EUTHANASY.
“Methinks it were no pain to die
On such an eve, when such a sky
O’er-canopies the west.
To gaze my fill on yon calm deep,
Then like an infant sink to sleep
On earth my mother’s breath.”—_Old Poem._
The circumstance alluded to at the close of the last chapter, was the
death of Monsieur Henri De L’Ile.
It was early in the autumn of the fifth year of Julius Luxmore’s
residence on the Island, that the old man departed to the better land.
His decease, as is frequently the case with the extremely aged, was
sudden and painless. His death was as beautiful as his life had been
beneficent. And this was the manner of his falling asleep. Upon the
afternoon of the first of October, he had, in company with his niece and
his friend, partaken of a slight supper of coffee, cakes, and fruit. He
lingered awhile in the piazza, listening to Etoile’s guitar. At the
close of her song, he smiled, laid his hand upon her bright curls,
prayed God bless her, and then calling his pet spaniel, he walked out to
his favorite arbor seat of late Bourbon roses, to sit and watch the
golden autumnal sun go down behind the distant shore of Northumberland.
He remained out so much longer than usual, that Madeleine went forth to
seek him.
She found the old man sitting on the bench; leaning back against the
frame of the rose-wreathed arbor, seemingly sleeping a sweet sleep. Not
a feature of his fine old face was disturbed, not a tress of his silvery
hair disheveled. His hands rested together on his lap; a blooming rose
remained in his relaxed fingers. His favorite spaniel lay at his feet,
quietly looking up into his calm face. His two white pigeons were
near—the one perched upon his shoulder, cooing and pecking fondly at his
cheek, the other flying in playful circles around his head. Madeleine
spoke to him once—twice—thrice—and receiving no answer, took his hand.
The lingering rose fell to his feet; the hand, the form, was icy cold.
The loving spirit that had warmed it for more than ninety years, had
left it for a higher sphere. Such had been his Euthanasy.
Etoile wept vehemently over his death; but the tears of youth are like
morning dew or April showers—quickly dried.
He was buried quietly beneath a great old elm-tree near the shore. By
his own long previously expressed wish, no marble tomb oppressed his
body’s last sleeping-place. Etoile would remember his grave, and the
angel of the resurrection would know where to find him; that was enough,
he had said.
By his will, which he had executed during a lucid interval at
Heathville, where his monomania was unsuspected, and which was duly
opened the day after the funeral, it was found that he had left the
whole of his vast property to his grand-niece, Etoile L’Orient, and
appointed his good friend, Mr. Julius Luxmore, the guardian of his
heiress. Not a single allusion to king, kingdom, or princess, betrayed
his partial insanity. A codicil to the same instrument emancipated his
faithful servant Madeleine, and her son Frivole.
This codicil, strange as the circumstance may at first sight seem
_pleased_ Mr. Luxmore. He had always dreaded the secret influence of
Madeleine over her nursling, without well knowing how to obviate it.
Now, however, the way was clear.
And he informed the quadroon that herself and her son being manumitted
by their late master’s will, must forthwith quit the Island.
At first, poor Madeleine was dismayed. The mild service of her master
had been to her, protection, safety and support. The shores of the
Island had bounded her world. She knew no other. To leave the Isle, to
abandon her young nursling!—freedom under such conditions struck her as
an overwhelming misfortune. She actually reversed Catiline’s immortal
speech, and exclaimed—“What’s set free, but banished?” She tearfully
represented to Mr. Luxmore, her strong attachment to her home, and to
her young charge on the one hand, and on the other, her own
inexperience, her helplessness, and her dread of the world of strangers.
But Julius on his side described in glowing colors, the “world beyond,”
dwelling with enthusiasm upon the great advantages it possessed for her
own advancement, and above all, for that of her beloved son Frivole. He
also fired the mind of the boy with a vehement desire to tread those
unknown shores. And between the eloquence of her patron, and the
importunity of her son, poor Madeleine became resigned, if not
reconciled to depart.
Mr. Luxmore also voluntarily promised to take the mother and son to New
York, and to procure for them suitable employment.
And Julius kept his word—being quite willing to put himself to thus much
inconvenience, for the sake of separating the nurse from her charge, and
ingratiating himself with Etoile.
For, though the young creature sadly lamented the loss of her “Maman,”
yet having been persuaded by Mr. Luxmore, that it was all for
Madeleine’s good, she was not only reconciled to her departure, but even
grateful to him for taking her away.
“You are going to the beautiful world beyond, Maman,” she said, “and
some day I, too, shall follow you.” And unwilling to cloud the departure
of her nurse with a single complaint, the girl had heroically abstained
from expressing the keen regret she felt at losing her. When the sail
that wafted Madeleine and her son away, was lost to view, Etoile
abandoned herself to weeping for a while, but on recovering she took
herself to task, saying—
“How selfish I am to weep, because Maman has gone to the beautiful world
beyond! I ought to be glad, because I myself wanted to go there so
much.” And she repelled grief as a sin of selfishness, and went and got
her drawing materials, and occupied herself with painting from memory a
portrait of “Maman.”
Mr. Luxmore performed his promise, that is to say, he conveyed the
mother and son to New York, procured for Madeleine the place of
chambermaid, and for Frivole that of waiter, in a third-class hotel, and
abandoned them to their fate. Now, whether this change of fortune was
considered “favorable” by the servants of the late Monsieur Henri De
L’Ile, remains an open question.