THE DEATH-BED OF THE DUKE OP DURIMOND.
The illness of the Duke of Durimond became more and more serious.
Adelaide's friends offered to join her, but she said the duke's mind
required peculiar treatment, and that more company in the house might
annoy him. From the time of his leaving England the duke's associates
had observed a great alteration in his manners and habits. Whereas he
was formerly the gayest of the gay, he now shunned society. Soon after
his arrival at Vienna he had engaged an Italian servant of seemingly
unusual education and seriousness, and him he admitted into his
confidence; to him he entrusted the direction of his private affairs.
When he returned home, at those different intervals we have mentioned,
this servant accompanied him, and was treated by the duke less as a
humble dependent than as a valuable friend. The man held aloof from
the other inmates of the castle, and was waited on in his own
apartment by the duke's express order. Now, when the duke returned
home, he was accompanied not only by this Italian gentleman or
servant, whichever he might be, but by two other Italian valets, very
serious for their state in life, who waited on the duke and on his
friend to the exclusion of the English menials who had formerly access
to the ducal apartments.
{478}
The duke was a prisoner in his own room, rarely could he ever leave
his bed. Adelaide came at stated intervals to inquire after the state
of his health, and in all formality took her seat at his side. Madame
de Meglior often accompanied her, and to the surprise of both ladies a
request was urgently preferred that Euphrasie might be induced to pay
daily morning visits to the sick chamber, at a time when none were
usually admitted.
The duchess looked her astonishment, but the duke took her hand with
more kindness and less of ceremony than usual, and said:
"Nay, do not be surprised, your grace; I am a poor man, now about to
appear before my Maker. I need all the assistance I can get, and I
have faith in the prayers of Euphrasie. The hour named for her is the
hour of prayer: if you will come also, believe me you will be
welcome."
"Prayer, what prayer?"
"The most solemn prayer that can be offered, that which accompanies
the most holy sacrifice of the new law."
As the duke spoke, M. Martigni, the man of business we have spoken of,
pulled aside a curtain which had been hung before an alcove opposite
to which the duke's bed had been placed, and there a beautiful little
marble altar, appropriately adorned, became visible. Adelaide gazed in
mute surprise.
"What am I to infer from this, your grace?"
"That at the last hour, I, a miserable sinner, dare to hope pardon
from an outraged God, because he sent his Son to die on the cross for
me! O Adelaide! the gods of this world, as your father so justly calls
them--the gods of this world, pride, lust, sensuality, love of power,
and ambition, but rise to reproach us when we draw near to our end.
Long, too long did I resist my sweet Ellen's lessons! I felt, indeed,
that something within me said we could not utterly die; but I was
leading a life for self--I could not see the truth; but at last, late,
too late I knew my duty. Adelaide, for two years past I have been
reconciled to the Catholic church!"
"It is to attend Mass, then, I presume, that your grace desires
Euphrasie's company?" said Adelaide.
"It is," replied the duke; "if any will accompany her, they will be
welcome."
But this the duchess took especial care to prevent. She whispered to
Madame de Meglior, as they quitted the apartment:
"The malady has touched his brain; say nothing of what has happened."
This was the cause of Adelaide's reluctance to have more company in
the house. On this account she declined alike the visits of the duke's
relatives and of her own. She wish the matter to be kept a profound
secret from all; and though she permitted Euphrasie to comply with the
duke's request, it was on the express condition of her keeping the
fact unknown. But such precautions as these, though feasible for a
time, are useless in the end. The duke's disorder was of a painful,
lingering, and variable nature. Sometimes he would be confined to his
room, and even to his bed for weeks together, then he would rally a
little, go into the adjoining sitting-room, and once or twice even
took an airing in his carriage. No excuse could be framed, then, for
excluding relations so rigorously. Mr. Godfrey became annoyed at the
attempt, and at length, suspecting some latent motive, sent Eugene to
the castle to find out the secret, if there were one.
