But it was soon evident to all, that this was not either in the power or inclination of the new wedded pair: a deeper sorrow had sunk into their minds, and their calm grief was supplanted by looks and feelings of horror and despair. They spent much of their time together; but their conferences seemed rather to heighten than to soothe their mutual suffering. It was at length remarked, that Eustace never passed his nights in the chamber of his wife, but sometimes in deep groans and anguish in the seclusion of his own apartment, or in wandering wildly through the gloomy mazes of the forest. At such times a stupor would overshadow the spirit of Agatha,—a silent and uncomplaining madness that seemed to render her insensible to suffering; and only upon his return did she vent her keen anguish in words, or dissipate her torture by shrieks as piercing as they were fearful.
Those about them saw no other cause for this mental hell, than the grief which had seized upon them, by constantly contemplating their eternal separation from the being they most loved. It was anticipated that time would effect, if not a cure, at least some amelioration of its bitterness; but time rolled on, and their agonies did not decrease. Nor did the prospect of an heir to their disastrous union afford any pleasure or consolation to their minds; they went through the usual routine of preparation, because, as it appeared, it was usual; there was no joyous anticipation on the part of Eustace,—no tender, trembling hope on the side of Agatha; there was no anxiety, no care; it was a thing unspoken of, unnoted; and when the bustle of the house, the importance of the attendants, and the entrance of the friend, (who, unsummoned, save by the servants, yet judged it necessary to be near her,) told Eustace of the near approaching throes of Agatha, he threw himself upon the ground in the chamber adjoining her, and buried his face in his hands.
Eustace, young, beautiful, and of a gallant spirit, was adored by his household, all the members of which fondly contemplated the birth of an heir, as an event well calculated to calm their mutual suffering, and endear them to each other: and though the maternal anguish of Agatha took place before the usual and expected time, the hopes so affectionately cherished were not shaken by the event; but the conduct of their master gave a wound to their generous devotion. Sad and singular as it was, that of Agatha was scarcely less inexplicable: no groans, no tokens of pain accompanied her physical suffering; and it was apparent that some keener pang of the mind, some woe too deep for utterance, had deadened all sense to merely corporal pain. Her eyes were generally closed, except when some louder noise, or the nearer approach of an attendant towards the couch, forced her to open them, and gaze around her for an instant; but, when her senses were thus for a moment awakened, it was evident the object which had aroused them had no share in their attention. Heedless of all that was passing, she took a shuddering rapid glance around the chamber, as if in earnest search of one whom she yet feared to encounter, and then closed them in evident affright, and sunk anew into stupor and silence;—it was amidst this stupor and silence that her first-born son entered the world.
Eustace had not long remained absorbed in his own painful meditations, ere a mighty shriek from the chamber of Agatha broke upon his ear, and made him partly raise his head from the hard pillow to which he had consigned it. But his soul was dead within him;—he thought no further agony could reach him now—no keener pang could inflict a wound in his already crushed heart; and though the scream was one of horror and dismay, a sound of many voices in grief and consternation, it passed over his senses without further notice, and he again drooped his head to the ground, and, grovelling to earth, seemed as he would bury himself from his anguish in the kindly bosom of his only parent—his last—his truest friend.
But repose was not for him—no, not even the repose of despair—he was again to wake, to feel, to suffer; there was an undreamed of agony near—a sting that was to penetrate his palsied bosom, and awake his crushed soul from the dead; to die would have been bliss, but that was a bliss denied him.
The unhappy young man arose;—a footstep was heard hastily rushing towards his chamber—the wife of Courtenay approached him with a look of commiserating regard, and took his arm to draw him to the apartment of Agatha. She did not speak, but Eustace read in the expression of her features that there was yet more to encounter and to endure. He entered the apartment of his wife—she was lying speechless and insensible upon her couch, utterly incapable of any observation of what was passing around her; and by her side lay a deformed and distorted infant, plunged in the still deeper silence of death.
In the first moment of sorrow, the friend who had so hastily sought the presence of Eustace, had done so under the compelling influence of the circumstance and the time; but a few moments had scarcely elapsed, ere Courtenay recovered sufficient recollection to decide that his wife had judged unwisely in so rapidly flying from the chamber of the poor Agatha, and bursting into that of her husband, dreading the influence the sudden grief might probably acquire over the already racked brain of the latter. With this feeling, Courtenay raised his eye from the dead child to observe the countenance of Eustace, and, if possible, form a judgment as to how he was likely to support this shock: but here his fears gave place to a new feeling, and his grief was overpowered by astonishment at the singular deportment of Eustace: the childless father advanced slowly towards the corse of his infant, and gazed upon it intently for a moment; a spasm of agony passed over his countenance, but there was no surprise mingled with its expression. “And is it indeed thus!” he murmured in a low and agonised tone of voice; “and so must my punishment begin!—yet better is it even thus, than that thou, poor distorted thing! shouldst live to reproach thy father, and, by thy sufferings, be an accusing witness against him.” A convulsive shivering seized upon his frame, and he seemed to be struggling with some difficult and awful resolve. At that moment a similar convulsion appeared to extend itself to the body of the infant; its eyes rolled, and one arm suddenly stretched itself out with a convulsive kind of movement, and remained extended, pointing towards Eustace. The struggle was at an end in an instant; the change from distracted to subdued sorrow was the work of a moment. He grew perfectly calm; and turning his looks again towards the infant, and addressing it in a low steady voice, “I thank thee,” he said, “for this warning; thou too shalt not have cause to reproach me; I have hesitated too long; but His will and thine shall be done.” Saying thus, his head drooped upon his bosom as in deep thought, and the extended arm of the child a moment after fell quietly down by its side.
