Norman Leslie a tale of the present times |
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| 17. | CHAPTER XVII. |
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 | CHAPTER XVII. Norman Leslie |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
A View behind the Curtain.
“To lie in cold obstruction.”
—Shakspeare.
In a small chamber, far removed from the gallery
and suite of rooms open to the curiosity and
admiration of visiters, the old Marquis Torrini lay,
“couched on a curious bed,” surrounded by mirrors,
himself to die. The priest sat by his couch,
arrayed in his holy vestments. The patient was
dreadfully emaciated with sickness, and apparently
overcome with terror at the thoughts of his approaching
fate.
“Father Ambrose,” said the dying marquis, in a
weak voice, “you have desired to see me alone;
speak quick, for they say my time is short.”
“I could well pray,” said the priest, “that your
days might be lengthened, but—”
“You think such prayers would be useless?” interrupted
the marquis, his eyes turning with an expression
of horror upon his companion.
“I am certain,” replied the other, “that the Marquis
Torrini desires his servant to speak candidly.”
The patient cast on him another look of despair,
and murmured, as if half to himself,—
“It is not possible—it cannot be—they deceive
me, surely. Die? die?” he repeated, with an emphasis
of terror and bewildered torment; “lose
this being—moulder, dissolve away into nauseous
matter, into living corruption?”
He shuddered, and covered his face.
“My kind and noble friend,” cried the priest.
“These eyeballs,” continued the marquis, “with
which I see thy face, fallen from their sockets—
these lips crumbled to ashes—this hand, this moving,
sensible, living hand, struck to a motionless,
unmeaning, unfeeling clod—the flesh dropped from
the bones, the sinews unstrung—the joints unlocked?
Holy Christ, it is impossible!”
The wretched invalid let fall the skeleton hand
which he had held up and extended before him as
he spoke, and covered his face.
“My dear lord,” said the priest, in a low voice,
“these are the whisperings of the fiend to turn your
till your last moment, not leaving you calmness
sufficient for the arrangement of your earthly circumstances.”
“No!” said the dying man, “it is not the fiend
—it is nature—it is instinct. The horror of death
is planted in our breasts. Jesus himself yielded,
and cried out on the cross. Where a God trembles,
oh! what is left for man!”
“The recollection,” said the priest gently, but
quickly, “that he trembled for us his children—
that he put on these mortal sufferings, to open for
us the gates of Paradise. Lift up your eyes to
Heaven!”
“Ambrose!” said the patient, “it is a falsehood!
What have I done to you that you join in this
mummery—that you would affright my soul with
idle and dreadful apprehensions? I know I am
weak and nervous; but I may yet live. I am
stronger and much better to-day. Medicine has
enfeebled me more than disease. I am sure—sure,
dear Ambrose, of regaining my health.”
The priest cast his eyes upwards, and his lips
moved.
“Why do you pray?” asked the marquis.
“For you, my brother! I am not one of those
who, for an idle tenderness, would suffer you to
meet the crisis which awaits you, perhaps this day,
perhaps this hour—”
“Holy Christ!” murmured the terrified noble.
“Blindfolded, and ignorant where you go,” continued
the priest, disregarding the interruption.
“The beast brought up for slaughter may yield his
throat to the knife without previous warning. He
may feel the life-blood ebb and bubble away, and
the icy faintness of death steal over his stiffening
and quivering limbs, with only the brutishness of
is a gift of mercy from God. But you are
immortal; and the hour approaches when you must
bid farewell to earth for ever!”
The marquis's face whitened to a yet more livid
ghastliness; he rolled his starting eyeballs towards
the solemn and severe face of the speaker.
“And you tell me then, Ambrose, with your
priestly sanctity, that this is death upon me?”
“Death!” echoed the priest.
“That this stately mansion—my villas—my palaces—my
untold treasures—my proud hopes, are
all gone?”
“Bubbles!” cried the priest—“passing, hollow,
idle bubbles!”
“Holy Virgin! save me!” cried the courtier, in
a changed tone of voice: after a moment's pause—
“Where are your prayers, priest?” and he wiped
off, with his clammy hand, the drops that stood on
his forehead.
“They have ascended to Heaven in all the
watches of the night!” replied the other, meekly
and devoutly.
“And with what avail, Ambrose?” asked the
marquis.
