With all the acute susceptibilities of youth, Marion now experienced,
for the first time, what it was to watch over an almost hopeless
illness, and, with a shuddering sensation of unutterable woe, she tried
to obtain that comfort from above, which nothing on earth could supply.
Days passed slowly on, the longest and most melancholy she had ever
known, while most of her hours were spent in prayer, but all around was
gloom. Nothing could be more oppressive to her than the subdued whisper
and stealthy step of Sir Arthur's attendants, his vacant seat, his
darkened room, the mute and solemn looks of his physician, and, above
all, the inward anguish with which, hour after hour, she sat with his
hand in hers, watching the fluctuations of his feeble pulse, observing
with awe and grief the pale ensigns of death gathering over his
features, and feeling as if every labored breath he drew gave him but a
momentary reprieve from the grave, while she could not bear to
contemplate the probability of burying with her beloved uncle, all the
dear and tender ties that bound them to each other.
With no one to console her, and nothing on earth to screen her from the
desolating blast of grief, the whole fabric of her worldly happiness
seemed crumbling to dust. Her heart was like an exhausted receiver, and
her spirit sank, yet no inducement could have withdrawn her for an hour
from that scene of solemn, deep, and awful melancholy. Throughout the
long, dreary hours of night, each of which seemed an eternity of
anxious care, Marion felt too deeply impressed with the solemnity
around for the indulgence of any violent emotion. Nothing is so silent
as intense feeling! Stunned and stupified by the sudden affliction, a
wild chaos of sorrow, fear, and amazement rushed through her young
mind, filling her with agony, which tears could not relieve; but now
was the time for that supernatural aid given by Divine grace to the
humble, believing Christian. In silent, speechless prayer, Marion found
her first and only relief; then she felt that her heart was read, and
her sorrows pitied, by One who has shared every human grief, carried
every human sorrow, and to whom the suffering sinner never applies in
vain.
One morning, the grey light of dawn stole through a crevice of the
shutters, while, in her lonely silence, Marion felt as if the whole
world were in a trance, and not a sound was heard, but the slow ticking
of the clock, reminding her that time and death are forever advancing.
She sat watching every minute change of that beloved countenance
shattered by sickness, and evidently sinking in decay, when Sir Arthur
unexpectedly opened his eyes, which once more beamed with intelligence,
as he fixed them with a look of touching mournfulness on Marion, and
called her by name. That voice, which had so long been dear to her, now
sounded strange and unnatural, being palsied by weakness, while the
glassiness of the grave was in his eye; but Marion, forcibly subduing
all appearance of emotion, stooped down, and, with a momentary gleam of
hope, kissed his pale forehead.
"Marion! we have loved each other well," said he feebly, extending his
hand to her. "For your sake I would stay, old and weary as I am, but
the far better will of God is otherwise. Before that clock strikes
again, I shall be in a better world."
Marion covered her face with her hands and attempted not to speak, for
she saw that the sure hand of time, and the heavier hand of sorrow, had
indeed done their work. It was but too evident that Sir Arthur would
never see another night, for he was about to awaken in the mighty dawn
of eternity, where no darkness ever would follow. The frail, old,
worn-out tenement of his body, so full of infirmities, was now to enter
its rest; his head, whitened with age and suffering, had been anointed
with peace, and, having partaken with cheerful thankfulness of the
banquet of life, he was evidently willing to make way, that others
might fill his place; not disgusted or dissatisfied with existence, but
thankful that he had tasted better joys than those of earth, and
desiring to enjoy them at last in never-ending perfection. A mysterious
conviction is generally given to the dying, when their disease becomes
mortal, but though nature shrank at first from the solemn change,
religion supported the powerful mind of Sir Arthur, who added, in a
tone of commanding calmness, while a beam of ineffable peace overspread
his countenance,
"You are now my sole earthly care--as you are my only earthly comfort.
It breaks my heart to leave my Marion worse than alone, while Patrick
and Agnes remorsely pursue their own pleasure, careless how you are
trampled down in their wild career."
"Dear uncle!" whispered Marion, wishing to soothe him, "you consigned
me to the care of Richard Granville, and year after year, while we
live, you shall be remembered by us both with the affection and
gratitude of children to a parent."
"I did hope, my dear girl, that I should have lived to understand his
conduct, and even now, while standing in the gloomy porch of death, it
would cheer me to see him and dear Henry again. If Granville be the man
I believe him, he will come immediately to see you now, and all will be
satisfactorily explained--if not, the world is worse than I thought."
"If Richard is alive, he will come, dear uncle--but oh! what a meeting
it would be, without you!"
