Chapter III: The Bride of Heaven

I will not think of him—I’ll pace
This old ancestral hall,
And dream of that illustrious race
Whose pictures line the wall.
And from their dark and haughty eyes,
Though faded now and dim,
A better spirit shall arise,
I will not think of him.—_Mrs. Warfield._

Flight! In that one short syllable lies the only safety from a forbidden passion, and where flight is impossible, passion becomes destiny.

Malcolm Montrose had come to Allworth Abbey with the full understanding that he was to remain with the bereaved ones for three months, and at the end of that time quietly consummate his betrothal to the heiress by a marriage that, in consideration of the recent decease of the head of the family, was to be celebrated without pomp. Such had been the dying instructions of Lord Leaton to his wife, and such she had conveyed in her letter to Malcolm. To fly from his forbidden love would be to fly also from his betrothed bride. He remained, therefore, happy in the absolute obligation that compelled him to remain. Eudora had no other refuge in the world whither to fly. Flight, therefore, to her also was impossible.

And perhaps by both it was unthought of. Circumstances bound them together, and so passion became destiny. Both struggled perseveringly with the growing madness. They instinctively avoided each other as much as it was possible to do so. But in every casual touch of their hands, every meeting glance of their eyes, and every intonation of their voices, was transmitted the subtle fuel of that secret fire that was smoldering in each bosom. They never remained for a moment alone together; they never voluntarily addressed one word to each other; and yet, when they did meet, or were forced to speak, the blushing cheek of the girl, the faltering tone of the man, the averted looks of both, betrayed to themselves, if not to others, the hidden love that was burning in their breasts.

Every motive of honor, gratitude and humanity constrained them to conquer their passion, and not the least of these was their mutual sorrow in the declining health of Agatha.

Agatha was dying—though no one yet dared to say it, every one knew it. The fair girl herself felt it, and instead of preparing for her bridal, that was arranged to be celebrated on the first of May, she withdrew her thoughts more and more from the things of this world, and fixed them upon Heaven. Always of a thoughtful and serious turn of mind, she became now almost saintly in her self-renunciation, her patience, and her resignation.

Often as she sat reclining in her easy-chair, watching the mutual embarrassment of Malcolm and Eudora, and seeing, with the clear vision of the dying, the hidden struggles of their hearts, a sweet smile would break over her fair, wan, spiritual face, and she would murmur to herself—

“They are striving bravely to do right—they will not have to strive long; a few more short weeks, and their reward will be certain; their love will be innocent, and their happiness complete. And shall I, who am going hence, envy them their love and joy? Oh, no! oh no! for well I know that whither I go there is a fulness of joy and love that mortal imaginations have never conceived.”

The fair girl faded fast away. Day by day her thin form wasted thinner, her pale cheeks grew paler, and her hollow eyes hollower, while the saintly spirit within burned with a more seraphic brightness. The symptoms of her malady were the same as those that had carried off her father. The utmost skill and science of the medical faculty were taxed in vain; they could neither define the nature of her wasting illness, nor find a cure for it. The fair girl failed rapidly. Her easy-chair in the drawing-room was soon resigned for the sofa in her own dressing-room, from which she never stirred during the day. And about the first of May, when she was to have been united to Malcolm Montrose, the sofa was finally resigned for her bed, from which she never more arose.

Malcolm and Eudora reproached themselves bitterly for their unconquerable love, because it seemed to wrong Agatha. They vied with each other in the most affectionate attention to the invalid; and often as they stood each side her couch, ministering to her wants, she longed to make them happy by releasing Malcolm from his engagement to herself, and placing the hand of Eudora in his own; but instinctive delicacy withheld her from intermeddling with the love affairs of others.

Lady Leaton, heart-broken by the loss of her husband, and the approaching death of her daughter, observed the growing and ill-concealed attachment between Malcolm and Eudora with all a mother’s bitter jealousy. And struggled against as that attachment evidently was, she nevertheless resented it as a grievous wrong to her dying child.

