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!”