Courtenay, the friend of Eustace, and the near relative of Agatha, now judged that in this moment of calmness, he might venture some expressions of consolation. He deeply regretted that he should have mistaken the sleep of the infant for the last slumber of death, and he urged to Eustace the possibility that the union of medical skill and paternal care might relieve his child from its afflictions, and restore it, in natural beauty, to his love. He continued to dwell some time longer upon well intended topics of consolation, until he perceived that Eustace no longer heard his observations, or even remembered his presence. Suddenly, a new thought appeared to awaken the dormant faculties of the latter. “Has Agatha seen her child?” he demanded. “No,” replied the wife of Courtenay; “she was insensible at the time of its birth, and I instantly rushed from the chamber to seek counsel of my husband: he could give none; but, terrified as myself, followed me hither. Now, I deem, that as the child has uttered no sound since it came into the world, it were better she were told of its death; it will be but an anticipation of what must happen; for surely such an unhappy object cannot long exist.” “I know not that,” observed Eustace, sadly; “but at least do as thou hast said, and remove the child from the castle.” Courtenay retired from the apartment; and the wish of De la Pole was speedily obeyed.
But it seemed as if this unmeasured sorrow had brought calmness to him whom they feared it would annihilate: he sought not the apartment of his wife, but retired tranquilly to his own; and there was a stillness in it throughout the night, wholly unlike the restless pacings and disturbed groans which had hitherto been heard to issue from it. In the morning he went to Agatha: their conference was long and sad, for traces of tears were on her countenance when they parted; but the shrieks and agonies which had formerly distinguished their interviews were no more; she had caught consolation and fortitude from him, and her mind, it appeared, had now grown as resigned and tranquil as his own.
Eustace made a journey to a distant part of the country: he spoke nothing of his intention previous to his setting out, nor of its object on his return; that it had been of importance, could only be collected from the care with which he had concealed it, and the continual occupations which followed his arrival at Winchester. He was constantly employed in writing, and once or twice had had earnest conversations with Courtenay. It was during one of these that he received an unexpected interruption in the person of Agatha, who entered calmly the apartment of her husband, and demanded his attention. Courtenay arose, and was preparing to retire, when Agatha arrested his steps. “That which I have to say is for thy ear also,” she remarked; “stay, therefore, and answer me. Sleeping on my couch in the midday heat, the voices of my damsels in discourse broke upon my ear, and the sound they uttered gave me to know that my infant boy yet lives; wherefore is it that it is not in the bosom of its mother? and why was it ever banished from her care?” There was a dead silence at the conclusion of this speech. Eustace replied not, and the lip of Courtenay trembled. “Eustace fears to reply,” observed Agatha; “he trembles to accumulate more sorrow upon this drooping head; he may, in tenderness, deceive; but thou, Courtenay, knowest not to lie, and from thy lip must the bitter truth come; wherefore is my infant not here?” “We feared it would die,” answered Courtenay; “and, therefore, in thy already terrible agony, wished to spare thee the spectacle of its dissolution.” “But it did not die,” pertinaciously resumed Agatha; “why was it not restored? it might have brought peace and consolation to the bosom of its mother.” “No, madam,” returned the shuddering speaker; “that child would have brought sorrow and dismay, but no joy to the heart of its unhappy parent. We removed it to a distance, fearing the effect of its appearance upon your mind; it is most fearfully disfigured.” “Disfigured!” repeated Agatha, with a thrilling start. A long pause ensued. “Let her behold the boy,” said Eustace, calmly. “Yes! let me behold my boy,” said the mother, while tears of sorrow heightened the lustre of those splendid eyes; “let me behold my boy; I shall not shrink from his sight, even though he be an eternal remembrancer of”—She paused, and sadly turned her eyes towards her husband. “Well, then, thou hast anticipated aright,” said Eustace; “he will be to thee an eternal remembrancer; to me—that ghastly face:—that pointing hand—I will not behold them; yet do I rejoice in thy resolve, for such is thy painful duty, and thus wilt thou share my sacrifice without enduring my suffering.” He retired as he spoke; and soon after, conducted by Courtenay, in silence and secrecy, the hapless mother folded the ghastly boy to her breast.