“I was astonished, that during this confession no word had been uttered by him whom it so deeply concerned. I looked up to behold its effect; he was staring wildly at me, the strong energies of his spirit struggling with the grasp of death to gain time to hear its termination; he strove hard to articulate something; and finally, whether he conquered for some few moments the mighty power that was wrestling with him, or that that power had now incorporated itself with his victim, and given him of its potency, I knew not, but he suddenly grew calm and passionless, pain and convulsion left him, his features assumed a pale rigidity, and his voice the solemn earnestness of the grave, as he spoke. ‘I have no time for question,’ he said; ‘but I pray that the truth may be upon thy lips: soon, very soon, shall we meet again; and my pardon shall be truly thine when thou shalt tell me that my boy sits with honour in the halls of his fathers.’ He paused, placed the hand of his son in mine, and expired without a groan.
“What followed, I need not tell thee; the son of Hugh was restored, and Eustace consigned to a dungeon. The attempts of the people to force from me my secret, you know how I resisted; calmly and even proudly I went to my prison and prepared myself to die. I had humbled myself to De Broke, for to him I had done deep and particular injury; but to these men I owed no other reparation than what my life would pay: what right had they then to demand further humiliation of me, or attempt to rend from my bosom the mystery of its secret purpose? I would die unaccusing, save myself; I would die, shrouded in gloomy dignity,—a man to be wondered at and feared, rather than pitied and scorned. I will willingly furnish their greedy eyes with the awful feast of death, but not their vulgar souls with the struggles and humiliations of mine; my body is the law’s—is theirs; my spirit is beyond their judgment. John de la Pole shall sleep on, embalmed in good opinions; I will not raise up his pall to shew them what corruption festers beneath it; I would not tell them what he was, though it should even lessen in their thought the horror of what I am. Grand and silent death—majestic in thy obscurity—I wait to bid thee welcome!
“Thus far had I written, and thought that my story in the book of life had come to its close, but other events have crowded upon me; and before my death, (which will be on the morrow,) I would tell thee the incidents of the last few days. Thou knowest how calmly I beheld thee depart from my prison, and how little emotion I manifested at my fate; but when thou wert gone, when I was alone, in chains, degraded, the enthusiasm of the moment past, and my spirit inactive, I wept bitter tears at the waywardness of my early fate; yet I relaxed not in my determination; I came hither to die, and nothing was left me but to finish my purpose nobly. It is my will to doom a murderer, and I am he so doomed. I wept, yet persisted; cursed the cruelty which had destroyed me, and yet prayed to my brother for pardon. Of the future I had as yet scarcely thought; hitherto I had been solely employed about the method of quitting this world, without much considering the terms of my admission to another; now I pondered long, with anxiety, but not with fear. Creeds puzzled me—I made not my own heart—I cannot be answerable for its opinions. I have committed a deadly sin—I am about to expiate it with my blood—I cannot do more; and is not this sacrifice greater than the cant of sorrow and the whinings of prayer from one who never prayed before? The one is from myself, the child of my resolution—the other the offspring of fear—But I was distracted still, and bewildered. It was in this disturbed state that I was startled by a light sound in my prison—I listened—a soft voice, for the second time, pronounced in kindly accents, ‘My brother!’ I started up and gazed around me; on the opposite side of my dungeon stood the form of John de la Pole, but not as I had seen him last, pale, menacing, and bloody, but with that mild aspect and gentle look that had distinguished his early brotherhood, ere Agatha’s fatal beauty cut asunder the knot that bound our souls together. ‘Thou hast done well,’ said the gentle spirit, ‘thus to render up thy life for thy crime; thy severe justice hath merited and obtained thy pardon; my sufferings, too, the punishment for unrepented sin, thy firmness hath terminated; and the days of Agatha shall henceforth flow more peaceful. Soon shalt thou be with me, O brother! and the kiss of immortality shall be given to thee by my lips: weep not—doubt not—but bear all things steadfastly; in thine hour of agony I will stand by thy side.’
