Life is indeed a complicated and mysterious drama, in which Agnes felt
more and more dissatisfied with the part she had to play. Harrowgate
had been the threatre of many interesting scenes to her; but now Lord
Doncaster had departed with a vaguely-expressed hope of her visiting
him at Kilmarnock Abbey; and when Sir Arthur felt sufficiently
recovered to begin his long-desired progress towards home, she slowly
and sadly prepared to accompany him.
Before they reached Portobello, winter had already covered the earth in
a shroud of snow and of ice; the birds no longer carolled gladly on the
boughs; the rustling leaves had ceased to fall; the naked trees hung
their dejected branches, in bare and stern desolation, and the
blood-red sun glittered on the cold and barren fields. "Winter's dumb."
All life and joyfulness had departed from the face of nature, which
looked, as Agnes remarked, like a wedding-cake without the ornaments;
and amidst weeks of dreary discontent, she compared the death-like
contrast of nature now, from what it had been, to her own sadly altered
feelings. She appeared constantly now to be in a state of restless,
almost feverish excitement, always, evidently, expecting some event
which never happened, while she became daily more depressed and
irritable.
Marion, in the mean time, during many a long and dreary evening,
resolutely buried beneath a smiling aspect, her own anxiety respecting
Mr. Granville's unaccountable silence, and devoted herself as entirely
to Sir Arthur's comfort, as if there had not existed another being upon
the earth; yet still, every knock at the door made her heart palpitate
with hope, and every note brought into the room, caused her a new pang
of disappointment and surprise.
If a grain of hope or joy were to be found in any circumstances,
Marion's was a mind to sift out and enjoy it; and her buoyant spirit
now shielded her from a too sensitive apprehensiveness, while she
repelled the withering fears that might have forced themselves on a
heart less candid and trusting. Her whole spirit rebelled against a
vagrant thought of Richard Granville's inconstancy or indifference;
though in Sir Patrick's letters from the continent, there was much that
might have insinuated distrust into her thoughts; but Marion clung to
the unswerving belief of her lover's infallible truth. She knew that
the stamp of Christian excellence was on his whole character, engrained
in his very being, and only to decay with life itself; therefore her
opinion was not at the mercy of any idle representations; but the blast
which might have uprooted a superficial attachment, only deepened the
root of her own, which nothing could undermine.
Mr. Granville, in the mean time, having long ceased to hope for any
answer to his letters, became more and more impatient for the time when
he might seek a personal interview with Marion, of whose constancy not
a doubt ever crossed his imagination; while day after day he watched
with saddening apprehension over the declining health of his sister,
whose failing strength required all the affectionate attentions he
lavished on her, especially when, after a few weeks, Sir Patrick also
arrived at Florence, and Clara shrunk with blighting, heart-broken
grief, from every engagement that might endanger her meeting him. She
mournfully acknowledged, that having at first esteemed as well as loved
him, she was still unable to conquer her misplaced affection; and that
while nothing could induce her to unite her fate to Sir Patrick's, or
to place her happiness in his care, still the painful consciousness
that he was unworthy and dishonored, weighed the more deeply upon her
spirit, and crushed her whole heart with anguish.
The constancy with which Sir Patrick tried to regain her affection was
deeply touching to Clara's young mind; and in vain she tried to blot
out his name with her tears. Still, Mr. Granville, with
inextinguishable hope, continued to believe that the germ of life must
be stronger than it seemed; but day after day she faded and drooped.
Change of air had done less than nothing for Clara's feeble frame and
wasted strength; while she spoke often, with a smile of affectionate
interest, respecting her brother's future life, though he observed with
emotion, that her own name was never included, and that only when
talking of a world hereafter, did she speak now of their being
together.
"We must die to be perfectly happy," observed Clara, one day, in a tone
of calm and elevated peace. "My sun has set in the morning, Richard;
and it might have seemed hard thus early to leave such a world, so
beautiful, so fragrant, so joyous, and embellished by such affection as
yours; but we know that sin has destroyed this whole magnificent
creation; that misery, decay, and death, are hid beneath all. It is the
glorious discovery of Christianity that we are immortal; that we are
created, not for time, but for eternity! So long as my spirit continues
to lodge in this most fragile of human bodies, I must have sorrow and
suffering to prepare me for throwing off the homely garb of an earthly
nature, and assuming the glorious garments of heaven."