Eugene, on his entrance, met and recognized Martigni, and by him was
introduced into the duke's apartment before Adelaide knew he was in
the house. He found the duke propped up by pillows and seated near the
window. He greeted the young man cordially, though with a half
reproach that he did not come before.
"I have been very ill, Eugene" he said; "sometimes I hardly thought to
be alive till morning, and I wished to say a few words to your father
about my wife, but none of you came near me!"
{479}
Eugene looked, as his felt, surprised. "We were given to understand
that a visit from us would not be agreeable to your grace" he said;
"and being hurt at the intimation, especially as the exclusion lasted
so long, I came to-day to ascertain the cause."
"I gave no such intimation, I wished for no such exclusion, rather the
contrary; but perhaps Adelaide--I think I divine the cause; you must
excuse your sister, Eugene. Perhaps she is more annoyed than she
showed to me. To me she is ever polite, but doubtless she is annoyed;
perhaps it is natural that she should be so," and the duke hesitated.
"Annoyed! At what, may it please your grace? You cannot think that
'annoyed' is a term applicable to my sister's feeling at your
illness?"
"No! no! not at my illness, no! But, Eugene, I have spent a long life
of vanity before the world, and ere I die I should like the world to
know what perhaps the duchess would fain conceal, that I repent of my
iniquities, that I thankfully before the chastising hand that has laid
me low, that I prize my sufferings as the greatest blessing, as a
token that God has not forsaken me, though for so many years I forsook
him. Eugene, I am a Catholic!"
"God be thanked!" involuntarily escaped from the young man's lips, as
his hand was clasped in that of the duke, and tears started to his
eyes, "God be thanked!"
The door opened and the duchess entered. At one glance she understood
all, and that her surmises of Eugene had also been correct.
"The duke is better to-day," she coldly said. "We have had a long time
of anxiety, but perhaps even yet he may rally and be himself again."
"I dare not flatter you, sister," answered Eugene. "His grace's looks
are not those of a convalescent."
"No! no!" said the duke. "No health for me again. Suffering, perhaps,
for a long time yet, but no health; but I know not why my illness
should induce your grace to lead so lonely a life as you have lately
chosen. Let me beg of you to surround yourself with your family;
Eugene says they wait but your bidding."
Adelaide colored. "I fear the disturbance will be too much for your
grace's repose."
"Not at all, not at all; the house is large, many might be in it and I
not hear a sound. I should be gratified by knowing that you had
friends with you when I depart. Send for your friends, I beg of you.
Eugene, perhaps you will write to Mr. Godfrey in my behalf, to inform
him of my wishes?"
"I will, your grace."
And the family came; and still Adelaide tried to conceal from her
father a secret which was already known to Eugene. She scarcely hoped
to be able to do so long; but the annoyance to her was so excessive
that she could not bring herself to speak of it, and she hoped others
would decide, as she tried to decide in her own mind, that the duke's
intellect was affected. But then Eugene! he was smitten with the same
mania! She felt sure of that, though no words had ever passed on the
subject.
* * * * *
"Mr. Godfrey," said the duke, when at length there was an interview
between the two--"Mr. Godfrey, tell me what you wish me to do more for
your daughter. A handsome jointure is secured to her; the estates are
entailed; but tell me anything else I can do to promote her happiness,
and it shall be done."
This was the spirit in which the invalid conversed, and in which he
executed all that was proposed to him for Adelaide. She had no cause
of complaint, and his manifest care of her softened that haughty heart
a little. Had he not been a Catholic she could have been grateful to
him; but she was the more irritated at this fact, that now she dared
not set up the plea of imbecility to account for it, for that {480}
plea would have invalidated the newly drawn up documents in her favor;
all her hope consisted in concealment.
Eugene was often with the duke, who at length ventured to speak to him
on a subject which caused him great mental anguish. He had never been
able to trace Ellen, nor to transmit to her any pecuniary aid. He
suspected, indeed, that the Catholic bishop could have afforded him
information, but he was inflexible in refusing to do so. A
considerable sum of money had been set apart for Ellen's use, and a
fortune provided for the boy. "Perhaps," said the duke, "after my
death the bishop might enable you, Eugene, to trace the mother and
child, and induce them to accept the provision. Will you undertake the
commission?"
