CHAPTER XIV.

THE DEATH-BED OF THE DUKE OP DURIMOND.

The illness of the Duke of Durimond became more and more serious. Adelaide's friends offered to join her, but she said the duke's mind required peculiar treatment, and that more company in the house might annoy him. From the time of his leaving England the duke's associates had observed a great alteration in his manners and habits. Whereas he was formerly the gayest of the gay, he now shunned society. Soon after his arrival at Vienna he had engaged an Italian servant of seemingly unusual education and seriousness, and him he admitted into his confidence; to him he entrusted the direction of his private affairs. When he returned home, at those different intervals we have mentioned, this servant accompanied him, and was treated by the duke less as a humble dependent than as a valuable friend. The man held aloof from the other inmates of the castle, and was waited on in his own apartment by the duke's express order. Now, when the duke returned home, he was accompanied not only by this Italian gentleman or servant, whichever he might be, but by two other Italian valets, very serious for their state in life, who waited on the duke and on his friend to the exclusion of the English menials who had formerly access to the ducal apartments.

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The duke was a prisoner in his own room, rarely could he ever leave his bed. Adelaide came at stated intervals to inquire after the state of his health, and in all formality took her seat at his side. Madame de Meglior often accompanied her, and to the surprise of both ladies a request was urgently preferred that Euphrasie might be induced to pay daily morning visits to the sick chamber, at a time when none were usually admitted.

The duchess looked her astonishment, but the duke took her hand with more kindness and less of ceremony than usual, and said:

"Nay, do not be surprised, your grace; I am a poor man, now about to appear before my Maker. I need all the assistance I can get, and I have faith in the prayers of Euphrasie. The hour named for her is the hour of prayer: if you will come also, believe me you will be welcome."

"Prayer, what prayer?"

"The most solemn prayer that can be offered, that which accompanies the most holy sacrifice of the new law."

As the duke spoke, M. Martigni, the man of business we have spoken of, pulled aside a curtain which had been hung before an alcove opposite to which the duke's bed had been placed, and there a beautiful little marble altar, appropriately adorned, became visible. Adelaide gazed in mute surprise.

"What am I to infer from this, your grace?"

"That at the last hour, I, a miserable sinner, dare to hope pardon from an outraged God, because he sent his Son to die on the cross for me! O Adelaide! the gods of this world, as your father so justly calls them--the gods of this world, pride, lust, sensuality, love of power, and ambition, but rise to reproach us when we draw near to our end. Long, too long did I resist my sweet Ellen's lessons! I felt, indeed, that something within me said we could not utterly die; but I was leading a life for self--I could not see the truth; but at last, late, too late I knew my duty. Adelaide, for two years past I have been reconciled to the Catholic church!"

"It is to attend Mass, then, I presume, that your grace desires Euphrasie's company?" said Adelaide.

"It is," replied the duke; "if any will accompany her, they will be welcome."

But this the duchess took especial care to prevent. She whispered to Madame de Meglior, as they quitted the apartment:

"The malady has touched his brain; say nothing of what has happened."

This was the cause of Adelaide's reluctance to have more company in the house. On this account she declined alike the visits of the duke's relatives and of her own. She wish the matter to be kept a profound secret from all; and though she permitted Euphrasie to comply with the duke's request, it was on the express condition of her keeping the fact unknown. But such precautions as these, though feasible for a time, are useless in the end. The duke's disorder was of a painful, lingering, and variable nature. Sometimes he would be confined to his room, and even to his bed for weeks together, then he would rally a little, go into the adjoining sitting-room, and once or twice even took an airing in his carriage. No excuse could be framed, then, for excluding relations so rigorously. Mr. Godfrey became annoyed at the attempt, and at length, suspecting some latent motive, sent Eugene to the castle to find out the secret, if there were one.

Eugene, on his entrance, met and recognized Martigni, and by him was introduced into the duke's apartment before Adelaide knew he was in the house. He found the duke propped up by pillows and seated near the window. He greeted the young man cordially, though with a half reproach that he did not come before.

"I have been very ill, Eugene" he said; "sometimes I hardly thought to be alive till morning, and I wished to say a few words to your father about my wife, but none of you came near me!"

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Eugene looked, as his felt, surprised. "We were given to understand that a visit from us would not be agreeable to your grace" he said; "and being hurt at the intimation, especially as the exclusion lasted so long, I came to-day to ascertain the cause."

"I gave no such intimation, I wished for no such exclusion, rather the contrary; but perhaps Adelaide--I think I divine the cause; you must excuse your sister, Eugene. Perhaps she is more annoyed than she showed to me. To me she is ever polite, but doubtless she is annoyed; perhaps it is natural that she should be so," and the duke hesitated.

"Annoyed! At what, may it please your grace? You cannot think that 'annoyed' is a term applicable to my sister's feeling at your illness?"

"No! no! not at my illness, no! But, Eugene, I have spent a long life of vanity before the world, and ere I die I should like the world to know what perhaps the duchess would fain conceal, that I repent of my iniquities, that I thankfully before the chastising hand that has laid me low, that I prize my sufferings as the greatest blessing, as a token that God has not forsaken me, though for so many years I forsook him. Eugene, I am a Catholic!"