Mr. Granville covered his face with his hands, unable for some moments
to reply, while Clara continued, in a tone of solemn sadness and
fervent emotion--
"The near approach of death fills my heart with strange and wonderful
thoughts! When, like the lightning from the cloud, my soul departs from
the body, O then, Richard, how I shall learn to know the value of our
immortal salvation! It bewilders me now to think, that I myself shall
survive that glorious sun, the solid earth, and all the wonders around
us; that I shall see and understand all the miracles of creation; that
I shall know and love all the wisest and best of human beings who ever
existed on the earth; and that I shall then be wiser than the wisest,
as well as happier than the happiest of mortals. Richard! that is
marvellous! and were it not for leaving you, I could rejoice with a joy
that is unspeakable, and full of glory."
Mr. Granville clasped Clara's emaciated hand in his own, and would have
spoken, but his voice failed; and after an ineffectual effort, fearful
of agitating his sister, he turned away and was silent; but she saw his
unutterable grief, and continued,
"You could have borne this better if it had been yourself, Richard; but
I leave you in the hands, not only of an atoning Saviour, but also of a
sympathising friend, who will send you comfort according to your utmost
need; and, my dear brother, let us now remember, that as the infidel La
Harpe said, there is one text in Scripture sufficient either to live or
to die on, 'God so loved the world, as to give his only Son, that
whosoever believeth on Him should not perish, but have everlasting
life.'"
Mr. Granville solemnly bent his head in token of acquiescence, and
closed his eyes, but large tears, notwithstanding every effort, coursed
each other down his face, and he avoided looking round, while Clara in
tremulous accents continued--
"Before long I shall live only in your memory, and well do I know the
place you will give me there; but remember, dear Richard, when my
mortal frame is dissolved, that you will have another relative then
awaiting you in heaven, and that I shall yet be in as active a state of
consciousness there as here. When we are separated, you must still
sometimes revive old times, by reading with Marion the books I have
loved--by listening to the music I have delighted in--by walking in my
accustomed haunts at home--by rearing my favorite flowers--and most of
all, console yourself, my dear brother, by reflecting, that when you
and Marion are both worshiping God together on earth, I shall also be
adoring Him in heaven:--
'Tis sweet, as year by year we lose
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse
How grows in Paradise our store.'"
The wintry year rolled on till Christmas eve, when Agnes, with a
discontented yawn, loudly wished that she had been born in the planet
Jupiter, where there was no winter at all. That night she announced
after tea to Sir Arthur, that she was about to leave home for several
weeks next day, being engaged to spend some time with her friend, Mrs.
O'Donoghoe. A considerable air of trepidation appeared in her voice and
manner when she spoke; and Marion, having recently observed that her
sister's thoughts were continually pre-occupied, felt startled and
amazed at the look of agitated determination with which she intimated
her approaching departure, after which she hurried towards the door,
anxious apparently to avoid all discussion; but Sir Arthur, in a tone
of mild authority, called her back, and drawing in his breath between
his compressed lips with evident vexation, he assumed an air of grave
but ironical humor.
"May I take the liberty of inquiring, Agnes, whether you have fully
investigated all the stories we heard at Harrowgate respecting Mrs.
O'Donoghoe's former connection with Lord Doncaster, and what she
actually is, before I consent, on very short notice, to entrust her
with my niece."
"Oh! she is everything on earth most delightful! You need not have a
minute's anxiety about me, uncle Arthur! I can take excellent care of
myself. Nobody knows my own value better than I do!"
"Convince me of that, Agnes, if possible; but you are aware that my
whole heart abhors your recent very unaccountable intimacy with that
contemptible old _roue_, who shall be nameless," replied Sir Arthur,
with strong, deliberate emphasis. "Any continuance of that exceedingly
familiar intercourse would be utterly improper; and as for a young girl
of your appearance setting out on a wild ramble with any Irish
adventuress recommended by Lord Doncaster, let me hear of her having
some very different introduction, or I cannot allow you to go."
"My dear uncle! I would dig my own grave and bury myself, if anything
prevented me! As for your permission," exclaimed Agnes, her whole face
illuminated with angry eagerness, "I shall certainly be most happy to
have it; but if people strain the cord too tight, it sometimes snaps
altogether. I have made myself a positive promise never to decline a
good offer, and go I must. Mrs. O'Donoghoe is to take me in her own
carriage, free, gratis, and for nothing. Only think how very kind!"
