Chapter XIII

Just at that age when the painter would have wished to fix
his likeness,--in the fair morning of his virtues, the full
spring-blossom of his hopes; just at that age hath death set
the seal of eternity upon him, and the beautiful hath been
made permanent.
SOUTHEY’S REMAINS OF KIRKE WHITE.

Months flowed on, and summer came again, and the anniversary of the day which had hailed so proudly the dawn of a youthful life, came and passed in silence. Months flowed on, months of bodily pain and mental misery, till they guided a young sufferer to the gates of death.

Other eyes besides Ernest’s began to observe the symptoms of an approaching end. They read it not only in the body’s decline; there were other signs;--they read it in the eye that gleamed with no earthly fire--in the brow, from which the lines of pain and care, and even the expression of submission, had passed away--changed by the lightening of a celestial peace. They read it in the mind, still clear, still vigorous, still aspiring,--but whose aspirings were for that land alone, where lofty aspirations attain their perfect satisfaction and repose.

“Months of bodily pain and mental misery.” The words are lightly said--and in their monotonous flow there is little on which the pen can dwell, or the tongue expatiate--yet as they pass they instil lessons of highest and holiest instruction; yet do they give a field for the exercise of the loftiest virtues--yet do they bear away with them a record which shall never be suffered to grow old.

There has often been a question, Which is the worst of mortal ills,--the pains of the body, or the strife of the mind? And while some of have given the palm of intensity to the first,--others, in excess of mental misery, have been found to declare the body’s pains unfelt. To Reginald both were sent. The fitful racking violence of agony--the dull gnawing restlessness of continual pain--and a will rising rebellious against his fate, and a faith darkened and troubled by doubt and despair.

_Why_ he was thus afflicted, those who watched over him, and saw his face almost as the face of an angel, could not but ask; and they could not at all times find an answer of unhesitating faith: yet an answer there ever is to be found. It is told that a suffering dying boy, once in extremity of anguish, looked up to the father who watched over him, and exclaimed, “Oh! father, how I suffer!” and the weeping father replied to him, not with words of sympathy, not with expressions of compassion and consolation, but with this assurance only: “Not one pang too many, my boy;” and the answer was sufficient. Yet in Reginald’s case, other answers might be found. Gentle faults have gentle chastisements--faults on the surface can be blown away by the breath of a moist whistling wind--but there are faults, whose seat is in the spirit and the intellect, man’s highest nature, and if these are to be burnt away, it must be by the iron entering even to the soul. And akin as such faults may be to virtue of the highest kind--though in some forms they may shine as angels of light--yet all is a delusive show, for pride, even a lofty pride, is the reign of self, and not of God in the heart.

It was Reginald’s natural and hereditary evil, and it was rooted like life itself in his nature. For this it was necessary that he should enter into the fire--for this it was needful that the furnace should be heated with sevenfold power: but when the work was done, he was at peace. From the burning fiery furnace, the life which had promised to shine so brightly on earth, came forth purified and fit for heaven; and even on earth the darkness passed away, and at eventime it was light.

For many months all hope of improvement had been given up: and from the moment when hope was set aside, there had seemed to be nothing left but to prepare for his death; yet when the words were spoken, and the conviction came that he must die, it came a startling shock. It was shortly after the anniversary of his birthday, that the physician who attended Reginald, desired Ernest to prepare the afflicted family for his approaching end. The powers of life, he said, were wasting fast, and he could not answer for many days.

This was in June--yet in August he was living still; and so strong is the sense of life in those who suffer, and in those who watch over suffering, that even the sight and feeling of mortal decay failed fully to impress either Reginald or those about him--and when the long awaited hour came, it came suddenly to him and to all.

Late one evening, Ernest left him clear in intellect, peaceful in mind, at rest in body--to all appearance as far from death as he had been for many weeks. Early in the morning, he was startled from his sleep by a hasty summons to the dying bed of the young lord.

He arrived at the Abbey, and entered the room adjoining Reginald’s: many of the household were assembled there, with silent tears weeping over their young master’s fate. The old housekeeper approached him as he stood still, and desired him to enter--he had been, she said, anxiously expected, and was not too late.

He softly unclosed the half-shut door, and stood in the room and gazed around him. The shutters were all open, and the sun was shining in, flooding the room with its golden light--no sound was heard, no groan of pain or voice of lamentation--all was brightness, all seemed repose;--and yet what breaking hearts, what expiring hopes were there.

Reginald lay with closed eyes, his breathing soft and faint as an infant’s, the expression of his countenance unutterable tranquillity. On the further side of his bed, leaning against his pillow, his mother watched over him,--all thought of self, all sense of being, even as it seemed all thought of sorrow, absorbed in the intense gaze of love, which rested on her son. Beside her, yet drawn a few paces backwards, sat Lord Vere, with closed eyes and folded arms. Months of suffering had blanched his hair, and softened and relaxed the stern expression of his countenance, yet now the muscles were rigidly drawn together, as if the effort of the body would vanquish the anguish of the mind. At the foot of the bed, on the side nearest the door, Camilla half sat, half knelt,--her arms on the bed, her face concealed,--all fears and terrors, and the dread of death, in her, too, absorbed in thought of him for whom the summons was come.

Lord Vere raised his head on Ernest’s entrance, and with a movement of his hand directed him to his son. Ernest approached the bed, and stooped over it, and softly pronounced Reginald’s name. The dying eyes unclosed with a look of joy, and a smile played over the pale lips, then faintly murmuring, he desired to be left with Ernest alone.