Agatha, with the clairvoyance of a departing spirit, saw into the hearts of all around her, and judged them in justice and mercy. One day while her afflicted mother watched alone beside her bed, she said to her—

“Mamma, dear, I wish to speak with you about Malcolm and Eudora. I know that you are displeased with them, mamma; but it is without just cause. They love each other; they struggle against that love, but they cannot conquer it. It is because they were created for each other. Their marriage is already made in heaven. My marriage with Malcolm, mamma, was designed only on earth as a matter of policy and convenience. Malcolm and I loved each other only as brother and sister; we never could have loved in any other way even if I had lived to become his wife. But he and Eudora love one other as two who are destined for time and eternity to blend into one. Forgive them, mamma; forgive and be kind to them for my sake.”

“But you, Agatha!—my child!—I can think only of you!” sobbed the lady.

“Dear mamma, I know that all your ambition has been for your Agatha’s good, and happiness, and advancement. But consider, if your wildest dreams for your child had been fulfilled, and even more than that, if you could have made her a king’s bride, placed upon her brow a queen’s crown, gathered around her all the wealth, splendor, and glory of this world—could you have rendered her as happy, as blessed, and as exalted as she is now by the free mercy of God—now, when she is departing for that land the joys of which ‘eye hath not seen, ear heard, or imagination conceived,’ and where she shall wait for you in perfect bliss and perfect safety till you come? Mamma, your daughter is the bride of Heaven, and that is better than being the wife of the noblest man or the greatest monarch on this earth.”

The countenance of the young saint was glorious in its holy enthusiasm, and the human jealousy of her mother was dispelled before its heavenly light.

“You are better than I am; my child, my child, you are better than I am; you are a saint prepared for heaven!” exclaimed Lady Leaton, fervently.

“Mamma, grant Agatha one petition. She wants to see them happy before she goes. They are so conscientious and so wretched, mamma; they are afraid to speak to each other, or to look at each other, lest they should wound or wrong me. It makes me miserable to see them so because I love them both, mamma, and I know that they love me, and for my sake they struggle bravely with their passion for each other. Let me speak to Malcolm, mamma; let me tell him that I loved him only as a dear brother; let me release him from his engagement to me, and let me place Eudora’s hand in his with a sister’s frank and warm affection. Then, mamma, when the embargo is taken off their love; when they are free to look at each other and speak to each other as betrothed lovers may, then I shall be happy in their happiness—happier still to know that I have promoted it—happiest of all to feel how they both will love me for it. Dear mamma, let Agatha do this little good and have this little delight before she departs.”

“My angel child, you shall do in all things as you please. You speak and act from Heaven’s own inspiration, and it were sacrilege to hinder you,” exclaimed Lady Leaton, in deep emotion.

“Thank you, dear mamma, I shall be happy,” said Agatha, with a heavenly smile.

“And the deadly upas-tree shall be all in all,” said a low voice at the side of Lady Leaton.

She started, and turned to see the Princess Pezzilini standing there.

“Madame!” she said, in some uneasiness.

“Nay, I did but quote a line from a fable that I read you some three months ago,” said the princess, quietly seating herself beside the bed.

Agatha had been too deeply absorbed in her own benevolent plans to notice what was passing.

That evening, when all was quiet in the house, and the stillness of a deeper repose pervaded her own luxurious chamber—Agatha dismissed all her attendants, and sent for Lady Leaton, Malcolm, and Eudora to attend her. They came immediately. The chamber was illumed with a soft, moonlight sort of radiance from the shaded beams of an alabaster lamp that stood upon the mantelshelf opposite the foot of the bed.

The bed curtains were drawn away, revealing the fair face and fragile form of the dying girl as she reclined upon her bed propped up with pillows. She smiled on her relatives as they entered, and beckoned them to draw very near.

They came, and stood at the side of her bed—accidentally arranged as follows: Eudora nearest the head of the bed, Lady Leaton next, and Malcolm last.

She put out her wasted hand, took the hand of Eudora, and held it quietly within her own, while she seemed to collect her thoughts for utterance. Then, still holding Eudora’s hand she raised her dove-like eyes to Malcolm’s face, and whispered—

“Dearest Malcolm! dearest brother of my heart! you will let the dying speak out freely, I know.”

“Speak, sweet Agatha, speak your will,” murmured the young man, in a voice vibrating with emotion.