"My dear Agnes," replied Sir Arthur, while his brow darkened with
mournful anxiety, "I cannot wonder if you tire of the dull, monotonous
house I have to offer you. A perfect mausoleum indeed! It is a
premature old age for girls like you and Marion to be, evening after
evening, the companions of a solitary old man. Often, of late, have I
considered in vain how it could be remedied. Yet, my dear girl, there
might be a solitude far worse, if you lose the respect of others, and
the peace of mind you may enjoy with me. Hearing what I have lately
done of Mrs. O'Donoghoe, and knowing all I do of Lord Doncaster and the
Abbe Mordaunt, I must lay my positive prohibition on your accompanying
them now. You may think me a whimsical old man; but, Agnes, you cannot
long be troubled with my care. Loaded as I am with the weight of years
and infirmities, my life is like a spark on the ocean. Its fleeting
joys and troubled thoughts are drawing rapidly to a close; but if these
were the last words I am ever to speak, you must not go unprotected
into such society."
The Admiral walked with slow and musing steps up and down the room, his
fine countenance flushed with agitation, and his eyes shaded by his
long white hair, exhibiting an expression of mournful solicitude.
Marion's heart swelled with agitation, while inwardly moralizing on the
officiousness of Irish widows, and Agnes bit her beautiful lip with a
look of resolute determination, flashing glances of angry surprise at
her uncle, and pouting her beautiful lip, though the reverence which
Sir Arthur never failed to inspire kept her silent.
"Tell me, Agnes," continued he, stopping at length before her, with a
look of benignant kindness, "is there anything within the compass of my
powers that could be done to make up for this disappointment? We who
are old must not forget that there are pleasures for the young which
they naturally wish to enjoy. If there be any place you wish
particularly to see----"
"It is not places, but people, that I care for!" interrupted Agnes,
peevishly. "With respect to this excursion, it is impossible for me to
get off. I shall go deranged if you interfere with it! The party is
made on purpose for me, the horses are bespoken, my things all sent to
Mrs. O'Donoghoe's, and nothing left for me but to bid you good-bye!"
"This is little short of an elopement, Agnes!" replied Sir Arthur, with
a mild but resolute countenance, while there was a tone of strong
resentment in his voice. "What good object can there be in a scheme so
clandestinely begun! But I have no legal authority to detain you, if
affection and kindness are insufficient!--One thing only let me say,
painful as it is to my feelings," added the Admiral, while his whole
frame shook with emotion, and he walked several times across the room.
"In the name of your father, Agnes, I forbid you to leave my roof with
the party you speak of; and if, in defiance of all propriety, you do
go, then--I would have said, never return here again; but no!--I cannot
say that to my brother's child. No!--till my home is in the grave, you
may share it with me. Come back when you will, Agnes, and if I am
alive, you shall be welcomed."
Marion caught the hand of Sir Arthur in her own, and kissed it with
ardent affection, while she felt a tightening in her throat, and a mist
before her eyes, till tears fell fast and thick, like rain, upon her
cheek; but Agnes, with whom kindness, in its most impressive form,
could excite no generous impulse, rose in silence, and hurried out of
the room.
That night, after Marion had been asleep for several hours, she
suddenly started up in bed, with that bewildered feeling of perplexity
experienced by those who are unexpectedly aroused at an unusual hour.
It was four o'clock in the morning, and a pale, cold, livid moon-beam
streamed faintly into the room, giving a chilled and spectral aspect to
all around. A death-like stillness reigned beside her, and unable to
account for having been so suddenly disturbed, she was about once more
to consign herself to repose, when she heard the noise, repeated which
she had begun to fancy must have been only a dream. She listened in
trembling astonishment, for it seemed as if in her uncle's room
over-head, some persons were trampling up and down the room, drawers
opening and shutting, heavy weights falling on the floor, and a sound
sometimes reached her, as if several carpenters were at work.
Finding there was no mistake, Marion sprung out of bed, threw on her
dressing-gown, rushed up stairs, and having hastily thrown open the
door, she stood there transfixed for a moment with amazement and fear.
Through the glimmering dawn of light, she saw that Sir Arthur was up,
and completely dressed, while he appeared to be hurriedly groping about
the room, as if packing up for a journey. He seemed unconscious of
Marion's entrance, who stood for several minutes watching him in
speechless perplexity and consternation, while her very blood forgot to
flow, when she saw the stony look of his eyes. His countenance was of
an ashy paleness, his long grey hair matted over his forehead, his
expression sad beyond mortality, and when she took his hand in her own,
it felt cold and damp. His eyes wandered over her face for a moment,
without any apparent recognition, and then giving a smile of utter
vacancy, he resumed his occupation with restless eagerness.
"Uncle Arthur! dear uncle Arthur! what are you doing?" exclaimed
Marion, throwing her arms round him, while her limbs were faint, and
trembled with fear. "Speak, dear uncle! Speak to your own Marion! Why
do you not speak?"
