THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN.
I will not think of him—I’ll pace
This old ancestral hall,
And dream of that illustrious race
Whose pictures line the wall.
And from their dark and haughty eyes,
Though faded now and dim,
A better spirit shall arise,
I will not think of him.—_Mrs. Warfield._
Flight! In that one short syllable lies the only safety from a forbidden
passion, and where flight is impossible, passion becomes destiny.
Malcolm Montrose had come to Allworth Abbey with the full understanding
that he was to remain with the bereaved ones for three months, and at
the end of that time quietly consummate his betrothal to the heiress by
a marriage that, in consideration of the recent decease of the head of
the family, was to be celebrated without pomp. Such had been the dying
instructions of Lord Leaton to his wife, and such she had conveyed in
her letter to Malcolm. To fly from his forbidden love would be to fly
also from his betrothed bride. He remained, therefore, happy in the
absolute obligation that compelled him to remain. Eudora had no other
refuge in the world whither to fly. Flight, therefore, to her also was
impossible.
And perhaps by both it was unthought of. Circumstances bound them
together, and so passion became destiny. Both struggled perseveringly
with the growing madness. They instinctively avoided each other as much
as it was possible to do so. But in every casual touch of their hands,
every meeting glance of their eyes, and every intonation of their
voices, was transmitted the subtle fuel of that secret fire that was
smoldering in each bosom. They never remained for a moment alone
together; they never voluntarily addressed one word to each other; and
yet, when they did meet, or were forced to speak, the blushing cheek of
the girl, the faltering tone of the man, the averted looks of both,
betrayed to themselves, if not to others, the hidden love that was
burning in their breasts.
Every motive of honor, gratitude and humanity constrained them to
conquer their passion, and not the least of these was their mutual
sorrow in the declining health of Agatha.
Agatha was dying—though no one yet dared to say it, every one knew it.
The fair girl herself felt it, and instead of preparing for her bridal,
that was arranged to be celebrated on the first of May, she withdrew her
thoughts more and more from the things of this world, and fixed them
upon Heaven. Always of a thoughtful and serious turn of mind, she became
now almost saintly in her self-renunciation, her patience, and her
resignation.
Often as she sat reclining in her easy-chair, watching the mutual
embarrassment of Malcolm and Eudora, and seeing, with the clear vision
of the dying, the hidden struggles of their hearts, a sweet smile would
break over her fair, wan, spiritual face, and she would murmur to
herself—
“They are striving bravely to do right—they will not have to strive
long; a few more short weeks, and their reward will be certain; their
love will be innocent, and their happiness complete. And shall I, who am
going hence, envy them their love and joy? Oh, no! oh no! for well I
know that whither I go there is a fulness of joy and love that mortal
imaginations have never conceived.”
The fair girl faded fast away. Day by day her thin form wasted thinner,
her pale cheeks grew paler, and her hollow eyes hollower, while the
saintly spirit within burned with a more seraphic brightness. The
symptoms of her malady were the same as those that had carried off her
father. The utmost skill and science of the medical faculty were taxed
in vain; they could neither define the nature of her wasting illness,
nor find a cure for it. The fair girl failed rapidly. Her easy-chair in
the drawing-room was soon resigned for the sofa in her own
dressing-room, from which she never stirred during the day. And about
the first of May, when she was to have been united to Malcolm Montrose,
the sofa was finally resigned for her bed, from which she never more
arose.
Malcolm and Eudora reproached themselves bitterly for their
unconquerable love, because it seemed to wrong Agatha. They vied with
each other in the most affectionate attention to the invalid; and often
as they stood each side her couch, ministering to her wants, she longed
to make them happy by releasing Malcolm from his engagement to herself,
and placing the hand of Eudora in his own; but instinctive delicacy
withheld her from intermeddling with the love affairs of others.
Lady Leaton, heart-broken by the loss of her husband, and the
approaching death of her daughter, observed the growing and
ill-concealed attachment between Malcolm and Eudora with all a mother’s
bitter jealousy. And struggled against as that attachment evidently was,
she nevertheless resented it as a grievous wrong to her dying child.
Agatha, with the clairvoyance of a departing spirit, saw into the hearts
of all around her, and judged them in justice and mercy. One day while
her afflicted mother watched alone beside her bed, she said to her—
“Mamma, dear, I wish to speak with you about Malcolm and Eudora. I know
that you are displeased with them, mamma; but it is without just cause.
