THE MYSTERIOUS INSTRUCTIONS.
At the expiration of ten days from the mysterious accouchement of Ellen
Monroe, Richard Markham returned home.
It was late at night when he alighted at his dwelling; but, as he had
written two days previously to say when his arrival might be expected,
Mr. Monroe and Whittingham were sitting up to receive him.
Richard's countenance was mournful; and he wore a black crape round his
hat.
"You have lost a kind friend, Richard," said Mr. Monroe. "Your hasty
letter acquainted us with the fact of Mr. Armstrong's death; but you
gave us no details connected with that event."
"I will now tell you all that has occurred," said Richard. "You need not
leave the room, Whittingham: you knew Mr. Armstrong, and will be, no
doubt, interested in the particulars of his last moments."
"I knowed him for a staunched and consisting man in his demmycratical
opinions," answered Whittingham; "and what's more comportant, he thought
well of you, Master Richard."
"He was an excellent man!" observed Markham, wiping away a tear.
"Worth a thousand Ilchesters, and ten thousand wulgarians which calls
butlers _tulips_," added Whittingham, dogmatically.
"I will tell you the particulars of his death," continued Richard, after
a pause. "You remember that I received a letter from Mr. Armstrong,
written in a hurried manner, and desiring me to repair to him in
Boulogne, where he was detained by an accident which, he feared, might
proved fatal. I posted to Dover, which town I reached at about five in
the evening; and I found that no packet would leave for France until the
following morning. The condition of my friend, as I judged of it by his
note, seemed too serious to allow me to delay: I accordingly hired a
vessel, and proceeded without loss of time to Boulogne, where I arrived
at eleven that same night, after a tolerably rough passage. I hurried to
the hotel at which my friend was staying, and the card of which he had
enclosed in his letter. I found him in bed, suffering from a fearful
accident caused by the overturning of the chaise in which he had arrived
at Boulogne from Paris, on his way to England. No limbs were broken: but
he had sustained internal injuries of a most serious nature. A nurse was
seated at his bed-side; and his medical attendant visited him every two
or three hours. He was delighted to see me--wept--and said frequently,
even up to the moment of his decease, 'Richard, this is very--very kind
of you.' I sate up with him all that night, in spite of his entreaties
that I would retire to rest; and from the first moment that I set my
eyes upon him in that room, I felt convinced he would never leave it
alive. I need not tell you that I did all I could to solace and render
comfortable the man who had selected me, of all his acquaintances, to
receive his last breath. I considered myself honoured by that mark of
friendship; and I moreover remembered that he had believed in my
innocence when I first told him my sad tale within the walls of Newgate.
I never left him, save for one hour, from the instant I arrived in
Boulogne until that of his death."
"Poor Master Richard," said Whittingham, surveying the young man with
affectionate admiration.
"I said that I left him for one hour," continued Markham: "that was the
evening before his death. Five days after my arrival, he called me to
his bed-side, and said, 'Richard, I feel that my hours are numbered. You
heard what my physician observed ere now; and I am not the man to delude
myself with vain and futile hope. I repeat--my moments are now numbered.
Leave me alone, Richard, for one hour; that I may commune with myself.'
This desire was sacred; and I immediately obeyed it. But I remained away
only just one hour, and then hastened back to him. He was very faint and
languid; and I saw, with much surprise, that he had been writing. I sate
down by his bed-side, and took his emaciated hand. He pressed mine, and
said in a slow and calm tone,--'Richard, I need not recall to your mind
under what circumstances we first met. I heard your tale; I knew that
you were innocent. I could read your heart. In an hour I understood all
your good qualities. I formed a friendship for you; and in the name of
that friendship, listen to the last words of a dying man.' He paused for
a few moments, and then continued thus:--'When I am no more, you will
take possession of the few effects that I have with me here. In my desk
you will find a sum sufficient to pay all the expenses incurred by my
illness and to meet the cost of my interment. I desire to be buried in
the Protestant cemetery in the neighbourhood of Boulogne: you and the
physician will attend me to my grave. The funeral must be of the most
humble description. Do not neglect this desire on my part. I have been
all my life opposed to pomp and ostentation, and shall scarcely wish any
display to mark my death.' He paused again; and I gave him some
refreshing beverage. He then proceeded:--'Beneath my pillow, Richard,
there is a paper in a sealed envelope. After my death you will open that
envelope and read what is written within it. And now I must exact from
you a solemn promise--a promise made to a dying man--a promise which I
am not ashamed to ask, and which you need not fear to give, especially
as it relates eventually to yourself. I require you to pledge yourself
most sacredly that you will obey to the very letter the directions which
are written within that envelope, and which relate to the papers that
the envelope contains.' I readily gave the promise required. He then
directed me to take the sealed packet from beneath his pillow, and
retain it safely about my person. He shortly after sank into a deep
slumber--from which he never awoke. His spirit glided imperceptibly
away!"
