression of submission, had passed away--changed by
the lightening of a celestial peace. They read it in the mind, still
clear, still vigorous, still aspiring,--but whose aspirings were
for that land alone, where lofty aspirations attain their perfect
satisfaction and repose.
“Months of bodily pain and mental misery.” The words are lightly
said--and in their monotonous flow there is little on which the pen
can dwell, or the tongue expatiate--yet as they pass they instil
lessons of highest and holiest instruction; yet do they give a field
for the exercise of the loftiest virtues--yet do they bear away with
them a record which shall never be suffered to grow old.
There has often been a question, Which is the worst of mortal
ills,--the pains of the body, or the strife of the mind? And while
some of have given the palm of intensity to the first,--others, in
excess of mental misery, have been found to declare the body’s pains
unfelt. To Reginald both were sent. The fitful racking violence
of agony--the dull gnawing restlessness of continual pain--and a
will rising rebellious against his fate, and a faith darkened and
troubled by doubt and despair.
_Why_ he was thus afflicted, those who watched over him, and saw his
face almost as the face of an angel, could not but ask; and they
could not at all times find an answer of unhesitating faith: yet
an answer there ever is to be found. It is told that a suffering
dying boy, once in extremity of anguish, looked up to the father who
watched over him, and exclaimed, “Oh! father, how I suffer!” and the
weeping father replied to him, not with words of sympathy, not with
expressions of compassion and consolation, but with this assurance
only: “Not one pang too many, my boy;” and the answer was sufficient.
Yet in Reginald’s case, other answers might be found. Gentle faults
have gentle chastisements--faults on the surface can be blown away
by the breath of a moist whistling wind--but there are faults, whose
seat is in the spirit and the intellect, man’s highest nature, and if
these are to be burnt away, it must be by the iron entering even to
the soul. And akin as such faults may be to virtue of the highest
kind--though in some forms they may shine as angels of light--yet all
is a delusive show, for pride, even a lofty pride, is the reign of
self, and not of God in the heart.
It was Reginald’s natural and hereditary evil, and it was rooted like
life itself in his nature. For this it was necessary that he should
enter into the fire--for this it was needful that the furnace should
be heated with sevenfold power: but when the work was done, he was at
peace. From the burning fiery furnace, the life which had promised to
shine so brightly on earth, came forth purified and fit for heaven;
and even on earth the darkness passed away, and at eventime it was
light.
For many months all hope of improvement had been given up: and from
the moment when hope was set aside, there had seemed to be nothing
left but to prepare for his death; yet when the words were spoken,
and the conviction came that he must die, it came a startling
shock. It was shortly after the anniversary of his birthday, that
the physician who attended Reginald, desired Ernest to prepare the
afflicted family for his approaching end. The powers of life, he
said, were wasting fast, and he could not answer for many days.
This was in June--yet in August he was living still; and so strong is
the sense of life in those who suffer, and in those who watch over
suffering, that even the sight and feeling of mortal decay failed
fully to impress either Reginald or those about him--and when the
long awaited hour came, it came suddenly to him and to all.
Late one evening, Ernest left him clear in intellect, peaceful in
mind, at rest in body--to all appearance as far from death as he had
been for many weeks. Early in the morning, he was startled from his
sleep by a hasty summons to the dying bed of the young lord.
He arrived at the Abbey, and entered the room adjoining Reginald’s:
many of the household were assembled there, with silent tears weeping
over their young master’s fate. The old housekeeper approached him
as he stood still, and desired him to enter--he had been, she said,
anxiously expected, and was not too late.
He softly unclosed the half-shut door, and stood in the room and
gazed around him. The shutters were all open, and the sun was shining
in, flooding the room with its golden light--no sound was heard, no
groan of pain or voice of lamentation--all was brightness, all seemed
repose;--and yet what breaking hearts, what expiring hopes were there.
Reginald lay with closed eyes, his breathing soft and faint as an
infant’s, the expression of his countenance unutterable tranquillity.
On the further side of his bed, leaning against his pillow, his
mother watched over him,--all thought of self, all sense of being,
even as it seemed all thought of sorrow, absorbed in the intense gaze
of love, which rested on her son. Beside her, yet drawn a few paces
backwards, sat Lord Vere, with closed eyes and folded arms. Months of
suffering had blanched his hair, and softened and relaxed the stern
expression of his countenance, yet now the muscles were rigidly
drawn together, as if the effort of the body would vanquish the
anguish of the mind. At the foot of the bed, on the side nearest the
door, Camilla half sat, half knelt,--her arms on the bed, her face
concealed,--all fears and terrors, and the dread of death, in her,
too, absorbed in thought of him for whom the summons was come.
Lord Vere raised his head on Ernest’s entrance, and with a movement
of his hand directed him to his son. Ernest approached the bed, and
stooped over it, and softly pronounced Reginald’s name. The dying
eyes unclosed with a look of joy, and a smile played over the pale
lips, then faintly murmuring, he desired to be left with Ernest alone.
* * * * *
It is not in a tale like this that the scenes of a dying bed should
be disclosed; over thoughts and hopes which rise to the eternal
world, a veil in such a place should be drawn;--yet some there are,
which speak of the departing spirit’s relation to earth, and these
may be detailed.