"Take comfort, dear Marion. Think of me often, but let it be with
consolation. My long life seems but a span! May yours be blessed with
every affection of this world--with every hope for eternity--and may
your death-bed be attended by one as dear and affectionate as mine is.
May your eyes be closed in the same undoubting faith, and may I be
permitted to meet you on the very threshold of heaven, and in the
august presence of Him, whom 'not having seen, we love, and in whom
believing, we rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory.'"
With a face livid as death, Marion choked back her sobs and restrained
her tears, while she listened to every faltering word Sir Arthur said,
as if her life depended on hearing him. When he became silent from
exhaustion, she attempted to whisper a few broken expressions of grief
and affection in his ear. Unable, however, to think or speak under the
weight of her sorrow, she might have been mistaken for a corpse, but
for the look of living agony in her eye, while struggling with a sorrow
which tears or lamentations could not have expressed, and could not
have relieved.
At length Sir Arthur's breathing became uncertain--his majestic chest
heaved convulsively--a damp, cold dew broke out on his forehead--the
heart which had beat with every kind and noble emotion, could beat no
more--and, giving a last glance of fond affection at Marion, a grey,
ashy hue stole over his features, and his countenance assumed that
strange, peculiar aspect which is seen in death, and in death only.
Marion saw it, and long afterwards that look was forever before her
sight. Nothing in all the earth is so unutterly sublime as death.
Strange and solemn was the mysterious horror, the inexplicable wonder,
with which Marion, for the first time, witnessed the soul forsaking its
earthly tabernacle. Day after day, when she returned to watch beside
all that now remained of her earliest and kindest friend, while her
heart seemed scorched and seared with grief, she gazed on the mortal
form in ruins before her--its light extinguished--its tenant
departed--its whole nature in a moment transformed--and, forgetting
sometimes for a moment her own grief, her loneliness, her deep and
fearful bereavements, she thought but of that purified spirit now
emancipated into the regions of eternal glory, and almost longed for
the period when she also might become as indifferent to things of time
as the inanimate corpse beside her. Often, however, she tried, with an
eye of faith, to look beyond the portals of the tomb, remembering that
death is to a Christian, like the setting of the sun, for while lost to
human sight, he still exists and shines with unfading glory and
everlasting brightness.
When Sir Arthur's remains were placed in the coffin, Marion felt as if
the last link were severed between them. His better part had, indeed,
already departed, but the cold image before her was still associated
with all she had ever known of happiness or affection, yet, in the
strong agony of her grief, when all seemed a gloomy chaos of solitary
desolation, she felt consoled by reflecting that her own devoted care
had assisted in smoothing his passage to the grave; and she could not
but think how great must be the joys of another world, when such
affliction as her's was not worthy to be compared with them. A wide
horizon of sorrow seemed before her, long days of loneliness and longer
nights of grief; while, though young in years, she already felt old in
affliction, for a blight and a mildew were upon her spirit. Marion's
sanguine mind and ardent feelings had nothing near her on which to
rest, the whole energy of her being, for the time, seemed crushed and
withered; the future appeared to stretch before her mind in a long
vista of moving shadows, and the memory of past happiness, like gold in
the hand of a drowning man, sank her only the deeper in grief. Her
beloved uncle seemed still to be everywhere--yet she saw him not. In
all the earth there was not a thought which did not pierce her, or a
worldly hope which did not now bring an icy chilliness to her
heart--for a dark cloud had fallen between her and all those whose
affection once adorned her existence.
It was now that Marion, like a tempest-tossed vessel, surrounded by
darkness and fear, turned for direction and help to that steady and
benignant light burning at a distance, which alone could direct her
into a haven of rest. Her sorrow became gradually illuminated by hope
and peace. She clung to every shattered wreck of happiness which
remained, and sinking on her knees, she felt that no one could ever be
completely alone, or completely miserable, who rightly used the
privilege of speaking her wishes in prayer to that great and holy
Being, who is the father and the friend of all his earth-born children.
Marion had long believed that the happiest life is that most conformed
to the will of God--that grief arises from not believing whatever is
appointed to be really best; and now she found in the Bible that
comfort which is nowhere else to be gained. The deepest emotions of
this world remain unseen and unknown to all around; for the strength of
character which gives power to feel, gives power also to hide, and
there is a modesty in real sensibility, which admits not of display;
but Marion, cut off now from all the tenderest sympathies of life,
became the more zealous and diligent in preparing for that hour when
"mourned and mourner lie together in repose."
Oh! if belov'd ones from their hallow'd sphere,
May witness warm affection's faithful tear,
At this deep hour, they hear the mourner's sigh,
And waft a blessing from their homes on high.