"Madame de la Tour related to me her dream, which was exactly similar; and, as I had never observed in either of those persons any propensity to superstition, I was struck with the singular coincidence of their dreams, which, I had little doubt, would soon be realized.
"What I expected took place. Paul died two months after the death of Virginia, whose name dwelt upon his lips even in his expiring moments. Eight days after the death of her son, Margaret saw her last hour approach with that serenity which virtue only can feel. She bade Madame de la Tour the most tender farewell, 'in the hope,' she said, 'of a sweet and eternal reunion. Death is the most precious good,' added she, 'and we ought to desire it. If life be a punishment we should wish for its termination; if it be a trial, we should be thankful that it is short.'
"The governor took care of Domingo and Mary, who were no longer able to labour, and who survived their mistresses but a short time. As for poor Fidele, he pined to death, at the period he lost his master.
"I conducted Madame de la Tour to my dwelling, and she bore her calamities with elevated fortitude. She had endeavoured to comfort Paul and Margaret till their last moments, as if she herself had no agonies to bear. When they were no more, she used to talk of them as of beloved friends, from whom she was not distant. She survived them but one month. Far from reproaching her aunt for those afflictions she had caused, her benign spirit prayed to God to pardon her, and to appease that remorse which the consequences of her cruelty would probably awaken in her breast.
"I heard, by successive vessels which arrived from Europe, that this unnatural relation, haunted by a troubled conscience, accused herself continually of the untimely fate of her lovely niece, and the death of her mother, and became at intervals bereft of her reason. Her relations, whom she hated, took the direction of her fortune, after shutting her up as a lunatic, though she possessed sufficient use of her reason to feel all the pangs of her dreadful situation, and died at length in agonies of despair.
"The body of Paul was placed by the side of his Virginia, at the foot of the same shrubs; and on that hallowed spot the remains of their tender mothers, and their faithful servants, are laid. No marble covers the turf, no inscription records their virtues; but their memory is engraven upon our hearts, in characters, which are indelible; and surely, if those pure spirits still take an interest in what passes upon earth, they love to wander beneath the roofs of these dwellings, which are inhabited by industrious virtue, to console the poor who complain of their destiny, to cherish in the hearts of lovers the sacred flame of fidelity, to inspire a taste for the blessing of nature, the love of labour, and the dread of riches.
"The voice of the people, which is often silent with regard to those monuments raised to flatter the pride of kings, has given to some parts of this island names which will immortalize the loss of Virginia. Near the Isle of Amber, in the midst of sandbanks, is a spot called the Pass of Saint Geran, from the name of the vessel which there perished. The extremity of that point of land, which is three leagues distant, and half covered by the waves, and which the Saint Geran could not double on the night preceding the huricane, is called the Cape of Misfortune; and before us, at the end of the valley, is the Bay of the Tomb, where Virginia was found buried in the sand; as if the waves had sought to restore her corpse to her family, that they might render it the last sad duties on those shores of which her innocence had been the ornament.
"Ye faithful lovers, who were so tenderly united! unfortunate mothers! beloved family! those woods which sheltered you with their foliage, those fountains which flowed for you, those hillocks upon which you reposed, still deplore your loss! No one has since presumed to cultivate that desolated ground, or repair those fallen huts. Your goats are become wild, your orchards are destroyed, your birds are fled, and nothing is heard but the cry of the sparrowhawk, who skims around the valley of rocks. As for myself, since I behold you no more, I am like a father bereft of his children, like a traveller who wanders over the earth, desolate and alone."
In saying these words, the good old man retired, shedding tears, and mine had often flowed, during this melancholy narration.
THE END.