Once again profound quiet was in the room, the sacred services
were over, the faint breathing was becoming fainter and more
faint,--around the bed all sat again to see him die!
Suddenly there was a change,--on the threshold of existence the
parting spirit seemed to pause,--and the Angel of Death, whose stroke
for many hours had been at hand, appeared to draw backward.
Reginald unclosed his eyes, and with full and clear consciousness
looked around him. He gazed long and fixedly at the three beings
nearest and dearest to him on earth, but gazed in silence, no word
was spoken,--it was a calm and silent farewell.
As his eyes rested on his young and sorrowing sister--as he saw the
unspeakable sadness of her gaze--as he saw her head bowed again,
unable to bear that mute intense farewell--a faint flush passed over
his cheek, a faint cloud disturbed the stillness of his brow,--but
still he said nothing--gave no parting advice, offered no last
consolation, his eyes wandered on, and rested on another.
Beside the bed, leaning against his pillow, his face shrouded in his
hand, sat Ernest de Grey; in reflection so profound, that the change
in the countenance of his expiring friend was unperceived by him. By
many deathbeds he had been, and many partings he had seen, but never
one that excited thoughts like this. He had seen the infirmities of
age, the sorrows of poverty, the helplessness of childhood, pass from
a world of trial to the hope of rest,--and he had seen them so pass
with fearless and undoubting trust: but here was the light of life
darkened ere yet it was fully day; here was the flower of manhood cut
down while its bloom was at its height; here were beauty, genius,
virtue bestowed, if earth were all, in vain; running, if earth were
all, to waste. He was shrinking, appalled at the faithless doubts
that were sweeping over and agitating his soul, when he was roused
by a touch on his arm, and turning startled to the bed, he met the
gleaming, dying eyes of Reginald.
“Ernest, dear Ernest,” he murmured, “how shall I thank you for all
you have done for me in life and in death; my more than brother, how
can I repay?”
Ernest stooped over him, and pressed his lips on his brow. “Pray for
me,” he said, in a voice low and tremulous from emotion, “that I may
live as you have lived in the days of prosperity, and when death
comes may die as you will die.”
A blush passed over Reginald’s pale cheek,--a blush, not of pride,
but lowliness; but he said nothing,--some other thought appeared to
occupy and possess his mind.
“Camilla, dearest Camilla, will _you_ thank him for me?” thus was the
stillness broken again, and the brother’s earnest eyes rested on his
sister’s face.
She raised her head and gazed at him, and as she gazed, a tremulous
movement shook her in every limb, and her cheek grew pale as death.
But the emotion was stilled; and suddenly bending her head, she
placed her hand in his.
It was either a sign of acquiescence in his request, or an entire
resignation of herself to his will.
There was yet a pause; Reginald’s colour deepened, and he turned an
anxious inquiring gaze on his father.
Lord Vere bowed his head; and the next moment the hand of Camilla was
given to Ernest De Grey.
He had seen the movements as one turned to stone; and colder than
the cold hand that gave, was the hand that received the precious
gift. Was it _then_, was it _thus_, was it _there_, that the dreams
so madly indulged, so sinfully regretted, were to be realized? For a
moment he drew back from the prospects opening before him,--and the
small passive hand lay immovable in his.
But a glance at the drooping, sorrowing form bending almost at his
feet, brought higher and holier thoughts to his heart,--higher and
holier even than humiliation, because less of self was there. To
watch over _her_ welfare,--to seek, whether fulfilled by him or by
others, _her_ happiness,--what need was there to shrink from this?
So rapid was the flight of thought, that none but Camilla was aware
that there had been a moment of hesitation before the guardianship
was accepted. Silently and solemnly taking her hand in both of his,
he pressed his lips upon it,--a token of the vow fervently made in
his inmost heart to love and cherish her until death, or another’s
dearer right should part them;--unwilling then to disturb her at such
a time with thoughts of him, he restored it to her.
The head that Reginald had slightly raised in his anxiety, fell back,
and a glow of pleasure lighted his eyes; a moment he lay in repose,
and then it was lighted again, and another thought flashed over the
serenity of his countenance, and again it was to Ernest he turned:
“My day is passing like the clouds of evening, but it will rise
again in you. Ernest, dear Ernest! not in my pride, but in my
hopes, remember me. Those hopes....” He paused, looked upward, and
raised his hand,--all earthly hopes and aspirings, cherished and
unfulfilled, seemed gathering before his sparkling eye; all hopes
of heaven awaiting him,--but before they could be spoken, he was
dead!--yet, as more than life could have done, his death had wrought
in the hearts of all who approached him, so more than words those
bright unspoken thoughts would do: they fell on Ernest’s heart a
light that none could darken,--a star, bright and unfailing, to guide
him on his way. To the tumult so lately within him,--to the faithless
doubts, the vague distrust, they gave an answer full and clear: “The
light of such a life is not lit in vain.”
It was “the ruling passion strong in death.” Ernest saw the sudden
change in his countenance,--the sudden fading of his colouring. He
hastily rose, and whispering to Camilla, drew her to his place to
receive the last gaze--the last sigh; then kneeling beside the bed,
began the last prayer for the departing spirit.