Newspaper Page Text
1852.]
THE DYING MOTHER’S CON
FESSION.
[Concluded from our lat..]
‘ ’Tvvas a strange thing, too, that, dear
ly as her children loved her, the sight
of the Marchioness’s settled melancholy
never seemed to affect their spirits, un
less when her pretence warned them to
moderate their joyous tones within hear
ing of the sufferer. They had grown up
with the sight of her sorrow ever before
their eyes. Ihey could not figure their
mother to themselves otherwise that as
a suffering saint. It was in that gui-e
they understood and loved her; while
they loved each other with all the buoy
ant earnestness* j mi -hrea
fair creatures, Sir, were never apart.—
One place of rest sufficed them; they knelt i
side by side for their evening prayers;
and when the morning sun beamed upon
them again, it was to each other that then
first exclamations of joy and love were
fervently addressed. Sophie would have
dedicated the whole worship of her heart (
to Claire, but that there was an Antoin
ette in the world, and Antoinette would j
have conceived it impossible to love any
thing but Sophie, had not the soft blue
eyes ofCiaire recalled her to the resem
blance of an object equally beloved. ‘1 here
was but one heart, one soul, one hope, one
consciousness, among the three. Hiey
had no need to consult each other—to
confide— to argue -.—they were one !
one doating child to their poor mother
one duteous and pious daughter to the
father they revered. To liveapart would
have been impossible to either of the
three; for as yet no pulse of womanhood
was stirring in their innocent heajt.s,
to suggest the existence ot other ties,
or the future duties of the wde and
mother. ,
‘But all this was drawing to a close,
continued old Victorine, wiping her eyes;
and I was the only person who saw that
a catastrophe was at hand ! Ever} day,
when I visited the Chateau, I perceived
that the sick lady was feebler and feebler
than the day precedin'.;. She no longer
quitted the house; she could scarcely turn
un her bed of misery without assistance;
the only food she tasted was tisane ot
capillaire and other simple febrifuges,
prepared by my hand. Yet she never
murmured. Her answer was always
‘Better’ in reply to the anxious inquiries
of her children. And they believed her !
Affection is so sanguine in its hopes and
confidence.
‘Nevertheless, as winter approached,
the Marquis began to discern symptoms
of an alarming change; and much against
the desire of the invalid, a physician was
fetched from St. Peter’s Port to issue> his
mandate upon her case. But mandate
there was none to issue. The gentleman
was compelled to avow that, although
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZRTTY.
her broken constitution proclaimed his
patient’s condition to be hopeless, he
could guess nothing of the sources of her
disorder.
He knew that she must die—that was
all—and if every learned man were as
honest, it is, perhaps, the utmost Doctors
have to unfold. But guess, Sir, only
guess the change which those few words
wrought in the family at the Chateau !
The first time I beheld the Marquis after
the departure of the physician, he looked
as if he had been turned into a statue of
stone. There was something in the long
enduring sickness of his lady which he
had seemed to reverence, as though it
were the probation of a martyr, and
now tTiat’
that he knew the dust he loved was with
the dust about to mingle,—he began to
reproach himself that he had not earlier
applied to human aid in her behalf. It
was not till she was on the eveofenter
ing into the joy of her Lord, and putting
on immortality, that her husband seemed
to recollect she was born of woman—
a mere child of clay, like others of the
earth !
‘1 will pass over that season of afflic
tion !’ faltered Madame de Tellier. ‘Dur
in<r the gradual decay of the sufferer, it
appeared to me a strange but evident
thing, that the poor, meek, humble in
valid, so long prepared for the worsre,
and so well prepared by the exercise of
every Christian virtue, shrank from the
final consummation ! At times, indeed,
a heavenly fervor was in her uplifted
eyes, as if Hope still existed for her on
high.* But immediately afterwards, a
shudder would come over her wasted
frame, as though her glance had suddenly
fallen upon some dark abyss, still inter
vening between herself and eternal life.
Deep°deep sighs would burst from her
labouring breast when she found, or
fancied herself alone; and often when I
greeted her, of mornings, with gratula
tion that she had rested well, she vyould
answer, in a broken voice, ‘God is too
good to me !—He is leading me with a
tender hand towards the darkest of my
trials. Pray for me, good Victorine;—
dear Victorine, pray for me,— that his
upholding strength may not be with
drawn when my need is the sorest.
Alas, alas ! Sir that was a heavy, heavy
winter to me!’
‘Do not distress yourself by conclud
ing your narrative to-night,’ said Captain
cheeks’of his venerable hostess were
wet with tears, but that even Manon
had drawn aside, and was sobbing vio
‘Nay !’ said Maman Letellier, ‘my tale
is well nigh ended, and 1 would willingly
recur to it no more.’
‘lt is truly a melancholy night,’ re
plied the guest approaching nearer to the
hearth, so thai his arm could reach the
back of the chair, on which little Manon
had concealed her face. ‘The wind
howls dolefully among the trees.—
There will be a hurricane before morn
ing.’
‘And yet,’ resumed Madame Le Tell
ier, ‘the weather is not half so portentous
to-night as on the desolate Christmas Eve
when l was roused from my bed bv one
of the servants of the Chateau, to attend
upon the dying moments of Madame de
St. Sauveur. Throughout that day she
had been better; had occupied herself in
overlooking her aild.cAtwv-wwtt?
season. But towards night she became
suddenly worse, and at midnight the
Marquis, foreseeing the necessity of my
presence, forbade the servants to retire
to bed. Having instantly obeyed his
summons, I wrapt my cloak closely
round me, as 1 stemmed the vio.ence of
the wind in following old Gabriel up the
ascent of the cote. The guests soon ex
tinguished the lanterns but we could
not miss our way, for in the cham
ber of the dying woman high in the
Chateau above the path, there burned
a melancholly watch-light, shining out
through the darkness of the storm with a
fearful and unnatural radiance.
‘I was soon by the bed side. By the
liaht of that ill omened lamp I looked
upon the pale, pale face of Madam,—
scarcely distinguishable from the white
pillow oa which it rested; and noticed
the slender hands devoutedly crossed
upon the breast of the sufferer, as though
it had been too great an indulgence for a
dying sinner to suffer them to be clasped
in the endearing grasp of the loved ones
who knelt around her couch. Mademoi
selle Sophie’s head was buried in the
coverlid;—Claire and Antoinette were
entwined in each other’s arms;—but on
the face of the poor father was utter
despair.
‘‘Take courage !’ said I after having
bent over her, and examined her counte
nance. ‘Heaven has given her renewed
strength. Her breath is free— her pulse
beats stronger. Speak, dear lady . c
their hearts at ease! You are better
are you not?’ ,
“Almost well V replied Madame de
St Sauveur, in a voice whose hollowness
startled her hearers with horror. ‘Raise
me up, Victorine, and give me my last
measures of earthly my
ooul rosy bless you before 1 die.
‘Although nearly motionless, Sir, with
awe, 1 obeyed her injunctions. I raised
her in my arms —1 lifted to her lips a
cordial potion; and, as she stooped her
head to drink, 1 heard a murmur between
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