“The ways of God,” said the priest, “cannot be
read by mortals. Death comes to all, at some time
or other.”
“And your miracles, too,” said the marquis, who,
while in reality quite destitute of any rational religion
or supporting belief, was merged in the darkness
and paradoxes of the blackest superstition—
“your sacred brethren have raised the dead. Oh!
can they not save the living? Think, Ambrose,
think! has your church no relic? have your saints
no power? You have called the waters of the
clouds upon the earth. You have cured the lame,
have benefited by your intercessions and your
power. I am none of these. I am rich, noble!
Drive this dreadful sickness from my veins. Pour
health and strength into my heart. Give me once
more to tread the green grass, to hear the birds in
the grove, to look on bright nature—to be a man!
Do this, Ambrose, and I will make you wealthy—
you shall revel in gold!”
The voice of the speaker grew husky and choked,
and he fell back exhausted.
The priest looked down a moment on his ghastly
face, his blue shrivelled lips, his loosened and discoloured
teeth, his emaciated cheeks, his hollow
eyes, his sunken temples, and shook his head.
“Marquis Torrini,” he said, after looking cautiously
around the apartment, as if to be secure
against listeners, “your hopes of earth are vain. I
may not trifle with you on this your last day—per-adventure
your last hour. The wealth of Europe,
of the world; the powers of science, of necromancy;
nay, the virtue of prayer and divine relics, can
stead you nothing.”
The marquis groaned fearfully, and cast his eyes
around the apartment, as if to survey for the last
time the objects and images from which he was
about to part for ever.
“Oh, save me!” he at length muttered—“save
me! save me!”
“Nay, hear me further,” continued his ghostly
adviser. “Death alone, the mere bodily pang, is
nothing. Till it touches you, you live: when it
comes, it is gone. I would that death itself were
your only fear.”
“Sacred Mother!” ejaculated the invalid.
“You are old, marquis,” continued the priest;
“your locks are white; your stay has been long in
the land.”
“Oh! short it seems to me.”
“You are ungrateful, now in your dying hour, as
you have ever been—ungrateful to Heaven! Your
years have been years of pleasure; you have wallowed
in luxury; you have laughed, revelled, danced,
and gambled. What right have you to call on
the Holy Mother? What offering of yours has
ever hung on her altar? When has your knee bent
in her homage?”
“By all the saints!” exclaimed the marquis, remonstratingly,
“morning and night, for fifty years,
have I knelt before her image.”
“Ay!” cried the priest. “Your knee—your
corporeal knee, has touched the crimson cloth, and
your idle and unthinking tongue has paid her useless
homage. But the Holy Mother of God is not
propitiated by such valueless breath and unmeaning
motion. By the true cross! I tell you I cannot,
I dare not, at this instant pray for your soul. The
silent words rise sluggishly in my bosom, and part
heavily from my lips. Some leaden influence, some
fiendish weight, clogs their airy wings, and they
fall back unheard.”
“Oh, pious father! I confess my sins. Intercede
for me—push, compel your holy prayers upward—
urge, urge their flight—I will aid you. By Saint
Giovanni, your words startle and affright me!”
“Rash, careless man!” said the priest, in a more
severe tone, perceiving that he had fully aroused
the childish superstition of the sick man, “it is in
vain! It is in vain! The fiend has the advantage.
You have deserted Heaven—Heaven deserts you!
The evil one, even now, enters your room. He
gloats upon your dying torments.”
“Saints of heaven!”
“He passes your bedside unrebuked; he watches
by your pillow, and triumphs in anticipation over
of.”
“Ambrose! by the blood of Christ! for the sake
of the Virgin! aid me, advise me, rescue me—what
shall I do?”
The nervous and dying noble crouched in his
bed, covered his face with the clothes, and spoke
in an agonized voice, which evinced the extremity
of superstitious terror.
“My lord marquis,” said the priest, “you know
I love you. It was to save you that I sought your
bed.”
“Thanks—the thanks of a lost, dying sinner!
divine Ambrose!”
“You know, in our holy church, there are divers
relics, impregnate with supernatural virtue. Among
them reposes, in its sacred case, a nail of the true
cross. You know, also, that over the southern
door, not far from the statue of God the Father, is
a group of the Madona and our Saviour, between
two angels. Late last night I entered the deserted
and sacred pile alone; and with devout and earnest
adoration produced the mystic nail. Its wondrous
influence shed through the gloomy and immense
aisles a calm and effulgent light, full of indescribable
glory. Placing it on the altar, I knelt for an
hour; and, as I have already said, prayed for your
welfare—long, long I prayed!”