A deep silence ensued. Sir Arthur evidently did not hear her. His cold,
livid lips moved as if he would have spoken, but not a sound became
audible, and with the same vacant smile as before, he turned away. The
terror-stricken Marion now felt utterly appalled. A death-like sickness
came over her, horror and darkness seemed gathering over her mind, and
apprehensive lest her senses might entirely fail, she hastily and
vehemently rang the bell, calling loudly for assistance.
Marion's was an intellect of that high tone which rises to meet a great
emergency, and though nearly paralyzed by grief and terror, when she
first saw the fearful, ghastly smile, with which her uncle gazed around
him, she now endeavored, by gentle persuasion, to make him lie down in
his bed, and tried, by speaking in accents of tenderness, to recall his
recollection, while impatiently longing for Martin to appear; and
during the few minutes that elapsed till he entered, it seemed as if
time itself had ceased to move.
The doctor was at length summoned, and having pronounced the Admiral's
illness to be caused by an oppression of the brain, threatening
apoplexy, he attempted to bleed his patient, though almost without
success; for Marion observed, while she held him in her arms, that the
blood scarcely flowed, till after some time he uttered a fearful,
convulsive cry, which rang through the room, and fell back in a violent
spasm, the immediate precursor of apoplexy.
Awe-struck and paralyzed with grief, Marion clung to her uncle, and
remained by his side, watching with deep and solemn affection every
turn of his features; while her cheek assumed the hue of death, her
tearless eyes were motionless, her quivering lips compressed, and she
remained as silent and immoveable as if the mortal shaft had reached
herself. Without shedding a tear or breathing a sigh, she bent over the
distorted countenance of Sir Arthur, and assisted in cutting off the
long white locks of his hair, which she had often loved to look upon,
but which were now strewed all unheeded on the bed, and again seating
herself by his side, she riveted his hand in her own, becoming white
and motionless as an image of marble.
Notice had been sent to Agnes' room of the afflicting event which had
taken place, and Marion expected every instant that her sister would
appear; but time passed on, and she came not, being one who
systematically avoided any scenes of distress, therefore she satisfied
herself with sending frequent messages of inquiry to the door. At
length, after some hours, Sir Arthur appeared to have recovered his
recollection; for he looked at Marion with a feeble smile of deep
affection, and laid his hand on her head as if to bless her; but words
were denied him; he struggled in vain to speak; and she who had not yet
found the solace of a tear, now bursting into an irresistible agony of
weeping, sobbed aloud. After gazing long and tenderly in her face, Sir
Arthur's eye-lids at length closed with fatigue, and still clasping her
hand in his, he fell into a peaceful, quiet slumber of many hours'
duration.
Those who have most leisure to contemplate death, generally think least
about it, and no one had ever meditated less on the subject than Agnes.
She occasionally remarked, when the infirmities of the old and the
indigent were forced upon her notice, that they might hope soon to be
released, and that to them it must, of course, be a happy escape. The
busy and active, she thought, had scarcely time to die; and, for
herself, she considered death as a very unpleasant subject, which fifty
years hence must be attended to, when the joys and the dreams of her
present life had vanished; but it seemed to her most preposterous now,
to lower her spirits by melancholy reflections on what could not
certainly be avoided, and would come only too soon in the end. In
short, her whole plan of life was, "To-day to sparkle, and to-morrow
die."
Marion had stolen away to complete her midnight toilette, before she
settled for the day beside Sir Arthur's pillow, when she was amazed
near the door to meet Agnes, hurrying past in travelling costume, and
anxious, apparently, to avoid being seen, though, when an interview
became inevitable, she tried to carry it off with careless audacity,
being evidently in a perfect delirium of high spirits, which she vainly
tried to conceal.
"Well, Marion! I am quite relieved to hear from Martin that there is
not the slightest danger! The doctors also say that everything has
taken a favorable turn, though, as for their opinion, I have despised
all physicians from Esculapius down to the magnesia-and-rhubarb doctors
of the present day. They all tell us the same thing of an invalid, 'If
he does not die, he will certainly recover!'"
Marion listened with a look of grave and melancholy surprise; while
Agnes, trying not to seem aware of it, and evidently anxious to avoid
any reply, fixed her eyes on the door, as if impatient to proceed, and
continued, in rapid accents of assumed bravado--
"You are looking really ill, Marion, and must have got a dreadful
fright! It would have killed me altogether! But make your mind easy,
for these attacks are, I am told, very common. The Duke of Middlesex
had ten or twelve, and people live often for years after the first,
which is a great comfort."
"They do sometimes, but not always," replied Marion, with mournful
gravity. "My dear Agnes, do not be too sanguine. This is a very serious
attack. You may hope, but I cannot; for it seems to me that our uncle
is laid on a bed from which he will never rise again."