They love each other; they struggle against that love, but they cannot
conquer it. It is because they were created for each other. Their
marriage is already made in heaven. My marriage with Malcolm, mamma, was
designed only on earth as a matter of policy and convenience. Malcolm
and I loved each other only as brother and sister; we never could have
loved in any other way even if I had lived to become his wife. But he
and Eudora love one other as two who are destined for time and eternity
to blend into one. Forgive them, mamma; forgive and be kind to them for
my sake.”
“But you, Agatha!—my child!—I can think only of you!” sobbed the lady.
“Dear mamma, I know that all your ambition has been for your Agatha’s
good, and happiness, and advancement. But consider, if your wildest
dreams for your child had been fulfilled, and even more than that, if
you could have made her a king’s bride, placed upon her brow a queen’s
crown, gathered around her all the wealth, splendor, and glory of this
world—could you have rendered her as happy, as blessed, and as exalted
as she is now by the free mercy of God—now, when she is departing for
that land the joys of which ‘eye hath not seen, ear heard, or
imagination conceived,’ and where she shall wait for you in perfect
bliss and perfect safety till you come? Mamma, your daughter is the
bride of Heaven, and that is better than being the wife of the noblest
man or the greatest monarch on this earth.”
The countenance of the young saint was glorious in its holy enthusiasm,
and the human jealousy of her mother was dispelled before its heavenly
light.
“You are better than I am; my child, my child, you are better than I am;
you are a saint prepared for heaven!” exclaimed Lady Leaton, fervently.
“Mamma, grant Agatha one petition. She wants to see them happy before
she goes. They are so conscientious and so wretched, mamma; they are
afraid to speak to each other, or to look at each other, lest they
should wound or wrong me. It makes me miserable to see them so because I
love them both, mamma, and I know that they love me, and for my sake
they struggle bravely with their passion for each other. Let me speak to
Malcolm, mamma; let me tell him that I loved him only as a dear brother;
let me release him from his engagement to me, and let me place Eudora’s
hand in his with a sister’s frank and warm affection. Then, mamma, when
the embargo is taken off their love; when they are free to look at each
other and speak to each other as betrothed lovers may, then I shall be
happy in their happiness—happier still to know that I have promoted
it—happiest of all to feel how they both will love me for it. Dear
mamma, let Agatha do this little good and have this little delight
before she departs.”
“My angel child, you shall do in all things as you please. You speak and
act from Heaven’s own inspiration, and it were sacrilege to hinder you,”
exclaimed Lady Leaton, in deep emotion.
“Thank you, dear mamma, I shall be happy,” said Agatha, with a heavenly
smile.
“And the deadly upas-tree shall be all in all,” said a low voice at the
side of Lady Leaton.
She started, and turned to see the Princess Pezzilini standing there.
“Madame!” she said, in some uneasiness.
“Nay, I did but quote a line from a fable that I read you some three
months ago,” said the princess, quietly seating herself beside the bed.
Agatha had been too deeply absorbed in her own benevolent plans to
notice what was passing.
That evening, when all was quiet in the house, and the stillness of a
deeper repose pervaded her own luxurious chamber—Agatha dismissed all
her attendants, and sent for Lady Leaton, Malcolm, and Eudora to attend
her. They came immediately. The chamber was illumed with a soft,
moonlight sort of radiance from the shaded beams of an alabaster lamp
that stood upon the mantelshelf opposite the foot of the bed.
The bed curtains were drawn away, revealing the fair face and fragile
form of the dying girl as she reclined upon her bed propped up with
pillows. She smiled on her relatives as they entered, and beckoned them
to draw very near.
They came, and stood at the side of her bed—accidentally arranged as
follows: Eudora nearest the head of the bed, Lady Leaton next, and
Malcolm last.
She put out her wasted hand, took the hand of Eudora, and held it
quietly within her own, while she seemed to collect her thoughts for
utterance. Then, still holding Eudora’s hand she raised her dove-like
eyes to Malcolm’s face, and whispered—
“Dearest Malcolm! dearest brother of my heart! you will let the dying
speak out freely, I know.”
“Speak, sweet Agatha, speak your will,” murmured the young man, in a
voice vibrating with emotion.
