+DEATH+
WE had calculated to a nicety the possible time in which we could
receive a letter from Reginald Melville, taking into consideration the
accidents of wind and water at sea, and the delays and uncertainties on
land; but, at length, the time had arrived when each day was a continued
torture. Ah! which of us do not remember, at some time of our lives, the
dreadful alternations of sickly hope and bitter disappointment we have
experienced in waiting for _that letter_ so long delayed? Each morning,
as we arose, we have said to ourselves—“To-day it will surely come.” How
we watch the clock! We are quite relieved to hear it is ten minutes too
fast: the ten minutes pass—another five also, and we send down to know
if the postman is late to-day. We are somewhat consoled to hear that he
is occasionally even later. How our heart beats as we see him turn the
corner: how dreadfully slow he walks. He stops to speak to some one. Oh!
will he _never_ cease talking? We feel tempted to fly down and relieve
our insupportable anxiety; but a horrible fear we will not confess to
ourselves freezes us into stone. No, better wait—it can be but a few
moments. The postman goes to the house near by. Happy inmates! One,
two—yes, three letters for them. At length he approaches—will he pass
by? No, he stops. Two letters. We feel that we shall faint, if they are
not brought up at once; yet we dare not go to meet them. Five minutes,
which seem an eternity, and the servant enters with the letters. How
sick we turn—it is not there! And this torment we must undergo daily,
till a kind Providence guides that long-desired letter to our hands—too
often, when it comes, the bearer of ill-tidings, of change, of sickness,
of death. Poor mortals! Cruel, indeed, were our destiny, did not the
glimpse of a happier morrow brighten for us the deep shadows which
envelope the tomb!
Ella, though a mere child in years, shared the anxiety of her mother
with almost womanly tenderness. My little god-daughter was a most
interesting girl. She was now about eleven years of age, and bore the
promise of remarkable loveliness. Like her mother in regularity of
feature, she was still of quite a different style of beauty. Her
complexion was of that transparent fairness which an artist in order to
copy would tinge with a blue shade. Her hair, of the color called in
France _blond cendré_, fell in rich wavy masses to her waist. To a
casual observer Ella might appear calm—almost cold; but _we_ knew her to
possess intense feeling beyond her years.
The child had been suffering from slight fever, and was but just
convalescent. We had removed to Naples, to procure better medical
advice. It was now the month of November; yet the air was balmy as in
the first days of Spring. Ella reclined on a couch near the window; her
mother, seated near, passed her hand fondly over the splendid hair which
quite inundated the pillow and swept the ground. In a few moments the
young girl was in a deep sleep. Evelyn still continued to caress her.
Turning to me, after a pause, she said: “If I could only know whether
Reginald is alive or dead, I think I should be less wretched.”
As her mother spoke, I beheld Ella raise herself to a sitting posture.
Her eyes were dilated, as if she saw something in the distance. Evelyn,
alarmed, would have awaked her; but I motioned her to silence.
The child slowly raised her arm, and pointed with her delicate finger to
something she appeared to see; then, in a clear, ringing voice, like and
yet unlike her own: “I see a large army move across a plain, like an
ocean of verdure. Oh! it is so wide—so wide—the groves of trees are like
islands, here and there; and oh, mama, how beautiful! See the palaces,
the domes—all gold and azure. See the white columns and terraces. What a
lovely place!” She paused a moment; and then, suddenly, almost screamed,
catching her mother’s arm: “Oh! look—look at that brave officer, on a
grey horse—see his white plumes dance. He draws his sword; he fears
nothing. Oh! it is—it is Reginald. Reginald, do not go there—there is
blood—blood! Mama, take me away! They fight—they are wicked. I will not
see this horrible blood!”
Ella covered her eyes, and fell back on the sofa. Her limbs were
convulsed, her chest heaved for a few moments, and then happily she sank
into a deep and peaceful sleep, in which she remained for some hours.
When she awoke, she appeared more cheerful than usual, and seemed to
have utterly forgotten her dream—if dream it could be called.
The occurrence was so remarkable, that I wrote it down in my journal,
with the date; and later, when I had become familiar with the phenomena
of clairvoyance, and the mesmeric trance, I considered this as one of
the most remarkable instances of the kind on record.
Another month, and we had almost ceased to hope for the letter. When it
came, it was thus:
Before Lucknow, November —, ’57.
Your letter, my beloved Evelyn, I have only just received:
through some mistake, it has been lying at my agent’s, in
Calcutta; and I have only now been able to press it to my heart
and lips. Thanks, a thousand thanks, for the sweet hope that
letter contains. If God spare this poor life, it shall be
devoted to render my Evelyn forever happy. Do not speak of
forgiveness; it is I that ought to ask pardon, for having
mistrusted the woman I respect and revere most upon earth. Can
she forget a foolish jealousy, occasioned by her beauty and
fascination? I am making a writing-table out of the stump of a
tree. To-morrow, we expect to storm Lucknow. Our chief, Sir
Colin, has kindly placed me on his staff.
The thought of you, sweetest, will stimulate me to dare
everything. I fervently trust in God that my life may be spared,
now that it is of value to you; but if, in the divine decrees of
an all-wise Providence, I am fated to fall—then, Evelyn, my
wife, before Heaven—farewell! Do not mourn for one who will have
died the death of a hero. Shed a few gentle, pitying tears, and
then _be happy_, and forget me. No—do not forget. Remember me as
one to whom you were dearer than all but his honor—one who will
ever watch and guard you, even from that world beyond the tomb,
to which we are all hastening. One curl of your soft brown hair
and your miniature have never left my heart. If these are
returned, you will know that a spirit has passed away, whose
last thought in dying was of you. Again, and again—Farewell? God
forever bless you, my own—my bride!
Your loving
REGINALD.
Short happiness did this letter bring to our hearts. _It_ also had been
long delayed on the road. Three days after its receipt Evelyn entered my
room ere it was day, pale—her hair dishevelled, her eyes red and swelled
with weeping.
“Reginald is dead,” said she, “I have seen him. Nay, speak not,” she
added, seeing I would have chided her folly, “I have murdered him. Had I
consented to a marriage he would have left the army, and would never
have been sent to India. As I lay awake last night, I tell you I saw him
as plain as I do you. He approached the bed, looked lovingly upon me,
and I saw a wound in his breast. Suddenly the form melted into air. I
had no fear. I wished he would again appear. I should have spoken to
him. But nothing more occurred.”
Evelyn returned to her bed, not to leave it for some time.
The first day she arose from it, weak, but calm and collected, she said
to me, “Now, Mary, you may give me the lock of hair and the miniature,
and read me the account of my young hero’s death. I can hear all—the
worst is past.”
Seeing that I still wept, and hesitated to do her bidding, she arose,
gently took the keys from my hands, and unlocked the bureau, where
unknown to her I had secreted these touching memorials of a happiness
now past forever. With a calmness more piteous to behold than any
violent grief, she opened all and read all. Then gently clasping her
hands, she sank upon her knees, saying, “I was not worthy of him. Thy
will be done, oh God! Thy will be done.”
[Illustration]
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