“A tender grief overpowered my spirit as he spoke, and tears fell from my eyes. I extended my arms as if I would have embraced him, but the barrier between the living and the dead could not as yet be passed, and the shadow receded from my touch. But this visitation had brought joy to my heart and tranquillity to my spirit, and the arrival of Agatha at the prison still further reconciled me to my doom. ‘Thy sacrifice is hallowed,’ she said; ‘thou wilt die, but I must live to expiate my crime, as the slave of thy ghastly son, till Heaven shall call him to itself. He stood by my couch last night; smilingly he looked upon me, as in the days of his early love, and bade me live and hope: in this world I shall behold him no more! but thou, my beloved! thou art for the distant land, and the abode whither he is gone before thee. Oh that I might share thy doom, as I have already partaken thy guilt!’
“We parted—let me not dwell upon that—we parted for ever; for me there remained a mighty duty to fulfil, and from which I did not shrink—no, not even when those who had been my friends sought to wring my secret from my heart by the infliction of the torture: I pitied them, but not myself.
“The day of torture came; thou wert by my side, and didst urge a voluntary death to rescue me from agony and the stare of burning eyes eagerly watching my pangs. I rejected thy counsel; yet didst thou not forsake me, but marched to the scene of my infamy by my side. All around, as I went thither, did I look for the promised appearance of my brother, and trembled lest I should not behold him. ‘Surely this is mine hour of agony,’ I said, as I ascended the steps of the scaffold; ‘wherefore is he not by my side?’ And the guest from the other world,—he beneath whose scowl my heart had for months been withering,—was desired with more impatience than ever I had felt for the presence of earthly friends. I had not long to fear or to doubt—he was there before me; on reaching the scaffold, I beheld him standing by the block, and calmly and silently smiling a welcome to his brother. Thou didst behold my firmness, and the multitude saw my composure with wonder; but they beheld not the cause; they saw not that he was looking on, and that I drew in resolution from his smile, and firmness from his awful brow.
“The ineffectual agony was past—curiosity was silenced—and I was condemned to die; and to-morrow I shall die,—from all that I have loved, hated, or valued, I shall be torn to-morrow. The last sunset is falling upon my paper, is gilding my pen as I write; to-morrow it will sparkle upon the edge of the axe, and illuminate a brow from which the inward light will have departed for ever; to-morrow will be the scene of my last humiliation; but he will be there to witness it; and convert it by his presence into a triumph: and, when all shall be over, when the last mortal throb shall be past, what then shall be my destiny? ‘Thou art pardoned,’ he said; ‘and an immortality is before thee!’ Oh, then, let me hope for an immortality of peace! Now, then, I will go sleep—exhausted nature must be recruited for her great labour to-morrow—for these broken limbs, these strained sinews, and this bruised flesh, must needs want repose, ere they can encounter the task of fresh exertion. Serve me well, ye mangled limbs, but to-morrow, and I shall require your service no more.—Courtenay, good night.”
Such was the tale of the fratricide, and of him who was his victim: of her who survived the deaths of both, no more was heard; for upon Courtenay’s going to the cottage at the period she had appointed to receive her last commands, he learned she had quitted it two days previous, but had left a small parcel to be given to him; it contained a few remembrances of herself and Eustace, and the following letter:—
“Courtenay—
“In giving thee the papers containing our story, I have obeyed the last wish of him whose lightest word was a law to me; but I cannot look on thee again after this communication. Grieve not for me, for my lot will not be wretched; the death of my child has released me from the world, and I hasten to withdraw myself from it: I had arranged all things for the purpose before I sent to request thy presence. Endeavour not to discover me; such search would be fruitless and vain. I retire from the kingdom; and in a convent of Clairs, beneath the habits and rules of the order, and under another name, conceal for ever, from the eyes of the world, the person, the crime, and the sorrow of
“Agatha de la Pole.”