A week later they found themselves in Paris, and Paul was still improving in health. Here they rested a short time, and strove by every means to dispel the melancholy which still brooded over him. When summer arrived they repaired to one of the German watering-places. The two succeeding years were spent in Italy, and then, as Mr. Weldon’s health declined, and he pined for the air of his native land, they returned to London. Immediately after their arrival Lady Laura fell ill and died.
The corpse was removed for interment to Weldon. The anxious father would fain have left Paul in London; but the latter persisted in paying the last sad rites to his mother.
He was deeply affected when, after his long absence, he found himself gazing again on the scene of his sin and suffering. His thoughts, were, however, diverted from such reflections by his grief for his mother.
Next day she was buried. For a fortnight Paul never left his father’s side; the old man was sinking rapidly. At the expiration of that time Mr. Weldon was laid beside his wife, and Paul was alone in the world. On his death-bed Mr. Weldon entreated his son to leave England immediately after his funeral, and advised him not to return until time had entirely obliterated the past.
The funeral was over, and Paul sat alone in his chamber, looking silently and sadly toward the church, in whose dreary vaults his parents now slept their last sleep. That benumbing sensation of utter desolation which comes when we have seen the grave close over those nearest and dearest to us, stole over his heart. The past, with its shadowy memories, arose in his mind. He thought of the beloved but mistaken mother who had cherished him so fondly—of the noble father who regarded him with so much pride. He remembered the affectionate words and caresses that he had received from them, and sighed to think how frequently he had caused them unnecessary pain by his boyish willfulness. But those lamented ones were lost to him forever. They lay in the cold gloomy vault, in the lonely church. Then his thoughts wandered to an humble grave in the church-yard. He remembered the fair young girl that he had betrayed; he thought of her wild love and his crime, and felt that God’s just and unfailing retribution had already commenced. He was alone in the world; those whom he had most loved had been snatched away by death. There, in the bounds of that church, rested father, mother, and the one he had betrayed.
He arose and sought their resting-place. There at least he would be less lonely, for would not they be near him, although invisible to his sight? He hastened to the church-yard. He sought among the graves until a simple stone, with the single word “Lucy,” told him who slept beneath. He knelt beside the grave, gazing intently on it, as though his sight could pierce the earth to where she lay within her coffin. He fancied he saw her, pale, cold, rigid, as on that fatal morning when he last beheld her. He remembered how time had flown, and knew that her beauteous form had long since returned to its original clay. He smoothed the long grass that grew above her, and parted the creeping ivy that partly enveloped the grave-stone. Flowers had been planted around, and they bloomed and flourished luxuriously. He hated them when he remembered that they drew their nourishment from the ashes of the dead. Gradually the feeling changed. He plucked one of them and gazed into its cup, until he fancied he saw her face within its depth. He recalled to mind how she had loved them in her life, and felt that even in the spirit-land she delighted in their grateful incense. Their presence at her grave finally comforted him. A slight whirring sound, followed by a sharp cry, startled him. He raised his eyes, and glanced nervously toward the spot from whence the sound proceeded. Upon a grave-stone near him sat a bird, which, as he gazed on it, uttered another cry, and soared away into the azure overhead. He followed it with his eyes until it disappeared, and then, urged by an irresistible impulse, arose and approached the grave on which the bird had perched. He glanced at the head-stone, and read the name of “Mary White” on its pure surface. A heavy groan burst from his lips, as the words met his eyes. He did not need words to tell him the history of the broken-hearted mother who slept beneath the marble. He felt it all; she, too, was dead, and her blood also rested on his soul! The bitter curse which, in the madness of her anguish she had invoked, rang again in his ears. “He should never know peace.” The dead had said it. The desolate mother had called down curses on him ere she died, and they were already closing around him. He was, indeed, accursed. Father and mother had been taken from him. The joyousness of youth had passed forever. Remorse had fastened its fangs in his heart. A demon pursued him wherever he fled. His senses whirled; the hot blood danced madly through his veins. He bared his brow, that the soft air might cool the fever of his brain. He felt the old mood returning. He feared that he would again become insane. He knew himself on the very verge of madness, and strove to restore the balance of his mind. He entered the church, and resting his burning head upon the cold marble underneath which his parents reposed, endeavored to calm himself—to tear his thoughts from subjects which he dreaded to dwell on. He remembered his promise to his dying father, and felt that, to save himself from madness, he must fulfill it, and that quickly. Still Weldon had an irresistible charm for him, since he was there near the resting-place of his lost ones. He could come daily to water the grave of his injured, murdered love with repentant tears. But he was bound by his pledge, and he fully recognized the wisdom which dictated it. Gradually he became more composed, his mind grew more clear, and still kneeling, with bowed head, he entreated his dear parents to offer up the prayer for him which he himself dared not make.
He remained thus until the last rays of the setting sun left the spire of the church, when a step by his side aroused him. He turned and beheld his father’s steward. Tears stood in the old man’s eyes, as, with a faltering voice, he addressed him.
“Pardon me, sir, for intruding upon your grief,” said he; “but he who sleeps below required me to perform the duty which brings me here. He bade me entreat you to leave Weldon as soon as he was laid in his grave. Forgive my boldness; but I hope you will obey his urgent, often-repeated request.”
“And did he say I must go so soon, Elwood?” asked Paul, anxiously.
“He did,” replied the old man. “Indeed he wished you to depart in a few hours after his funeral. I ought to have told you before; but I could not interrupt the indulgence of your grief. There is a sacred comfort in weeping alone over the graves of those whom we love.”