"Good old man!" exclaimed Whittingham, applying his snow-white
handkerchief to his eyes.
"According to the French laws," continued Richard, "interments must take
place within forty-eight hours after death. The funeral of Thomas
Armstrong was humble and unostentatious as he desired. The physician and
myself alone followed him to the tomb. I then inspected his papers; but
found no will--no instructions how his property was to be disposed of;
and yet I knew that he was possessed of ample means. Having liquidated
his debts with a portion of the money I found in his desk, and which
amounted to about a hundred pounds, I gave the remainder to an English
charity at Boulogne. And now you are no doubt anxious to know the
contents of that packet so mysteriously delivered to me. When I broke
the seal of the envelope, I found a letter addressed thus:--'_To my dear
friend Richard Markham_.' This letter was sealed. I then examined the
envelope. You shall yourselves see what was written within it."
Markham took a paper from his pocket, and handed it to Monroe, who read
its contents aloud as follows:--
_"Richard, remember your solemn promise to a dying man; for when I
write this, I know you will not refuse to give me that sacred
pledge which I shall ask of you._
_"When you are destitute of all resources--when adversity or a too
generous heart shall have deprived you of all means of
subsistence--and when your own exertions fail to supply your wants,
open the enclosed letter._
_"But should no circumstances of any kind deprive you of the little
property which you now possess,--and should you not be plunged into
a state of need from which your own talents or exertions cannot
relieve you,--then shall you open this letter upon the morning of
the 10th, of July, 1843, on which day you have told me that you are
to meet your brother._
_"These directions I charge you to observe faithfully and
solemnly._
"_THOMAS ARMSTRONG._"
"How very extraordinary!" ejaculated Monroe. "Nevertheless, I have a
presentiment that these mysterious instructions intend some eventual
good to you, Richard."
"It's a fortin! a fortin! depend upon it," said the old butler.
"Upon that head it is useless to speculate," observed Richard. "I shall
obey to the very letter the directions of my late friend, be their
tendency what it may. And now that I have told you all that concerns
myself, allow me to ask how fares it with you here. Does Ellen's health
improve?"
"For the last ten days she has been confined to her bed," answered
Monroe, tears starting to his eyes.
"Confined to her bed!" cried Markham. "I hope you have had proper
medical advice?"
"I wished to call in the aid of a physician," said Monroe, "but Ellen
would not permit me. She declared that she should soon be better; she
assured me that her illness was produced only by the privations and
mental tortures which she had undergone, poor creature! previous to our
taking up our abode in your hospitable dwelling; and then Marian was so
kind and attentive, and echoed every thing which Ellen advanced, so
readily, that I suffered myself to be over-persuaded."
"You did wrong--you did wrong, Mr. Monroe," exclaimed Markham. "Your
daughter should have had medical advice; and she shall have it
to-morrow."
"She appears to be mending in health, though not in spirits," observed
Monroe. "But my dear young friend, you shall have your own way; and I
thank you sincerely for the interest you show in behalf of one who is
dear--very dear to me."
Richard pressed the hand of the old man, and retired to his chamber, to
seek that repose of which he stood so much in need after his journey.
But ere he sought his couch, he sate down and wrote the following note
to Count Alteroni, that it might be despatched to Richmond without delay
in the morning:--
"Mr. Markham regrets to be the means of communicating news of an
afflicting nature to Count Alteroni; nor should he intrude himself
again upon Count Alteroni's notice, did he not feel himself urged
by a solemn duty to do so in the present instance. Count Alteroni's
old and esteemed friend, Thomas Armstrong, is no more. He departed
this life four days ago, at Boulogne-sur-Mer. Mr. Markham had the
melancholy honour of closing the eyes of a good man and true
patriot, and of following his remains to the tomb."