* * * * *

It is not in a tale like this that the scenes of a dying bed should be disclosed; over thoughts and hopes which rise to the eternal world, a veil in such a place should be drawn;--yet some there are, which speak of the departing spirit’s relation to earth, and these may be detailed.

Once again profound quiet was in the room, the sacred services were over, the faint breathing was becoming fainter and more faint,--around the bed all sat again to see him die!

Suddenly there was a change,--on the threshold of existence the parting spirit seemed to pause,--and the Angel of Death, whose stroke for many hours had been at hand, appeared to draw backward.

Reginald unclosed his eyes, and with full and clear consciousness looked around him. He gazed long and fixedly at the three beings nearest and dearest to him on earth, but gazed in silence, no word was spoken,--it was a calm and silent farewell.

As his eyes rested on his young and sorrowing sister--as he saw the unspeakable sadness of her gaze--as he saw her head bowed again, unable to bear that mute intense farewell--a faint flush passed over his cheek, a faint cloud disturbed the stillness of his brow,--but still he said nothing--gave no parting advice, offered no last consolation, his eyes wandered on, and rested on another.

Beside the bed, leaning against his pillow, his face shrouded in his hand, sat Ernest de Grey; in reflection so profound, that the change in the countenance of his expiring friend was unperceived by him. By many deathbeds he had been, and many partings he had seen, but never one that excited thoughts like this. He had seen the infirmities of age, the sorrows of poverty, the helplessness of childhood, pass from a world of trial to the hope of rest,--and he had seen them so pass with fearless and undoubting trust: but here was the light of life darkened ere yet it was fully day; here was the flower of manhood cut down while its bloom was at its height; here were beauty, genius, virtue bestowed, if earth were all, in vain; running, if earth were all, to waste. He was shrinking, appalled at the faithless doubts that were sweeping over and agitating his soul, when he was roused by a touch on his arm, and turning startled to the bed, he met the gleaming, dying eyes of Reginald.

“Ernest, dear Ernest,” he murmured, “how shall I thank you for all you have done for me in life and in death; my more than brother, how can I repay?”

Ernest stooped over him, and pressed his lips on his brow. “Pray for me,” he said, in a voice low and tremulous from emotion, “that I may live as you have lived in the days of prosperity, and when death comes may die as you will die.”

A blush passed over Reginald’s pale cheek,--a blush, not of pride, but lowliness; but he said nothing,--some other thought appeared to occupy and possess his mind.

“Camilla, dearest Camilla, will _you_ thank him for me?” thus was the stillness broken again, and the brother’s earnest eyes rested on his sister’s face.

She raised her head and gazed at him, and as she gazed, a tremulous movement shook her in every limb, and her cheek grew pale as death.

But the emotion was stilled; and suddenly bending her head, she placed her hand in his.

It was either a sign of acquiescence in his request, or an entire resignation of herself to his will.

There was yet a pause; Reginald’s colour deepened, and he turned an anxious inquiring gaze on his father.

Lord Vere bowed his head; and the next moment the hand of Camilla was given to Ernest De Grey.

He had seen the movements as one turned to stone; and colder than the cold hand that gave, was the hand that received the precious gift. Was it _then_, was it _thus_, was it _there_, that the dreams so madly indulged, so sinfully regretted, were to be realized? For a moment he drew back from the prospects opening before him,--and the small passive hand lay immovable in his.

But a glance at the drooping, sorrowing form bending almost at his feet, brought higher and holier thoughts to his heart,--higher and holier even than humiliation, because less of self was there. To watch over _her_ welfare,--to seek, whether fulfilled by him or by others, _her_ happiness,--what need was there to shrink from this? So rapid was the flight of thought, that none but Camilla was aware that there had been a moment of hesitation before the guardianship was accepted. Silently and solemnly taking her hand in both of his, he pressed his lips upon it,--a token of the vow fervently made in his inmost heart to love and cherish her until death, or another’s dearer right should part them;--unwilling then to disturb her at such a time with thoughts of him, he restored it to her.

The head that Reginald had slightly raised in his anxiety, fell back, and a glow of pleasure lighted his eyes; a moment he lay in repose, and then it was lighted again, and another thought flashed over the serenity of his countenance, and again it was to Ernest he turned:

“My day is passing like the clouds of evening, but it will rise again in you. Ernest, dear Ernest! not in my pride, but in my hopes, remember me. Those hopes....” He paused, looked upward, and raised his hand,--all earthly hopes and aspirings, cherished and unfulfilled, seemed gathering before his sparkling eye; all hopes of heaven awaiting him,--but before they could be spoken, he was dead!--yet, as more than life could have done, his death had wrought in the hearts of all who approached him, so more than words those bright unspoken thoughts would do: they fell on Ernest’s heart a light that none could darken,--a star, bright and unfailing, to guide him on his way. To the tumult so lately within him,--to the faithless doubts, the vague distrust, they gave an answer full and clear: “The light of such a life is not lit in vain.”

It was “the ruling passion strong in death.” Ernest saw the sudden change in his countenance,--the sudden fading of his colouring. He hastily rose, and whispering to Camilla, drew her to his place to receive the last gaze--the last sigh; then kneeling beside the bed, began the last prayer for the departing spirit.