“I was your betrothed bride, Malcolm; but our betrothal was a human
error, dearest; and the will of Heaven has interposed to break it. I am
called hence, Malcolm, to another sphere. Not your bride, but the bride
of Heaven shall I be. But before I go hence, Malcolm, I would prove to
you how true is the sister’s love I bear you, and the kindred affection
I feel for Eudora. I would prove these by two legacies by which I would
have you remember me.”
She paused and drew from her wasted finger the keeper-ring, which its
attenuated form could scarcely longer hold, and placing it firmly upon
the round, plump finger of Eudora, she said—
“This, dear one, is my legacy to you!”
Then taking the same hand with the keeper-ring upon its finger, she
placed it in the hand of Malcolm, saying—
“And this, dearest brother of my soul, this is my dying legacy to you!”
She sank back exhausted upon her pillow, while low, half-suppressed sobs
broke from those around her. And Malcolm and Eudora each thought how
willingly they would give up their mutual love, nay, life itself, to
have restored this dying angel to health and joy. And Lady Leaton prayed
Heaven that her own life might not outlast that of her beloved child. At
length Agatha spoke again.
“When I am gone, my mother will be very desolate—a widow, and childless.
Promise me this—dear Eudora, and dearest Malcolm—that you will be a son
and daughter to my mother.”
In earnest tones, and amid suffocating sobs, they promised all she
required.
A little while longer she held the hands of Malcolm and Eudora united
and clasped within her own, and then releasing them, she said—
“Good-night, dearest Malcolm. Go to rest, beloved mother; Eudora will
watch with me to-night.”
Lady Leaton stooped, and gathered Agatha for a moment to her bosom, and
with a whispered prayer, laid her back upon her pillows. Malcolm bent
down, and pressed a kiss upon her brow; and then both withdrew, leaving
Eudora upon the watch. And still holding Eudora’s hand, Agatha sank into
a peaceful sleep.
Hours passed. The room was so quiet, the sleep of the patient was so
calm, and the position of the watcher so easy within her lounging-chair
that Eudora, overcome with fatigue of many nights’ vigil, could scarcely
keep her eyes open.
Once, indeed, she must have lost herself in a momentary slumber, for she
dreamed that a women in dark raiment, with her head wrapped in a dark
veil, glided across the chamber, and disappeared within her own little
room; but when she aroused herself, and looked around, and walked into
the adjoining room to examine it, there was no one to be seen.
“I have been dreaming—I have slept upon my watch,” said Eudora,
regretfully; and to prevent a recurrence of drowsiness, she bathed her
forehead and temples with aromatic vinegar, and saturated her
handkerchief with the same pungent liquid, and resumed her seat beside
the patient.
At this moment Agatha awoke, complained of thirst, and asked for drink.
Eudora went to a side-table, poured out a glass of tamarind-water, and
brought it to the invalid.
Agatha drank eagerly, and sank back upon her pillows with a sigh of
satisfaction.
Eudora silently resumed her seat and her watch; but scarcely five
minutes had passed, when suddenly Agatha started up, her eyes strained
outward, her features livid, and her limbs convulsed.
Eudora sprang to her in alarm.
Agatha essayed to speak, but the spasms in her throat prevented
utterance.
In the extremity of terror, Eudora laid her down upon the pillows, and
sprang to the bell-pull, and rang loudly for assistance.
Then hurrying back to the bedside, she found Agatha livid, rigid, with
locked jaws, laboring lungs, and startling eyes.
She caught her up in her arms, rubbed her temples, and rubbed her hands,
exclaiming all the while:
“Oh, my dear, dear Agatha! my dear, dear Agatha! what, what is this?
Speak to me! Oh, speak to me!”
The strained eyes of the dying girl suddenly softened, and turned upon
the speaker a beseeching, helpless look, and then the rigid form
suddenly relaxed, and became a dead weight in the arms of Eudora.
Lady Leaton, followed by several of the female servants, now came
hurrying in.
“What is the matter? Is she worse?” exclaimed the mother, hurrying to
the bedside.
“Lady Leaton, she is dead!” cried Eudora, in a voice of anguish.
Let us draw a vail over the grief of that mother. In all this world of
troubles, there is no sorrow like that of a widowed mother grieving for
the death of her only child.