"God be thanked!" involuntarily escaped from the young man's lips, as his hand was clasped in that of the duke, and tears started to his eyes, "God be thanked!"

The door opened and the duchess entered. At one glance she understood all, and that her surmises of Eugene had also been correct.

"The duke is better to-day," she coldly said. "We have had a long time of anxiety, but perhaps even yet he may rally and be himself again."

"I dare not flatter you, sister," answered Eugene. "His grace's looks are not those of a convalescent."

"No! no!" said the duke. "No health for me again. Suffering, perhaps, for a long time yet, but no health; but I know not why my illness should induce your grace to lead so lonely a life as you have lately chosen. Let me beg of you to surround yourself with your family; Eugene says they wait but your bidding."

Adelaide colored. "I fear the disturbance will be too much for your grace's repose."

"Not at all, not at all; the house is large, many might be in it and I not hear a sound. I should be gratified by knowing that you had friends with you when I depart. Send for your friends, I beg of you. Eugene, perhaps you will write to Mr. Godfrey in my behalf, to inform him of my wishes?"

"I will, your grace."

And the family came; and still Adelaide tried to conceal from her father a secret which was already known to Eugene. She scarcely hoped to be able to do so long; but the annoyance to her was so excessive that she could not bring herself to speak of it, and she hoped others would decide, as she tried to decide in her own mind, that the duke's intellect was affected. But then Eugene! he was smitten with the same mania! She felt sure of that, though no words had ever passed on the subject.

* * * * *

"Mr. Godfrey," said the duke, when at length there was an interview between the two--"Mr. Godfrey, tell me what you wish me to do more for your daughter. A handsome jointure is secured to her; the estates are entailed; but tell me anything else I can do to promote her happiness, and it shall be done."

This was the spirit in which the invalid conversed, and in which he executed all that was proposed to him for Adelaide. She had no cause of complaint, and his manifest care of her softened that haughty heart a little. Had he not been a Catholic she could have been grateful to him; but she was the more irritated at this fact, that now she dared not set up the plea of imbecility to account for it, for that {480} plea would have invalidated the newly drawn up documents in her favor; all her hope consisted in concealment.

Eugene was often with the duke, who at length ventured to speak to him on a subject which caused him great mental anguish. He had never been able to trace Ellen, nor to transmit to her any pecuniary aid. He suspected, indeed, that the Catholic bishop could have afforded him information, but he was inflexible in refusing to do so. A considerable sum of money had been set apart for Ellen's use, and a fortune provided for the boy. "Perhaps," said the duke, "after my death the bishop might enable you, Eugene, to trace the mother and child, and induce them to accept the provision. Will you undertake the commission?"

"Most willingly," said Eugene.

"When I am dead, let it be," said the duke. "Ellen will take nothing from me living--when I am dead she will be more easily persuaded. I know she must wish a high education for her son. She will not, I hope, refuse assistance for that. But even if she does, I have settled his money separately, that he may be sure of getting it. Tell Ellen, too, that I died a Catholic; I know she has long prayed for this; and tell her that I rejoice now that I have no child save hers, my only son. Let strangers take the estate that had so nearly wrecked my soul. O Eugene! none but Catholics can understand the benediction pronounced by our Lord on poverty! The possession of power, of wealth, of glory, fan our egotistical feelings, and lead us more and more astray. I think I should not dare to trust myself with them again, had I still power to use them. And I thank God I have not the power, lest the temptation should again prove too strong for my virtue."

The duke lingered on for months, long months. How tediously did those months pass to the Godfrey family--to the duchess in particular--to all, save Eugene. In the sick-chamber he passed most of his time. To Adelaide's joy, her father had not yet discovered the fatal secret. He was so busy, acting for the duke, transacting business, arranging tenantry, etc.; and then he spent long hours in the glorious pagan temple, the gods of which he had taken care to secure as Adelaide's personal possession, and for the reception of which he was building a large hall at the jointure-house, that when the castle they now inhabited should pass to the heir-at-law, he might be able to take possession of these trophies of art at once.

Such was the friendship and delicacy of the man of the world! The summer passed, the winter came, and a wintry change came over the invalid. One evening he called his wife, his friends, his domestics, every inmate of the house, into his presence, and, one by one, begged their forgiveness for every uneasiness he had caused them, for every bad example he had set them, and begged of them to pray for him as for one who was about to appear before God, to give account of a mis-spent life. To Adelaide, and to her father, mother, and sister, this appeared like a well-acted scene; but the domestics, nay, even Madame de Meglior retired in tears.

Night came. An oppression was over the household. None cared to retire to rest, and yet none dared again approach the duke's apartment. Mrs. Godfrey sat in Adelaide's room that night while Hester was with Madame de Meglior. Euphrasie was missing, but, as usual, was forgotten. Even Mr. Godfrey partook in some measure of the excitement. He had asked the physician that evening more anxiously than usual, how the patient was; and though the response had been, "Somewhat better," he, with the household, did not give it credence.

