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.