CHAPTER XXXVII.
"I feel death rising higher still, and higher
Within my bosom; every breath I fetch
Shuts up my life within a shorter compass:
And like the vanishing sound of bells, grows less
And less each pulse, till it be lost in air." Dryden.
"Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God." Parnell.
Wednesday, March 5th.
I am really pained by Pauline's conduct toward her cousin. She shuns him as much as possible. He feels it too. He always manifested so much interest in her; but she avails herself of every excuse to walk with Eugene, and avoids seeing Joseph. I can perceive that he is grieved, but though he often gazes at her with a sad, inquiring expression, he does not speak. I have never known her to be rude; but I felt it my duty to speak with her to-day upon the subject. I am afraid I spoke too sternly, for she immediately burst into tears. She made no excuse, only saying, "I can't help it, mamma."
"Your cousin," I said, "has not deserved such treatment. He has always, since you were a baby, taken a great interest in you;" and I related his kindness in taking her to ride on horseback, and many other events, which I was surprised to find she remembered.
But still she said nothing; and only cried the more. I don't know what to make of her.
"Sometimes deep feeling hides itself in silence."
But I think she has had too much excitement of late, notwithstanding she appeared so calm. When the bell rang for tea, she begged me to excuse her from going down, and to tell Eugene, when he called, that she was not able to go with him to his father as he had proposed.
"Are you ill, my dear," I asked.
"I have a very bad head-ache, which will be well by morning."
Joseph went out this morning early for a walk, and returned just as I was called to breakfast. Pauline was in the room, and he went directly to her, expressing his pleasure at seeing her down again. He took her hand in his, and said, "I am deeply pained by seeing that you have forgotten all your former friendship for me." He then assured her, she should always have a warm friend in him.
Notwithstanding I had thought her wrong, I really pitied the poor girl's confusion. She did not once raise her eyes; but blushed painfully as she withdrew her hand when he had ceased speaking. I pitied Joseph, too. He came to me soon after breakfast, and asked me to walk with him, when he immediately entered upon the subject, saying he had never been so disappointed in a young person, so artless and frank as she used to be. He then asked if Eugene were a suitable companion for her, fearing it was his influence that had so changed her for the worse.
I assured him it was not. Then feeling that from his long friendship for us, he had a right to be treated with confidence, I told him in what relation they stood to each other. Though I could see plainly that he was displeased, I commenced at their singular introduction, and told him all that had passed between Colonel Clifford and the Doctor. He listened with the profoundest interest, but did not interrupt me until I had done.
"How did you account for the agitation of Colonel Clifford?" he asked.
"Oh! a thousand ways," I replied. "He has been an invalid for many years; and her sudden appearance would account for it in a great measure."
"Perhaps so," he answered in a doubting tone; "but he evidently supposed her to be a near friend."
"Yes," said I, "there is no accounting for the freaks of nature in these close resemblances. I should be struck any where by her resemblance to Frank; yet you know there is no connection."
"She must have a singular countenance," he replied, "I noticed yesterday a strong likeness to young Clifford. Does she know of the circumstances connected with her early history?"
"Not a word of it."
"Nor Clifford?"
"No."
"Then, my dear cousin, I tell you frankly, I think in this instance you and the Doctor have erred—certainly you have not acted with your usual frankness."
I made many excuses which had been satisfactory to my own mind. He said no more, but only shook his head.
When we received Joseph's letter, I thought him the same light-hearted, merry fellow as of old; but I find he has grown very grave. I was a little troubled at what he said, and on conversing with Frank, I find that he is of the same opinion, that we ought at least to communicate the circumstances to Colonel Clifford, if we do not choose to tell Pauline. But Frank says since talking with Mr. Percival, and finding that he had no other child, he felt relieved of all doubt in relation to their connection. But though the thought of it makes me almost sick, I intend to-morrow to do what I know will give exquisite pain to Pauline, by telling her she is my child only by adoption.
Saturday, March 8th.
If my poor head will allow, I will try to give you an account of the events of the last three days. But I have suffered so much I really shrink from recurring to the subject.
In pursuance of my resolution to make the painful disclosure to Pauline, I made necessary arrangements to be free from interruption, as I feared the dear child's feelings would overcome her; and as I was far from intending that Nelly or Frank should know it at present, I did not wish unnecessarily to excite their curiosity. If the dear child were to know it at all, I preferred she should hear it first from me; and having procured the locket and package, I called her to my room, and went through the story as if I were relating the history of another person, and as briefly as justice to my subject would allow; but my great agitation, which I could not avoid becoming apparent, must have made her suspect that I referred to herself. She looked me full in the face, her eyes more and more dilated until she turned deadly pale. I became frightened that she did not give way to her feelings, and stopped, when she said in the most heart-broken tone I ever heard, "Then I am not your Pauline, mamma?" and leaned her head heavily on her hand.
I pressed her to my heart, and told her that she never was dearer to me than at present; that she was my first, and I had almost said, my dearest child.
But this has been a dreadful shock to the poor girl, who seems now to feel that she has no claim upon us. I talked with her a long time, telling her that I had never intended she should know of this; but that her father thought it dishonorable not to tell her or Eugene; and that I felt she ought to hear it from me.
"I think it would have killed me," she replied, "to have heard it even from father." After a moment she added mournfully, "may I still call you mamma?" when her pent up feelings burst forth with such violence as I have never witnessed. She wept and sobbed until her whole frame shook with emotion.
"My love, my own Pauline, you will break my heart if you do so. Our love is the same; it can undergo no change. My affection for you has been so selfish, that it has been my only fear with regard to you, that some one would claim you as their child; or as has happened, that some one would win your love from your mother."