"Oh! you are nervous, after being so frightfully alarmed this morning.
It must have been very shocking," said Agnes, shaking her well-arranged
ringlets, and attempting to get up a melancholy look; but in her mind
there never was any of that gentle, feminine apprehensiveness for
others, which is so amiable and so endearing. "I feel quite confident
that in a few days he will recover; but for the present, Marion, you
see everything through a darkened glass. I have no fears whatever,"
added she, in a tone of superior wisdom. "Old people always remind me
of a creaking door, forever complaining, but never any worse! It is
lucky for those who have nerves to endure it all. I have none;
therefore being of no earthly use here, I should be quite in the way.
Indeed, a single week of moping at home, with fright and anxiety, would
lay me up also."
"You are not going, Agnes? Impossible! Listen to me for five minutes."
"I am not equal to the exertion! What can I do? It is out of the
question to break off my engagement now! I am really between the horns
of a dilemma, and must be tossed upon one or other of them. Both Mrs.
O'Donoghoe and Lord Doncaster have set their hearts upon having me;
and, as the schoolboys say in their speeches, 'It must be so! Agnes,
thou reason'st well!'"
"If we are sisters, hear me," replied Marion, in accents of breathless
indignation. "Agnes! you cannot, you must not think of going."
"But, as the lover says in the Critic, 'I can, I must, I will, I ought,
I do!' Marion, you do not know the importance I attach to my excursion,
which will last only a few days. As for this absurd affair of Sir
Arthur's, you think every breeze a hurricane; but it is well over now,
and, since he is ordered quietness, he will miss me the less, or
perhaps not at all, if you never mention my absence. Certainly my forte
is not in a sick-room, and yours is. My chief fault, as an attendant on
sick people, is, that I am good for nothing. As for danger, Marion, I
do not see any."
"Or, rather, you will not see any. Agnes, I would not for ten thousand
worlds leave him now. Our best--almost our only friend, and probably
dying," exclaimed Marion, while hot, scalding tears rushed in torrents
from her eyes. "The question now is not, whether Sir Arthur will be
restored as he was to us? but only, how many days or hours he can be
kept from the grave. Every passing moment is a knell of death to my
heart, when I think how few more we shall see before he is gone
forever. If you consider nothing but mere appearances, Agnes, you ought
to stay."
"As for appearances," replied she, clasping her bracelet, "I am of
opinion with the Abbe Mordaunt on that point, as on most others, that
those who study appearances have seldom any realities to boast of."
"Such sentiments might be expected from such a man, but I should not
certainly have supposed you would act upon them, especially now.
Believe me, Agnes, your own heart will reproach you forever after. The
danger is immediate and very great," said Marion, while her tears fell
drop by drop on the ground. "My uncle is hovering over the very brink
of the grave, therefore, for my sake, and for his sake, do not leave
us."
"But for my own sake I must! You have a teazing, exaggerated way of
stating things; but pray, remember now, Marion, the maxim Madame
D'Ambert taught us at school, '_Pour porter legerement la vie, il faut
glisser sur bien des choses!_' I always prefer hopes to fears, and hate
that desolate, dreary look of yours, this morning. You wish to rule and
direct everybody, but I will not be governed or trampled on," said
Agnes, in an angry imperious tone. "I did not suppose as much could be
said on any subject in the world as you have said upon this. One would
think, from your way of talking, that Sir Arthur was nobody's uncle but
yours; or that I did not know how to act for myself! Well! I hope, for
my own especial happiness, very soon to be independent of those who
never have appreciated me."
"At all events, we have loved you, Agnes."
"Yes! of course. Ah! here is the carriage! Good bye, then! Sir Arthur
will never miss me while you remain; but write often, though where in
the wide world to direct your letters is more than I remember; but,
Marion, we see in the Times newspaper every day, advertisements
entreating persons who have left their homes to return, that all their
wishes may be granted, therefore, when you and Sir Arthur want me back,
pray insert something of that kind. Good bye!"
With heightened color, and eyes fixed on the ground, Marion received
the hand of Agnes, and gave her one parting look of expostulation,
hoping to the last that nature and feeling might yet make themselves
heard; but when Agnes had sprung into Mrs. O'Donoghoe's carriage, and
kissed her hand with a parting smile, every trace of agitation vanished
from the face of Marion, but a band of iron seemed around her head and
her heart, as she slowly turned away, disgusted and astonished at her
sister's heartless levity, and in the privacy of her own room, she sank
upon her knees and offered up solemn, fervent prayers for the many to
whom she was attached, but, above all, for her much-loved uncle.