15. CHAPTER XV.
THE VICTIM BLEEDS—UNAVAILABLE REMORSE.
We call thee vainly; on the ground
She sinks without a single wound.”
“And is this fountain left alone
For a sad remembrance, where
We may in after-times repair,
With heavy heart and weeping eye
To sing songs to her memory.”
Barry Cornwall.
In a neat and tastefully furnished chamber, whose
lack of recent care attested the absence of that daily
attention which it formerly received from its fair occupant,
lay the attenuated form of Rachel Samuel.
The physician had, with great difficulty effected her
resuscitation on the morning when De Lyle's visit
ended so unhappily for her peace of mind, and her
debility appeared rather to increase than diminish
with the lapse of time.
By her side sat her distracted father, whose indignation
at De Lyle's treachery and baseness knew
no diminution; but who feared to leave the couch
of his beloved child, even for the desirable purpose of
wreaking vengence on the destroyer of her peace, if
not of her life.
The appearance of the Jew was to the last degree
wretched. The furrows which avarice had ploughed
on his brow were daily deepened by the anxiety
and grief attendant upon his daughter's critical situation,
increased by the gloomy reports of the physician,
which from hour to hour came like birds of
evil omen to sound their dismal tidings in his ear.
So intent had he been in the pursuit of gain, that he
was not sensible of the hold his daughter retained in
his affections, until the fear of her loss awakened in
his bosom that intensity of feeling which at times
gushes from the hard heart of the selfish, like the
refreshing stream that poured from the rock, when
its flinty side was smitten by the prophet on Mount
Horeb. Although several days had elapsed since
Rachel's illness commenced, he had scarcely quitted
her bedside for a moment, and the length of his
beard, which continued unshaven, gave a still more
haggard aspect to his care-worn features. Many
had been the entreaties of his afflicted child that he
would retire to his bed until exhausted nature could
rally its energies by repose, but he insisted on retaining
his position, alleging that he slept comfortably in
his easy chair. But if his anxiety for the fate of
his daughter was agonizing, what language can express
his remorse at the maddening reflection that
for filthy lucre he had ministered to the depraved
appetites of De Lyle, and thus indirectly been the
instrument of her misery.
Oh, if there is one crowning drop in the cup of
human grief, which causes it to overflow with unspeakable
bitterness, it is the reflection that our
passions, or our crimes, have, in their fearful recoil
destroyed the only being, the light of whose love
cheered the darkness of our earthly pilgrimage!
May it never be the lot of our most implacable foe
to realize this truth in the terrible force with which
it rushed on the conscience-stricken soul of Isaac
Samuel!
As yet a slight gleam of hope of his daughter's
ultimate recovery continued to flash across his
mind, but the time was now at hand which would
dispel the last ray, and force the dread conviction
that he soon was to be childless, friendless, forsaken!
A beautiful evening had succeeded a day of
gloom—and as the setting sun threw a roseate flush
over the windows of the invalid's chamber, her feeble
energies appeared somewhat to revive: and to
her father's anxious inquiries she replied, with a
sweet smile, that her feelings were more buoyant
than they had been for many days.
This cheerful response caused the relieved father
to hope that the disease had reached its crisis, and
that returning health would hereafter mark its
glowing impress on her pallid cheek. His head
now rested on his hand, and fancy was busy with
the future; painting the close of his earthly career
in brighter colours than those with which memory
arrayed the past; until his soothed feelings caused a
gentle slumber, whose dreams, brighter than their
predecessors, were, alas! neither more fleeting nor
unsubstantial.
His slumbers had continued but a few moments,
when he was aroused by the stifled groans of his
unhappy child; and, although he sprung from his
seat with the utmost haste, the spirit of the sufferer
had pierced the mysteries of eternity before his arm
could raise her head from the pillow. To picture the
agony of the despairing father exceeds our art, and
we leave the imagination of the reader to perform
the dismal task!