"Oh, mamma," said she joyfully, "I will give him up. I understood it was your wish. Indeed I told Eugene I did not wish him to consider it an engagement. We are too young."
"Dearest Pauline, I only told you to show you how strong was my affection for you."
After two hours, during which time I had but partially succeeded in calming her excited feelings, I showed her the locket, which affected her exceedingly, as also the letter from her mother to the servant. She held the tiny robe in her hand, while her tears fell hot and fast upon it. I told her that on no account would I allow Nelly and Franky to be made aware of what had passed.
"I shall tell Eugene?" she said inquiringly.
"If you think it best, love."
"Of course, I only meant whether you or I should tell him. He asked what I considered strange questions the second time I saw him. But I thought it would only pain you to hear them, so I did not repeat what he said. He asked if I had ever been abroad before. I told him "no." He then asked if I were nearly connected with this family, when I laughed and told him, 'my resemblance to father was proof of that fact.' He apologized, and said he had only asked me to satisfy his father." She took the locket, putting the chain around her neck, and bidding me good night, left me.
But it was a sleepless night to both of us. The questions of Eugene, to satisfy his father,—the doubts of Joseph were constantly recurring to me. Frank comforted me by saying I had done right in telling her what I had. After midnight I crept softly to her room, shading the lamp with my hand, and found her eyes wide open. She had thrown her arm over her sleeping sister, and had vainly tried to sleep.
"I have been trying to think who I am, mamma," said she in a sad voice.
"You are my own darling, Pauline," I said, kissing her again and again.
"She looks happy and kind," alluding to the picture, "but how could she give me up so?"
I begged her to try to sleep, and returned to my bed to make the same effort. The next morning she did not go down to breakfast, merely took a cup of coffee in her room; but begged me to let her know when Eugene came in. I did so, when she instantly came down to him equipped for a walk.
I attempted to remonstrate, fearing she was not well enough; but she said, "please, mamma," in so sad a voice, I could say no more.
It was nearly noon. Joseph had two or three times volunteered to go in search of Pauline, for whom I felt great anxiety, when a man came running, breathless with speed, begging me to go to Colonel Clifford. He was dying.
I was on my way in a moment, Joseph attending me to the door. How can I describe to you what I saw? In order to make it intelligible, I must relate what the Doctor and Pauline afterwards told me. As soon as they started on their walk, she communicated to Eugene the circumstances I had related to her; and insisted that he should, without delay, make them known to his father, saying, "perhaps he will withdraw his consent when he hears that I am a foundling."
Eugene spurned the idea, as unworthy either of him or his father, and protested that he only loved her the better. He earnestly implored her to go with him, to which she reluctantly consented. He found the Doctor by the bed side, and leaving his beloved in the next room, he went in. Having requested the Doctor to remain, he went on to tell his father briefly that Pauline was only an adopted child of Dr. Lenox, and that she would not consent to their betrothal until he were made aware of the circumstances, and had given his consent.
"Tell her, my son, that can make no difference in our feelings. Bring her to me, I will tell her so." Eugene led her in; but no sooner did he see her, than he started forward as if to take her in his arms, and then with a loud scream fell back upon the pillows.
The Doctor and Eugene sprang forward in affright to raise him, and threw water in his face, when he gasped for breath, and pointing his thin finger to where Pauline stood, tried to speak, but for a moment was unable. "Eugene," at length he gasped out, "she is your sister, Inez," and fainted.
Pauline, intensely surprised, and agitated, darted forward, and kissed the face, brow and lips of the unconscious man, crying, "Oh! father, bless me before you die."
When he opened his eyes, her sweet voice was pleading for a blessing. A heavenly smile lit up his face, as he said, "Imogen, my own Imogen, I do bless thee, sweet wife!" He thought her his lost Imogen. But he soon knew her, and called her his beloved daughter Inez, whom he now saw for the first time. She turned from him to Eugene, who sat bitterly weeping with his head buried in his dying father's pillow; and putting her arms tenderly about his neck, said, "Be comforted, dear Eugene, you have gained a sister."
The Doctor administered a cordial to the Colonel, who he saw was fast failing; and had sent for me.
When I entered the room, the dying man was passionately kissing the little miniature contained in the locket; and from that, as well as his instant recognition of the writing of his wife in the letter, there is no longer any doubt that she is his child.
He requested the Doctor to open a pocket book, and take out a blank envelope. Opening this, he showed some of the writing of Imogen, which exactly compared with the other. Again, and again blessing his long lost child, and bidding his children love each other as brother and sister, he requested to be left alone with the Doctor; when he told him where to find the packet directed to his son, to be left in his care. He expressed renewedly his thanks that these disclosures had been brought to light in season to prevent so unnatural a marriage. He gave some directions, rendered necessary by the wonderful discovery. He then said, calmly, "I have now done with earth," and requested the Doctor to call his children to see him die.
Eugene threw himself upon the bed in an agony of grief. "My soul cleaveth unto thee, my son," said the dying man. And again mistaking Pauline for his beloved wife, he made an effort to reach her, exclaiming, "I come, my Imogen—I—come!"
Scarcely had the last words ceased to echo through the room, when the spirit of Colonel Clifford joined his companion in the world above.
Thursday, March 13th.
The remains of our deceased friend have been laid by the side of her whom he so tenderly loved, to rest until the morning of the resurrection. The arrangements for keeping the sacred place from intrusion are completed, and we are only waiting the arrival of the monument, which the Doctor has ordered from Rome, before we take leave of our respected friend, Mr. Percival, and depart for Paris.
"Thither where she lies buried,
That single spot is the whole world to me."