“Have you spoken to a clergyman?” said I, not knowing exactly what else to say. “Is not this some book of divine consolation?”
I took it up; it was the popular novel of the day, entitled, “The Rising Sun.” What a profound mockery for a deathbed!
“I tell you, my dear Ralph, that you must not agitate me. Talk of anything but my approaching death—for know, that I am resolved not to die. To-morrow there will be a consultation over my case of the very first of the medical faculty in the world. Ralph, do not you league together with the rest of the world, and condemn me to an untimely death.”
“Untimely, indeed.”
She had now evidently talked too much; she closed her eyes, and seemed to enjoy a peaceful and refreshing slumber. I sat by and watched her. Was I then in a sick-chamber?—was that personification of beauty doomed? I looked round, and pronounced it incredible. I gazed upon the recumbent figure before me, so still, so living, and yet so death-like—and moralised upon the utter deception of appearances.
At length she awoke, apparently much reanimated.
“My dear Ralph,” said she, “why are you not in mourning?”
“I understand you—and I perceive that you are now in black. But I must not disturb you—yet, if I dared, I would ask you one question—oh, in pity answer it—was she my mother?”
“Does death absolve us from our oaths?”
“I am not, dear lady, casuist enough to answer you that question. But do you know that I have become a desperate character lately? I write myself man, and will prove the authenticity of the signature with my life. I have renounced my profession—every pursuit, every calling, every thought—that may stand between me and the development of the mystery of my birth. It is the sole purpose of my life—the whole devotion of my existence.”