"Most willingly," said Eugene.
"When I am dead, let it be," said the duke. "Ellen will take nothing
from me living--when I am dead she will be more easily persuaded. I
know she must wish a high education for her son. She will not, I hope,
refuse assistance for that. But even if she does, I have settled his
money separately, that he may be sure of getting it. Tell Ellen, too,
that I died a Catholic; I know she has long prayed for this; and tell
her that I rejoice now that I have no child save hers, my only son.
Let strangers take the estate that had so nearly wrecked my soul. O
Eugene! none but Catholics can understand the benediction pronounced
by our Lord on poverty! The possession of power, of wealth, of glory,
fan our egotistical feelings, and lead us more and more astray. I
think I should not dare to trust myself with them again, had I still
power to use them. And I thank God I have not the power, lest the
temptation should again prove too strong for my virtue."
The duke lingered on for months, long months. How tediously did those
months pass to the Godfrey family--to the duchess in particular--to
all, save Eugene. In the sick-chamber he passed most of his time. To
Adelaide's joy, her father had not yet discovered the fatal secret. He
was so busy, acting for the duke, transacting business, arranging
tenantry, etc.; and then he spent long hours in the glorious pagan
temple, the gods of which he had taken care to secure as Adelaide's
personal possession, and for the reception of which he was building a
large hall at the jointure-house, that when the castle they now
inhabited should pass to the heir-at-law, he might be able to take
possession of these trophies of art at once.
Such was the friendship and delicacy of the man of the world! The
summer passed, the winter came, and a wintry change came over the
invalid. One evening he called his wife, his friends, his domestics,
every inmate of the house, into his presence, and, one by one, begged
their forgiveness for every uneasiness he had caused them, for every
bad example he had set them, and begged of them to pray for him as for
one who was about to appear before God, to give account of a mis-spent
life. To Adelaide, and to her father, mother, and sister, this
appeared like a well-acted scene; but the domestics, nay, even Madame
de Meglior retired in tears.
Night came. An oppression was over the household. None cared to retire
to rest, and yet none dared again approach the duke's apartment. Mrs.
Godfrey sat in Adelaide's room that night while Hester was with Madame
de Meglior. Euphrasie was missing, but, as usual, was forgotten. Even
Mr. Godfrey partook in some measure of the excitement. He had asked
the physician that evening more anxiously than usual, how the patient
was; and though the response had been, "Somewhat better," he, with the
household, did not give it credence.
He paced his chamber, lay down on a sofa, rose, and paced it again;
looked at his watch--one, two, three, four o'clock; how long the hours
were that night! He opened his door, walked out, and paused at the
door of his daughter's room. He heard speaking, {481} gently he
tapped, his wife opened the door to him; neither she nor the daughter
had been in bed.
"Any news? whispered he.
"No! All is quiet in the duke's chamber."
"I will go and see," he said.
He passed through the whole retinue of domestics in the galleries. Not
one had gone to bed, yet all were hushed; not one had ventured to make
inquiries at the sick-room door.
Mr. Godfrey passed silently on, his foot-fall was scarcely heard. A
dull sound as of low continuous speaking came from the duke's
apartment. The door was not locked; he turned the handle gently and
went in without rapping. What a scene met his view! Candles were
lighted on the altar. Beside it, rapt in prayer, knelt Euphrasie. The
stranger, Martigni, robed in the sacred vestments, was in the act of
placing the Holy of Holies upon the tongue of the dying man, whom
Eugene was tenderly supporting in his arms. The sick man sank back on
the pillow as the priest left him, and the prayers continued; Mr.
Godfrey paused. A sensation of wondering anger stole over him, yet he
waited for the benediction of the priest. Eugene was on his knees by
the bedside. The ceremony over, Mr. Godfrey approached him, shook him,
and in a harsh whisper said:
"Boy, what mummery is this?"
