Oh wretch! without a tear, without a thought,
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought.
* * * * *
Look on thy earthly victims and despair.
BYRON.
When the morning arrived, some one came knocking for admittance at the
door of the chamber of death. The knock was several times repeated
before it gained any answer or attention; but finally a slow and heavy
tread was heard traversing the apartment; the bolt was feebly drawn, the
door opened, and Eustace Trevor stood face to face with Mabel Marryott.
Prepared as she was for this meeting, and in some degree for its being
one of no pleasing nature, the woman could not but recoil before the wan
and haggard countenance which presented itself to her view.
Her stony eye shrunk--her bloodless heart quailed at first sight of
those signs of mighty grief which one night's agony had imprinted there.
But perhaps it was not so much his appearance as the glance, Eustace,
still holding the door in his hand, fixed upon her, which thus affected
her; and he, favoured by this movement on her part, was about, without
the utterance of a word, again to close the door in her face, when
quickly recovering from her momentary weakness she prevented the action,
by stepping quickly forward, and attempted to pass him by. But no;
firmly he remained within the doorway, effectually frustrating any such
endeavour. Mabel Marryott looked at him with an air of affected
surprise, her cool, unabashed demeanour perfectly restored.
"Mr. Eustace," she said, and there was an insolent tinge of patronising
pity in her tone; "will you allow me, Sir?"
"No; I will not," was the reply which burst forth in accents, which, if
there were aught of human in her mould, must have shook her very soul to
its centre; "you are not wanted here; you have done enough--you have
helped to kill her; what can you desire more? Begone!--tempt me not to
call down the curse of Heaven upon ..."
"Eustace--Eustace--this is folly; this is madness!" said a voice behind
him; and the fearful words were stayed on Eustace's lips, when he looked
up, and beheld his brother. Eugene Trevor, looking very pale and ill
himself, came forward, and with a glance at Marryott took his brother's
arm, and led him back through the chamber of death into the boudoir
beyond, closing the door behind them.
"Good heavens! Eustace, how ill you look! You must not give way in that
manner--it is weak, it is unmanly. This has been a blow to us all; but
you know it was not altogether unexpected. Her health has long been
failing."
But his brother did not heed him. He had lain his head down upon a table
near the seat on which he sunk. Those cold, inadequate words did not
touch his deep fathomless grief. But still, the sight and presence of
one whom, she at least had loved, seemed to have some effect in soothing
the passionate excitement of misery into which the sight of her she had
every reason to abhor, had worked him. He forgot even at the time to
think how ill that love had been requited, and scalding tears,
"The very weakness of the brain,
Which still confessed without relieving pain,"
were trickling from his burning eye-balls, when again he raised his
face, and turned it towards his brother.
"Eugene, who was with her?" he asked, while at the same time he
murmured: "Not that woman?"
"No--I think not; it was so sudden at the last, that I believe, not even
her maid knew of it till she came into her room in the morning. The
doctor says it was paralysis of the heart."
"Yes--yes, I see; deserted, neglected, even in the hour of death!"
"I saw her the night before, before going to bed," rejoined the other,
without noticing this interruption. "She seemed pretty well then, but
did not notice me much--she only asked for you;" and there was something
of sullen bitterness in the tone of voice in which these words were
uttered.
His listener groaned.
"And why was I not sent for--_why_?" he repeated with agonized emphasis.
"Oh, need I ask that question?"
"I told you, that to the last she was not considered in danger,"
continued the other with some impatience; "of course, there could have
been no motive."
"No motive; no not more than there ever has been, for all that has been
done to wither her heart and shorten her days--not more than there has
ever been for the course of cruel, wanton persecution, which would fain,
I believe, have crushed the very life blood out of my heart also. But
that--that is nothing now; it is the thought of her alone which tortures
my soul to madness. To think of all she was made to endure, for my sake
and her own--that placid martyred saint; and then no effort made to
bring me to her side, to soothe her dying pangs, as I alone could do;
her last glance seeking for her son in vain; her eyes closed perhaps by
her murderess.... Eugene, has _he_ dared to look upon her?"
"Who! my father?"
"Yes; _your_ father."
"I really do not know whether he has been here, or not, since...."
"He could not--he dare not; only a wretch like her could venture to
enter there--to look upon that angel face, and not see utter despair and
condemnation breathed forth from each cold feature upon her destroyer."
"Eustace this is strong language; grief has weakened and excited your
brain; you want rest and refreshment."
"Rest and refreshment? All the rest I can take is watching by her side,
guarding her from any desecrating approach; all refreshment, that which
her cold, calm presence can afford. Strong language did you call it,
Eugene? Can your mother's son think any language too strong to express
his hatred--abhorrence--against her mighty wrongs? You cannot be in
league with those who have destroyed her?"
"I never interfered in those matters," Eugene murmured coldly, but with
downcast looks. "It does no good, and is no business of ours, and if you
had taken my advice, Eustace, you would have done the same. It would
have been the better for you. It is this sort of thing which
exasperates my father against you."
Oh the look of mingled scorn, surprise, and sorrowful reproach, which
Eugene Trevor, on lifting up his eyes, saw turned upon him. They shrunk
again abashed before its power, and ere he dared again to lift them, he
heard the slow heavy footsteps of his brother returning to the chamber
of death.
Eugene did not follow there, but rising, went down stairs the other way
straight to his father's library. Marryott was there, having doubtless
been reporting to her master the unfavourable reception she had received
from his eldest son.
Mr. Trevor sat in his dressing-gown cowering over the embers of a scanty
fire. He looked feeble and haggard, and altogether might have been taken
for many years beyond his real age. It could not be, we know, that grief
had thus affected him; but certainly from this period the old
enchanter's wand seemed more and more to have been wrested from his
hold, some blight to have fallen upon that cruel and covetous man;
something which bowed his spirit into the impotence, almost dotage of
premature old age; converting the tyrant into the slave--the man of
strong passions into the tool of the passions of others--in all
respects, indeed, save that which touched in any degree upon the
mainspring of his being--the darling lust--which coiled like a serpent
round his heart-strings; nothing but the hand of death could tear away
his covetousness. How was this? Could it be that the words spoken in the
bitterness of his son's agonized spirit, had thus been brought to bear
upon him, that he _had_ dared to look upon his dead wife's angel's face,
and that the sight had cursed him.
"Lo! the spell now works around thee,
And the clankless chain has bound thee,
O'er thy heart and brain together
Hath the word been passed, now wither."
He turned round on his son's entrance with a look of nervous dread.
"Oh, it is you, Eugene! Marryott has been telling me what is going on up
stairs."
"Pshaw!" the young man exclaimed, as he threw himself down on a chair,
"one must not mind him just now, poor fellow, he is quite distracted."
"I should say so, indeed," sneered the woman significantly.
"But he will not come here, I hope," continued Mr. Trevor, anxiously. "I
desire that he is not allowed to come near me. I cannot, I will not see
him!"
"No fear of that, Sir," answered the son coldly; "he is not very likely
to trouble _you_ with his presence."
"Well, well, that's all right; let him rave as much as he likes out of
my sight. And now give me a drop of brandy, Marryott, and stir up the
fire gently, only just gently. It's very cold."
And the victim of conscience cowered and shivered over the scanty flame
thus excited.
"Eugene, stay!" he continued, "don't you go; I don't like to be left,
and there's so much business to be talked over, such trouble and
expense." And the miser set about to calculate grudgingly the cost of
his wife's funeral.