At first Lady Leaton would not believe in the extent of her affliction.
She wildly insisted that her child could not, should not be dead—dead
without a parting word, or look, or prayer! She sent off messengers in
haste to bring their medical attendant. And not until Dr. Watkins had
come and examined the patient, and pronounced life fled, could Lady
Leaton be made to believe the truth, or induced to leave the chamber of
death. Then she fainted in the arms of Princess Pezzilini, and was borne
to her own apartment in a state of insensibility.
It was some hours after this that Dr. Watkins somewhat peremptorily
demanded a private interview with Malcolm Montrose.
The young man, in deep affliction for the death of her whom he loved as
a dear sister, gave audience to the doctor in the library.
The family physician entered with a grave and stern brow, and seating
himself at the library-table, opposite Mr. Montrose, began—
“Sir, what I have to say to you is painful in the extreme both for me to
utter and for you to hear; but the sternest duty obliges me to speak.”
Mr. Montrose withdrew his hand from his corrugated brow, raised his
troubled eyes to the speaker, and awaited his further words.
“I know that what I am about to communicate must greatly augment the
sorrow under which you suffer, and yet it must be communicated.”
“Speak out, I beseech you, sir,” said Mr. Montrose, with a vague but
awful presentiment of what was coming.
“Three months ago I attended the death-bed of the late Lord Leaton. I
gave it as my opinion then, I hold it as my opinion now, that his death
was accelerated by poison. The coroner’s jury came to a different
conclusion, and their verdict, taken together with the fact that the
_post-mortem_ examination detected no trace of poison, I confess shook
my faith in my own conviction. To-night I have been called to the
bedside of his only daughter; I have looked upon her dead body, and
heard an account of the manner in which she had died. And now, Mr.
Malcolm Montrose, I positively assert that Agatha Leaton came to her
death by poison, administered in the tamarind-water of which she drank
some five or ten minutes before her death—and I stake my medical
reputation upon this issue.”
“My God! it cannot be true!” exclaimed Malcolm Montrose, starting up,
and gazing upon the speaker in the extremity of horror and grief.
“Mr. Montrose,” said the doctor, impressively, taking the hand of the
young man, and forcing him back to his seat, “the widowed and childless
head of this house is now in no condition to meet this crisis. You are
her natural representative. You must summon all your firmness and take
the direction of affairs. I shall remain here to assist you. I have
already taken some steps in the matter; I have secured the jug and glass
of tamarind-water to be analyzed. I have also telegraphed for the family
solicitor to come down, and I have sent for the coroner, and for a
police force to occupy the house, for no one must be permitted to escape
until the coroner’s inquest has set upon the deceased and given in their
verdict.”
“But, good Heaven, doctor!” exclaimed the young man in horror and
amazement; “who, _who_ could aim at so harmless and innocent a life?”
“Who,” repeated the doctor; “who had the greatest interest in her death,
and in the death of her father before her?”
“None! no one on earth! Who could have possibly had such an interest?”
cried the young man, shuddering.
“Who is the next heiress to this vast estate after Lord Leaton and his
daughter?” said the doctor, looking fixedly in the eyes of his
companion.
Malcolm Montrose started up, threw his hands to his head, and then
reeling back, dropped into his chair again, and remained gazing in
horror upon the speaker.
“Who,” pursued the doctor, with a merciless inflexibility, “who had
constant access to the bedside of the late Lord Leaton?—who prepared his
food and drink?—who has been the constant attendant of his invalid
daughter?—who watched by her side last night?—whose hand was it that
placed at her lips the fatal draught that laid her dead?”
“My God! my God, doctor! what horrible monster of suspicion has taken
possession of your mind? Give it a name!” exclaimed the young man, as
great drops of sweat beaded upon his agonized brow.
“_Eudora Leaton!_ Her hand it was that prepared the death-draught for
her uncle! her hand it was that gave the poisoned draught to his
daughter! It is a terrible charge to make, I know; but we must not deal
hesitatingly with the secret poisoner,” said the doctor, solemnly.
“Great Heaven! it cannot be—it cannot be!” groaned the young man, in
mortal anguish.
The doctor arose to his feet, saying—
“I leave you, Mr. Montrose, to recover this shock, while I go to put
seals upon the effects of this girl, and to prepare for the
investigation that shall bring the poisoner to justice.”