"How did this happen, sir?" demanded Beauchamp at length, in a low tone, as if afraid of disturbing that deep sleep that had fallen upon his uncle.
The governor told all he knew, and Beauchamp anxiously requested that the prisoner, Harding, might be asked if he could assign any cause for the accident that had befallen the earl. One of the turnkeys was accordingly sent to his cell; and while he was absent, Beauchamp perceiving that the medical men were addressing all their means of restoration to the head, informed them that Lord Ashborough had been for some years subject to spasms of the heart.
"If that be the case then, sir," replied one of them, "we may abandon the attempt, as the earl is certainly dead."
"Nevertheless," replied Beauchamp, "leave no means untried, while there is even the most remote hope."
The surgeon shook his head, but still made some more efforts; and the turnkey, returning almost immediately from the condemned cell, reported that the prisoner could only be brought to say, that the earl had fallen into a violent passion, and that he himself desired not to be farther troubled upon the subject.
After a pause of a few minutes more, the principal surgeon again addressed Beauchamp, saying, "As I imagine, sir, from your manner, that you are a near relation of the earl, I feel it my duty to tell you positively that he is no more; and that to continue all these efforts in your presence, would be but to harrow up your feelings for no purpose. All men must die, and this nobleman will never have to endure that pang again."
Beauchamp bowed his head, and, crossing his arms upon his bosom, remained for a few moments in silence. Then begging that one of the younger surgeons would remain with the body all night, and that the elder person who had addressed him would accompany him to the inn, he added a few words of course to the governor of the prison, and departed from the chamber of the dead.
CHAPTER XIII.
We generally, through life, write the actions of each of our friends and acquaintances on the two sides of one leaf in the book of memory, the good upon one side and the bad upon the other, so that it is scarcely possible to see both at once. With an amiable weakness, however, man most frequently suffers the death of any one he has known, to turn the leaf for ever, and reads the character of him that is no more, as if the good were alone recorded. Beauchamp's heart would not suffer him to do otherwise; and, after he had spoken with the surgeon in regard to several points of all the sad ceremonies that were to follow, he sat down in solitude, giving way to feelings that were far more bitter than he had anticipated. Even had he not felt his uncle's loss deeply, on the ground of personal regard, there was in his bosom another motive for regret, which would have pained him much.
He asked himself, whether the angry discussion which had taken place between himself and the earl, so shortly before the decease of the latter, might not have hastened that catastrophe; and although he was obliged to acknowledge, that--were the same circumstances to come over again--he could not, and would not act otherwise than he had done, yet he was deeply grieved that the disagreement should have taken place so immediately previous to the death of his uncle, and that they had parted from each other for ever, in anger and ill-will.