Oh, lie not down, poor mourner,
On the cold earth in despair;
Why give the grave thy homage?
Does the spirit moulder there?
Cling to the Cross, thou lone one,
For it hath power to save.
If the Christian's hope forsake thee,
There's no hope beyond the grave.
HAYNES BAYLEY.
If it be terrible to look upon the face of the beloved dead in the first
hours of dissolution--
"Before decay's effacing finger
Hath swept the cheek where beauty lingers,"
--what must it be when hour after hour, like the worm in the bud, the
tyrant's power steals on its insiduous way, and we stand and gaze our
last, and see and feel it _must_ be so!
Yet through all this, from which strong man so often shrinks, leaving to
woman's exhaustless fidelity the sacred care and mournful duty to the
departed, did Eustace Trevor--"Love mastering agony"--maintain his
watch, never allowing himself to be persuaded to quit the precincts of
that chamber, till that dreadful moment which was to cover from his eyes
all that in this world was precious to his heart--till a day more
dreadful still should arrive to force it to a close. Night followed day,
and morning chased away the shadows of darkness; but day and night were
both alike to the dimmed eyes--the stunned senses of the mourner. He
never slept, and but sufficient of the food placed for him in the
neighbouring room, as barely might preserve existence, ever passed his
lips. He saw no one, but occasionally his brother, and an inferior
domestic; no other dared approach him. Thus far he had triumphed.
For the rest, stunned and enfeebled, it was to him but as a dark
bewildered dream, wherein he played his part; nor knew whether friend or
foe were standing by his side, if those who loved, or those who hated
him, were mingling in the solemn rite. The darkness of the sepulchre
seemed to have engulphed every sense or feeling of his soul.
He was taken home from the church almost in a state of insensibility,
from which it seems that he awoke only too soon to consciousness and
woe. Late in the evening, at dark, he was heard by some of the awed
domestics seeking the deserted apartment of their mistress, and the
following morning was not to be found within the house.
This was reported, and after some search the miserable young man was
discovered, wet with the dews of heaven, stretched upon the turf which
enclosed the family mausoleum, which had been open to receive the
remains of his mother, and where he had probably lain all night.
He was carried back to his chamber, and placed under medical care, his
brother showing much anxious solicitude on his behalf. The doctor,
however, the common attendant on the family, pronounced his malady to be
merely the effect of long fasting, watching and mental distress, and
which it only required proper measures to allay; whilst for the better
assurance of these measures being carried out, the worthy practitioner
placed his patient under the peculiar care and superintendance of his
great ally, Mrs. Marryott, whose skill and prudence he held in most
subservient and sycophantish esteem. And with most seeming assiduity,
Mrs. Marryott entered upon the duties thus imposed.
If anything were likely to fan into flame the fever, already raging in
the veins of the unhappy Eustace it would be, as is easily to be
supposed, this most repugnant infliction he was powerless to resist. In
vain he protested, as far as his feeble strength would allow him,
against the repugnant imposition of such odious services upon him,
entreating the assistance of his brother in his release, repulsing the
detested woman's attentions, and refusing to touch the food or medicines
offered by her hand.
His brother soothed or reasoned. The doctor told him he must not be
agitated--felt his pulse, shook his head. Still that Marryott's hateful
face, with its serpent smile, hung over him, uttering smooth words in
oily accents in his shrinking ear, or creeping noiselessly about the
room, whilst his fascinated eye fain would follow loathingly. No wonder,
then, maddened and excited, that the fever raged more intensely, till,
mounting higher and higher, his very brain seemed on fire; every image,
loved or hated, became distorted and indistinct to his mind; till,
finally, he lay prostrate, raving, struggling, delirious, beneath the
power of that fearful malady, which had attacked him once before--a
brain fever!
* * * * *
It was a cold, stormy November night. The father and son sat together
close beside the library fire, after dinner; the latter musing absently
over a newspaper he held before him, the former deep in the examination
of an old leather pocket-book, where accounts and memorandums concerning
money matters were noted down.
The door opened; both looked sharply round: it was Marryott. She put her
head in at the door, and begged Mr. Eugene to come and speak to her.
Eugene turned pale, started up, and hastened to obey the summons. Mr.
Trevor looked after him, put his note-book carefully into his pocket,
picked up, and appeared to peruse the newspaper his son had thrown down;
but ever and anon, at every sound that met his ear, his small dark eye
might be seen peering eagerly towards the door.
"Well, well," turning eagerly towards Eugene, as he entered, looking
still paler than when he left the room, but taking his seat as before,
without speaking a word; "well, well, what's the matter? Where have you
been?"
"With Marryott, talking to her. Panton has just come."
"Well, well--how is he?--worse?"
"Why, yes--I cannot say there is much improvement; but here's Marryott,"
as the door again opened; "she can tell you more about him and Panton's
opinion."
Marryott entered, and stationed herself beside Mr. Trevor's chair,
keeping her eyes fixed upon Eugene, as he sat leaning his elbows on his
knees, and looking nervously down upon the ground.
"Well, well, Marryott, is he very bad? What does Panton think of him
now?"
"He thinks very badly of him, indeed, Mr. Trevor," was her answer, in a
solemn, mysterious voice.
"Really, really; Does he think that he will die?"
The woman cleared her throat.
"No, not quite that, though some might think it even worse."
She paused, and tried to catch Eugene's pertinaciously averted eye.
"Go on, go on. What, in the name of Heaven, is it then? Is he mad?"
"It is shocking to see him, Sir," Marryott hastened to rejoin, as if not
sorry to have been spared the direct utterance of this communication;
"and Mr. Panton has great fears whether his reason is not to an alarming
degree affected. He cannot leave him; his violence becomes frightfully
increased. Mr. Eugene saw how he was just now. If this continues, some
measures must be taken. It is very dangerous to those about him."
She paused.
"Eh! Eugene, Eugene! This won't do, Eugene! What is to be done?"
exclaimed the old man, in sudden panic, as he looked up. "He can't come
here--can he? Dangerous! Why, he must not stay here then. I can't keep a
madman in the house. Put him on a straight-waistcoat, and take him to
the asylum till he is better. I won't have him here, I tell you," cried
the tender father.
"Hush, Sir, pray!--this is going too far," said Eugene, rising, and
looking very grave and shocked. "I hope nothing so very extreme as this
will be necessary, though indeed at present my brother is in a very
fearful state. Panton has just sent for his assistant, as I should wish
to keep the servants out of the way as much as possible; it would be
making the dreadful affair too public."
"Well, well, what does that matter? It must come out some time or
another. Did I not always say he was mad?" and a horrid gleam of
something like exultation passed over the old man's countenance; "did he
not always from a boy play the madman?"
Eugene listened with attentive consideration to his father's words, then
looking up, met the significant glance of Marryott fixed upon him.
He turned away, and stood thoughtfully gazing into the fire. A pause of
some length succeeded. Mr. Trevor had sat for some time musing, or
rather calculating also, whilst Marryott stood watching with cold
interest and curiosity, the progress of a train of thought, of which
her insinuations had kindled the first spark.
At length Eugene felt his arm touched. His father had made his way close
up to his side.
"I say Eugene," and he whispered--but not so low that the third person
should not overhear--some words in his ear.
His unhappy listener shrank as if the serpent's breath had in reality
fanned his cheek. But he only shrank--he did not flee; and those "evil
thoughts" from whence stand ready to pour forth like a flood, that
fearful category of crime the gospel enumerates--were working within his
breast, waiting but that same breath to breathe them forth into life and
action.