“I was your betrothed bride, Malcolm; but our betrothal was a human error, dearest; and the will of Heaven has interposed to break it. I am called hence, Malcolm, to another sphere. Not your bride, but the bride of Heaven shall I be. But before I go hence, Malcolm, I would prove to you how true is the sister’s love I bear you, and the kindred affection I feel for Eudora. I would prove these by two legacies by which I would have you remember me.”

She paused and drew from her wasted finger the keeper-ring, which its attenuated form could scarcely longer hold, and placing it firmly upon the round, plump finger of Eudora, she said—

“This, dear one, is my legacy to you!”

Then taking the same hand with the keeper-ring upon its finger, she placed it in the hand of Malcolm, saying—

“And this, dearest brother of my soul, this is my dying legacy to you!”

She sank back exhausted upon her pillow, while low, half-suppressed sobs broke from those around her. And Malcolm and Eudora each thought how willingly they would give up their mutual love, nay, life itself, to have restored this dying angel to health and joy. And Lady Leaton prayed Heaven that her own life might not outlast that of her beloved child. At length Agatha spoke again.

“When I am gone, my mother will be very desolate—a widow, and childless. Promise me this—dear Eudora, and dearest Malcolm—that you will be a son and daughter to my mother.”

In earnest tones, and amid suffocating sobs, they promised all she required.

A little while longer she held the hands of Malcolm and Eudora united and clasped within her own, and then releasing them, she said—

“Good-night, dearest Malcolm. Go to rest, beloved mother; Eudora will watch with me to-night.”

Lady Leaton stooped, and gathered Agatha for a moment to her bosom, and with a whispered prayer, laid her back upon her pillows. Malcolm bent down, and pressed a kiss upon her brow; and then both withdrew, leaving Eudora upon the watch. And still holding Eudora’s hand, Agatha sank into a peaceful sleep.

Hours passed. The room was so quiet, the sleep of the patient was so calm, and the position of the watcher so easy within her lounging-chair that Eudora, overcome with fatigue of many nights’ vigil, could scarcely keep her eyes open.

Once, indeed, she must have lost herself in a momentary slumber, for she dreamed that a women in dark raiment, with her head wrapped in a dark veil, glided across the chamber, and disappeared within her own little room; but when she aroused herself, and looked around, and walked into the adjoining room to examine it, there was no one to be seen.

“I have been dreaming—I have slept upon my watch,” said Eudora, regretfully; and to prevent a recurrence of drowsiness, she bathed her forehead and temples with aromatic vinegar, and saturated her handkerchief with the same pungent liquid, and resumed her seat beside the patient.

At this moment Agatha awoke, complained of thirst, and asked for drink.

Eudora went to a side-table, poured out a glass of tamarind-water, and brought it to the invalid.

Agatha drank eagerly, and sank back upon her pillows with a sigh of satisfaction.

Eudora silently resumed her seat and her watch; but scarcely five minutes had passed, when suddenly Agatha started up, her eyes strained outward, her features livid, and her limbs convulsed.

Eudora sprang to her in alarm.

Agatha essayed to speak, but the spasms in her throat prevented utterance.

In the extremity of terror, Eudora laid her down upon the pillows, and sprang to the bell-pull, and rang loudly for assistance.

Then hurrying back to the bedside, she found Agatha livid, rigid, with locked jaws, laboring lungs, and startling eyes.

She caught her up in her arms, rubbed her temples, and rubbed her hands, exclaiming all the while:

“Oh, my dear, dear Agatha! my dear, dear Agatha! what, what is this? Speak to me! Oh, speak to me!”

The strained eyes of the dying girl suddenly softened, and turned upon the speaker a beseeching, helpless look, and then the rigid form suddenly relaxed, and became a dead weight in the arms of Eudora.

Lady Leaton, followed by several of the female servants, now came hurrying in.

“What is the matter? Is she worse?” exclaimed the mother, hurrying to the bedside.

“Lady Leaton, she is dead!” cried Eudora, in a voice of anguish.

Let us draw a vail over the grief of that mother. In all this world of troubles, there is no sorrow like that of a widowed mother grieving for the death of her only child.