“In vain? in vain?” demanded the invalid, gasping
in his intense anxiety.
“In vain! For a slow-rolling hour, much ado I
had, marquis, to gain for you the ear of Heaven.
There are those for whom, at the very first revealment
of the blessed nail, the Virgin descends at
once, and speaks aloud.”
“Go on—go on—oh, holy man!”
“At length, as I knelt, the Virgin Mother descended
the altar. I urged your cause. She frowned severely
on me, and my heart quailed; but at length
she said, `There is one hope on earth for your dying
sinner. He can yet show that he is willing to
sacrifice to Jesus.' ”
“How? Ambrose—how?”
“Bending my forehead till it touched the marble
floor, even thus did I ask the sacred Virgin, `How,
oh, Mother of God!' I said, `can the dying sinner
be saved from the flames of hell?' ”
“And then—Ambrose—and then?”
“ `Let him bestow his daughter on the convent
of St. U—,' she said, and disappeared.”
“My child! my child! my sweet girl!” murmured
the marquis.
“I know,” said the priest, “that she is the hope
of your heart; but what would become of her without
you? The vile world—the bad, corrupt world
—the poisonous, polluting, wild world, would blacken
her pure innocence. The snares of Satan are
already spread for her tender feet. Have you provided
for her?”
“She is the heiress of all my wealth.”
“All? Now, marquis, behold! The Virgin
comes—she descends in a cloud of light and soft
fire. Look, she turns her heavenly eyes on you.
The evil one, whom now I behold lurking by your
side, shrinks away and trembles, lest by one great
act, worthy to make you a saint, you baffle his toils
for ever, and rise among the blessed. Send your
daughter to the convent of St. U—; send her
there, a pure, unsoiled victim on the altar. Her
stainless prayers will plead for you like thunder!
Her virtues will be a spell to guard you from wo.
Look, now, marquis—look how he trembles!”
“Who trembles?” said the marquis, raising himself
around the room.
“He—look—the evil one, with his huge eyes of
fire glaring over you, and breathing of smoke and
sulphur.”
“Save me, Ambrose!”
“See! he starts, lest with one fell blow you
strike him for ever to the dust, and send him howling
and limping back to hell.”
“I will, Ambrose—I will bestow my daughter,”
said the half-fainting, wretched victim. “But my
wealth—what will become of my vast treasures?”
“Thy cousin Alezzi,” rejoined the priest.
“But my will is made.”
“Revoke it.”
“I am faint, I am sick; my eyes grow dim.”
“Ever watchful for your soul's salvation,” cried
the priest, “I have already prepared a will—you
have but to sign. Behold, the fiend already retreats
from your bed, and the Mother of God smiles and
nods!”
“But, Ambrose, my sight is dark, I cannot even
read.”
“Let me read it.”
“Holy St. Dominick! a faintness comes over
me—my hearing is thick.”
“Sign it then unread,” cried the priest.
The dying man reached forth his hand, and
with blind eagerness scrawled his signature to the
parchment, while the priest supported him on the
bed.
The voices of the procession of the host, in their
long monotonous chant, now floated slowly from the
distance, gradually increasing in sound. The priest
folded up and placed in his bosom the will. Antonia
rushed into the room, her eyes streaming with
tears. The chant grew nearer and nearer, louder
the steps—it rang at the door.
“I recall—I revoke,” said the dying marquis,
raising himself on his elbow with momentary
strength.
But the voices of the procession, which now filled
the room, rendered his words nearly inaudible. A
fit of coughing, caused perhaps by his excitement,
exertion, and exposure during the previous hour,
seized him, after which he sank back upon the pillow.
Raising himself then again, he rolled his eyes
from form to form, with a glassy, death-like gaze.
At length they rested on the form of Antonia, who,
kneeling at his bedside, was gazing up at him with
a mingled expression of grief, alarm, and horror.
The dying father recognised her, reached forth his
hands to her beautiful young head—raised his eyes
—attempted twice to speak.
Let us draw a veil over the scene.
| CHAPTER XVII. Norman Leslie | |