He paced his chamber, lay down on a sofa, rose, and paced it again; looked at his watch--one, two, three, four o'clock; how long the hours were that night! He opened his door, walked out, and paused at the door of his daughter's room. He heard speaking, {481} gently he tapped, his wife opened the door to him; neither she nor the daughter had been in bed.

"Any news? whispered he.

"No! All is quiet in the duke's chamber."

"I will go and see," he said.

He passed through the whole retinue of domestics in the galleries. Not one had gone to bed, yet all were hushed; not one had ventured to make inquiries at the sick-room door.

Mr. Godfrey passed silently on, his foot-fall was scarcely heard. A dull sound as of low continuous speaking came from the duke's apartment. The door was not locked; he turned the handle gently and went in without rapping. What a scene met his view! Candles were lighted on the altar. Beside it, rapt in prayer, knelt Euphrasie. The stranger, Martigni, robed in the sacred vestments, was in the act of placing the Holy of Holies upon the tongue of the dying man, whom Eugene was tenderly supporting in his arms. The sick man sank back on the pillow as the priest left him, and the prayers continued; Mr. Godfrey paused. A sensation of wondering anger stole over him, yet he waited for the benediction of the priest. Eugene was on his knees by the bedside. The ceremony over, Mr. Godfrey approached him, shook him, and in a harsh whisper said:

"Boy, what mummery is this?"

Eugene rose. The sick man opened his eyes. A bright smile broke over his features. "No mummery," he faintly said.

Then again there was a pause, and a gasping for breath, and the eyes closed. They opened again: "Jesus have mercy; Mary help," were the last words he uttered, and he died.

It was no time for explanation. Mr. Godfrey retired. On leaving the chamber he became aware that imprudently the door he had left half open had partially revealed to the domestics, now assembled without the chamber, that something unusual was taking place within. To their questions, Mr. Godfrey replied: "He is dead." And instantly the chamber was filled with weeping mourners. Good, kind, and liberal had been the master they had lost, and he was much beloved. To their wonder they beheld the altar on which stood the unextinguished candles. Before it knelt the priest, chaunting, in a very low voice, the office for the dead, which was responded to by the Italian valets kneeling beside the bed. Euphrasie had disappeared, but on the bed lay the corpse, one hand grasping the crucifix. They stood rooted to the spot at the strangeness of the scene. They had not yet satisfied their wonder when the duchess entered. She cast one look on the bed; then approaching the priest, said:

"You will please to quit this chamber as soon as convenient, and disencumber the room of these useless toys."

Eugene sprang to her side. "Sister," said he, "in the name of Heaven, do nothing rashly. Leave these things to me; to me give your orders; on my honor they shall be obeyed."

The duchess bethought herself one moment. "Clear the room of these, then," she said, pointing to the wondering domestics.

Eugene obeyed.

"Now," said the duchess, "let there be an end of this foolery. In an hour I will send those hither whose duty it is to tend the dead. By that time let no vestige remain of this offensive foreign trumpery; and let these strangers quit the house."

The tone was too decided to be disputed; the commands were obeyed; and so successfully did Mr. Godfrey assist his daughter in giving the lie to the reports that were spread through the neighborhood, that it came at last to be considered as an established fact that the whole scene of the death-bed was got up by a concerted plan of the Italian valets, who hoped in this way to convert their master at his dying hour, and the duke himself being insensible made no opposition! Thus can the "great ones" of the earth oft condescend to lie, though they would {482} challenge a man to a duel who dared to question the nicety of their honor.

For many days the duke lay in state in his ancestral hall; from far and near crowds came to gaze on the gorgeously fitted up apartment, hung with emblazoned hatchments, encircled round with all the trappings of woe. Eugene had quitted the house at the time of the duke's decease, in company with the foreigners his sister had commanded to depart. He reappeared on the day of the funeral, and requested to speak with his mother. To his surprise he found her haggard and worn, and traces of excessive weeping were on her countenance. She greeted him kindly, made him sit down beside her, took his hand in hers and held it, but wept instead of speaking. Eugene was puzzled and alarmed, for all agitation was unusual with his mother. They were alone together, yet the silence was not broken. After awhile a servant came to say that the procession was forming for the funeral, he supposing that Eugene came expressly to attend it.

"Shall I go, mother?" said Eugene, but his mother held him fast, and shook her head.

"It would be better not," she said; "they might be bitter even on a day like this. No, Eugene, do not see your father yet. Go home, I will be there in a few days. We will talk matters over, and all will be right again. Your father and Hester will remain a short time with Adelaide. But you and I will go home. Do not stay here now, but meet me tomorrow at the post-house ten miles from this. I will be there at ten o'clock. I will stop the carriage for you to ride home with me."

Eugene wonderingly assented; and as she seemed anxious to get him out of the house, he left as soon as the vast cortege had disappeared.

Crowds of nobility, crowds of gentry, crowds of tenantry accompanied the corpse as it was borne to the family vault. A collation was afterward spread for the guests; they partook of it, went home, and in less than a month were eager in paying court to a new duke, and the late one was to them as though he had never been.