At first Lady Leaton would not believe in the extent of her affliction. She wildly insisted that her child could not, should not be dead—dead without a parting word, or look, or prayer! She sent off messengers in haste to bring their medical attendant. And not until Dr. Watkins had come and examined the patient, and pronounced life fled, could Lady Leaton be made to believe the truth, or induced to leave the chamber of death. Then she fainted in the arms of Princess Pezzilini, and was borne to her own apartment in a state of insensibility.

It was some hours after this that Dr. Watkins somewhat peremptorily demanded a private interview with Malcolm Montrose.

The young man, in deep affliction for the death of her whom he loved as a dear sister, gave audience to the doctor in the library.

The family physician entered with a grave and stern brow, and seating himself at the library-table, opposite Mr. Montrose, began—

“Sir, what I have to say to you is painful in the extreme both for me to utter and for you to hear; but the sternest duty obliges me to speak.”

Mr. Montrose withdrew his hand from his corrugated brow, raised his troubled eyes to the speaker, and awaited his further words.

“I know that what I am about to communicate must greatly augment the sorrow under which you suffer, and yet it must be communicated.”

“Speak out, I beseech you, sir,” said Mr. Montrose, with a vague but awful presentiment of what was coming.

“Three months ago I attended the death-bed of the late Lord Leaton. I gave it as my opinion then, I hold it as my opinion now, that his death was accelerated by poison. The coroner’s jury came to a different conclusion, and their verdict, taken together with the fact that the _post-mortem_ examination detected no trace of poison, I confess shook my faith in my own conviction. To-night I have been called to the bedside of his only daughter; I have looked upon her dead body, and heard an account of the manner in which she had died. And now, Mr. Malcolm Montrose, I positively assert that Agatha Leaton came to her death by poison, administered in the tamarind-water of which she drank some five or ten minutes before her death—and I stake my medical reputation upon this issue.”

“My God! it cannot be true!” exclaimed Malcolm Montrose, starting up, and gazing upon the speaker in the extremity of horror and grief.

“Mr. Montrose,” said the doctor, impressively, taking the hand of the young man, and forcing him back to his seat, “the widowed and childless head of this house is now in no condition to meet this crisis. You are her natural representative. You must summon all your firmness and take the direction of affairs. I shall remain here to assist you. I have already taken some steps in the matter; I have secured the jug and glass of tamarind-water to be analyzed. I have also telegraphed for the family solicitor to come down, and I have sent for the coroner, and for a police force to occupy the house, for no one must be permitted to escape until the coroner’s inquest has set upon the deceased and given in their verdict.”

“But, good Heaven, doctor!” exclaimed the young man in horror and amazement; “who, _who_ could aim at so harmless and innocent a life?”

“Who,” repeated the doctor; “who had the greatest interest in her death, and in the death of her father before her?”

“None! no one on earth! Who could have possibly had such an interest?” cried the young man, shuddering.

“Who is the next heiress to this vast estate after Lord Leaton and his daughter?” said the doctor, looking fixedly in the eyes of his companion.

Malcolm Montrose started up, threw his hands to his head, and then reeling back, dropped into his chair again, and remained gazing in horror upon the speaker.

“Who,” pursued the doctor, with a merciless inflexibility, “who had constant access to the bedside of the late Lord Leaton?—who prepared his food and drink?—who has been the constant attendant of his invalid daughter?—who watched by her side last night?—whose hand was it that placed at her lips the fatal draught that laid her dead?”

“My God! my God, doctor! what horrible monster of suspicion has taken possession of your mind? Give it a name!” exclaimed the young man, as great drops of sweat beaded upon his agonized brow.

“_Eudora Leaton!_ Her hand it was that prepared the death-draught for her uncle! her hand it was that gave the poisoned draught to his daughter! It is a terrible charge to make, I know; but we must not deal hesitatingly with the secret poisoner,” said the doctor, solemnly.

“Great Heaven! it cannot be—it cannot be!” groaned the young man, in mortal anguish.

The doctor arose to his feet, saying—

“I leave you, Mr. Montrose, to recover this shock, while I go to put seals upon the effects of this girl, and to prepare for the investigation that shall bring the poisoner to justice.”