John’s ready apprehension caught the words, understood their meaning, and in that instant he resolved to bring them to an explanation, whenever opportunity might favour his design. She had spoken these words with a degree of energy, that apparently exhausted her—Poor fellow, she now said in a faint voice, and reached out her hand, as if inviting him to approach; he sprung from his seat, respectfully received her hand and pressed it to his lips—Am I not to blame, she said, addressing herself to Cecilia, for thus indulging my affection for an object, from whom I must so soon be parted?
No, my dear sister, replied Cecilia; you are only to blame for indulging those melancholy thoughts. Exert yourself for the recovery of your health and spirits; seek amusement in the company of your friends, resort to air and exercise in the place of medicine and confinement, and you may live to see all your apprehensions vanish, and your son made happy, (so may Heaven grant it!) to the completion of your warmest wishes.
Ah my kind comforter, said the mother, I know full well that medicine cannot cure my complaints nor exertion restore my spirits. I am sensible it is not worth my while to seek for a recovery any where, for sure enough it is no where to be found; yet I will acknowledge to you, that unless I were obstinately resolved to devote myself to death, I must not meet another winter in this country. The soft climates of Lisbon or the South of France may give me a few more weeks; and though I have long ceased from enjoying life, I am not reconciled in my conscience to the neglect of any reasonable means for prolonging it. Besides, as I have all the disposition in the world not to disturb Mr. De Lancaster’s repose with certain ceremonials, in which he might think it incumbent on him to take a part, I shall only trouble him to attend upon me to the sea-side, and leave it to other people in another country to follow me to the grave. I perceive myself exactly treading in the steps of my poor mother, and can easily foresee where they will lead me. When she was at my time of life, (as I well recollect,) she was affected just in the same manner as I am. My father talked to her as you talk now to me: he was a kind and tender husband, which, allow me to observe, was one more comfort in her lot than I have to boast of. She had no child but me, and I was about John’s age when I saw her for the last time. She was not in the habit of bestowing any extraordinary caresses upon me, and I seldom was admitted to her, for her spirits did not allow of it. Upon this last meeting however she was extremely kind to me, and the circumstance is the more strongly impressed upon my memory on account of a very singular occurrence, which I can sometimes reflect upon till I fancy myself in her very situation, and hearing the same sounds, as seemed to summon my poor mother to her death-bed.
Of what sort were those sounds? Cecilia asked—Of the most seraphic sort, Mrs. De Lancaster replied, as she described them; such as we may conceive the angels to excite, when they waft a soul into bliss.
By one of those extraordinary coincidences, that sometimes occur, it so chanced, that in the very moment, whilst Mrs. De Lancaster, was describing these strains, heard by her mother before death, David Williams, who had planted himself in the adjoining gallery, gave a flourish on his harp. It was not one of those imposing preludes, that are calculated to display the execution of the master; it was rather meant to invite attention by its melody, than to arrest it by its violence.
Hark! cried Mrs. De Lancaster; do you hear those sounds?—It is only David Williams, Cecilia replied, going to serenade us. If you wish it to be stopped, I’ll tell him—Upon no account, answered the other, I am convinced these things do not happen by chance; and whether the music is produced by natural or supernatural means, I entreat you not to attempt at interrupting it.
Immediately a symphony was played most exquisitely sweet and melodious: the minstrel never was in a happier moment; young John in the mean time kept hold of his mother’s hand, whilst the strain swelled and sunk at times in cadence so enchanting, as might remind Mrs. De Lancaster of those seraphic airs, which were supposed to have visited her dying mother, especially when the following words were distinctly heard, as the blind minstrel chanted them forth to the accompaniment of his harp.
“What art thou, Death; that we should fear
The shadow of a shade?
What’s in thy name, that meets the ear,
Of which to be afraid?
Thou art not care, thou art not pain,
But thou art rest and peace:
’Tis thou can’st make our terrors vain,
And bid our torments cease.
Thy hand can draw the rankling thorn
From out the wounded breast;
Thy curtain screens the wretch forlorn,
Thy pallet gives him rest.