Eugene rose. The sick man opened his eyes. A bright smile broke over
his features. "No mummery," he faintly said.
Then again there was a pause, and a gasping for breath, and the eyes
closed. They opened again: "Jesus have mercy; Mary help," were the
last words he uttered, and he died.
It was no time for explanation. Mr. Godfrey retired. On leaving the
chamber he became aware that imprudently the door he had left half
open had partially revealed to the domestics, now assembled without
the chamber, that something unusual was taking place within. To their
questions, Mr. Godfrey replied: "He is dead." And instantly the
chamber was filled with weeping mourners. Good, kind, and liberal had
been the master they had lost, and he was much beloved. To their
wonder they beheld the altar on which stood the unextinguished
candles. Before it knelt the priest, chaunting, in a very low voice,
the office for the dead, which was responded to by the Italian valets
kneeling beside the bed. Euphrasie had disappeared, but on the bed lay
the corpse, one hand grasping the crucifix. They stood rooted to the
spot at the strangeness of the scene. They had not yet satisfied their
wonder when the duchess entered. She cast one look on the bed; then
approaching the priest, said:
"You will please to quit this chamber as soon as convenient, and
disencumber the room of these useless toys."
Eugene sprang to her side. "Sister," said he, "in the name of Heaven,
do nothing rashly. Leave these things to me; to me give your orders;
on my honor they shall be obeyed."
The duchess bethought herself one moment. "Clear the room of these,
then," she said, pointing to the wondering domestics.
Eugene obeyed.
"Now," said the duchess, "let there be an end of this foolery. In an
hour I will send those hither whose duty it is to tend the dead. By
that time let no vestige remain of this offensive foreign trumpery;
and let these strangers quit the house."
The tone was too decided to be disputed; the commands were obeyed; and
so successfully did Mr. Godfrey assist his daughter in giving the lie
to the reports that were spread through the neighborhood, that it came
at last to be considered as an established fact that the whole scene
of the death-bed was got up by a concerted plan of the Italian valets,
who hoped in this way to convert their master at his dying hour, and
the duke himself being insensible made no opposition! Thus can the
"great ones" of the earth oft condescend to lie, though they would
{482} challenge a man to a duel who dared to question the nicety of
their honor.
For many days the duke lay in state in his ancestral hall; from far
and near crowds came to gaze on the gorgeously fitted up apartment,
hung with emblazoned hatchments, encircled round with all the
trappings of woe. Eugene had quitted the house at the time of the
duke's decease, in company with the foreigners his sister had
commanded to depart. He reappeared on the day of the funeral, and
requested to speak with his mother. To his surprise he found her
haggard and worn, and traces of excessive weeping were on her
countenance. She greeted him kindly, made him sit down beside her,
took his hand in hers and held it, but wept instead of speaking.
Eugene was puzzled and alarmed, for all agitation was unusual with his
mother. They were alone together, yet the silence was not broken.
After awhile a servant came to say that the procession was forming for
the funeral, he supposing that Eugene came expressly to attend it.
"Shall I go, mother?" said Eugene, but his mother held him fast, and
shook her head.
"It would be better not," she said; "they might be bitter even on a
day like this. No, Eugene, do not see your father yet. Go home, I will
be there in a few days. We will talk matters over, and all will be
right again. Your father and Hester will remain a short time with
Adelaide. But you and I will go home. Do not stay here now, but meet
me tomorrow at the post-house ten miles from this. I will be there at
ten o'clock. I will stop the carriage for you to ride home with me."
Eugene wonderingly assented; and as she seemed anxious to get him out
of the house, he left as soon as the vast cortege had disappeared.
Crowds of nobility, crowds of gentry, crowds of tenantry accompanied
the corpse as it was borne to the family vault. A collation was
afterward spread for the guests; they partook of it, went home, and in
less than a month were eager in paying court to a new duke, and the
late one was to them as though he had never been.