Burton and his amiable wife, as they watched the mantling blush which came over and anon like a bright bird of passage over Mary’s faded features, as they saw the honest tear of gratitude glisten on William’s manly cheek, or heard the murmured blessing from the relieved mother who felt that her widowed age would not now be robbed of it’s only comfort.
Cheerily passes the time when the heart is at ease. The few weeks previous to the wedding day of Mary glided by as if the footfall of June only fell upon flowers. Each of the Miss Burtons presented the expected bride with a bridal dress, and if their graceful simplicity could not add to her beauty, they certainly contributed to her honest pride and pleasure. The cake was made, the love knots twisted, the ring was bought and two days only intervened between the happy day, when one evening as the family of Doctor Burton were sitting cheerfully conversing, the sound of carriage-wheels stopped at the door, and a heavy lumbering noise sounded in the hall.
“Oh, my father is arrived!” exclaimed Ellen Burton, rising rapidly.
“What sort of luggage are they bringing in, in the name of wonder?” said her sister.
“Let us go and see,” said Ellen.
Mary stopped her; and, with a cheek as white as chalk, said, tremulously, “they tread like men who bear a heavy burden; they whisper, too, beneath their voices; there is a scent of camphor spreading through the house. It is a corpse they are bring in!”
“You dream, dear Mary—come, let us go and meet this dreaded luggage; my life upon it, its terror will vanish when encountered.”
With gentle but steady grasp she raised the trembling Mary, and would have let her out, but was stayed by the entrance of her father. He looked pale and somewhat excited, and hurriedly evaded their questions. Suddenly he heard a hard, suppressed breathing, and looking round, beheld Mary gazing at him with wild and rigid stare; her blue lips apart, and her clenched hands pressed forcibly upon her breast. All his presence of mind at once returned, and, advancing to her with composure, he said—“What, Miss Stuart, and have my luckless glass vials and electronic machinery startled you also? For shame, young ladies, I thought you were all better soldiers!”
“It is William!” hissed poor Mary, never for a moment relaxing her distended gaze; “it is Lindsay’s corpse!”
“Mary, my dear child! For God’s sake do not thus torture yourself; Lindsay is well; but to see you thus, might well make him otherwise. What! You do not believe me? Then come in yourself, William, and convince this obstinate heretic to happiness.”
He went to the door of his private surgery and called out Lindsay, who instantly flew to his beloved girl. The instant Mary beheld him, she uttered a frantic shriek, and fell in his arms, exclaiming, “Not dead! Not yet doomed to the dreadful grave! William—my William!”
A burst of tears relieved her o’ercharged heart, and the benevolent Doctor, smiling on her, said—
“Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip!”
In spite of this relief, the evening passed heavily; there seemed to be an indescribable something weighing on William’s heart. Mary was exhausted from over-excitement, and the Doctor appeared to listen uneasily to every sound. Mrs. Burton and the ladies retired early, and Ellen left Mary, as she believed, in a sweet and fast sleep. The mystery existing in the surgery was soon explained to William. A certain man had died in one of the London hospitals of a disease which baffled the skill of the physicians. His relations obstinately refused his body for dissection, and with extreme peril and difficulty, a select committee, of which Dr. Burton was the president, had contrived to steal it from the grave. Fearing, however, lest the loss might be discovered and search made, the Doctor had boxed up the body and brought it down to his own private surgery, where, besides having time to examine minutely, he had the advantage of William’s skill as a draughtsman to copy any peculiar appearance the system may present. It was the first time Lindsay had ever witnessed the process of dissection; and as the body had been many days in the grave, and was in an advanced state of decomposition, the trial to his nerves and senses was such, that he devoutly hoped it might be the last. He had for some time slept in a small room adjoining the surgery, and now, for the free circulation of air, left the intermediate door open. Towards the dead of night, his frightful occupation was interrupted by the sound of a footstep. He paused, looked round, called the Doctor by name, and then, seeing nothing, sat once more down to his awful task. All was as still as the grave which was thus robbed of its ghastly tenant; when, suddenly, a loud, long scream smote on his ear, more resembling the prolonged yell of a wild Indian, or the frantic howl of a maniac, than any natural cry of terror. He sprung up, and saw standing by him the figure of his Mary—if, as such, he might recognize the distorted face and writhing form that stood before him, glaring on the blackened corpse.
To his dying day Doctor Burton would never relate without shuddering, the scene he saw when William’s appalling cries brought him to his aid. Erect as if fashioned of stone, with bloodshot eyeballs and livid features, with hair standing out stiffened with horror, and lips drawn up from the set teeth through which the blood was slowly trickling—there she stood, glaring on the reality of the very phantom which so long had haunted her; and Lindsay, palsied with horror, could only wind his arms around her stiffened figure, and rend the air with cries for help. The moment he entered, Dr. Burton threw a cloak over the corpse, and, as if with the loss of that object, there vanished the unnatural strength with which she had looked on it. Mary fell senseless to the ground. She was bled and carried to bed without giving any token of recollection, and with bitter fears they watched her all night; towards morning she seemed to sleep, and when wakened it was with no remembrance of the frightful events of the night previous. She would have risen, and seemed astonished to find herself so weak; but her manner was calm as usual, and she made no allusion at all to the previous day. William and the ladies rejoiced in deep thankfulness for what they considered almost a miracle of deliverance, but Doctor Burton, though he would not dash their joy, feared much for the stability of that reason which the terrible shock had on one subject completely annihilated. Mary however slowly recovered, and about two weeks after the originally appointed day, Lindsay led her proudly from the church, his wife; and the anxious Doctor was perhaps the only one who noticed that, on returning from it through the churchyard, she smiled and muttered to herself, as she looked on the grave, words of which he could only hear these, “I shall never make one amongst ye!”
Many months after their marriage passed in tranquility, and peace seemed once more to have builded her nest in the heart of Mary. Her health, it was true, was delicate; but the frightful monomania which had hitherto poisoned her happiness seemed to slumber, and her benevolent friend and physician hoped it was lulled to rest forever. Blest with the wife he loved, Lindsay gave his time and attention to his profession with a devotion which ensured success: and having removed after his marriage to London, that populous city served not only to increase his employment, but wholly to divert the attention of his wife. And soon, to crown his joy, Mary proved likely to be a mother. As this trying time approached, although her frame was weak, her mind was unusually buoyant. No fears appeared to perplex her, and her sole wish was to meet her confinement in the little cottage of her mother at Hastings, which request William granted, rather contrary to the advice of Doctor Burton. Here, constantly attended by the good doctor and his wife, she met her trial with unflinching fortitude, and endured severe and protracted agonies with the courage of a heroine and the patience of a martyr. After three days of doubt and danger, a child was born to the alarmed husband, and about a week after, he and Dr. Burton returned to London, where both where engaged on matters of pressing emergence. The infant sickened shortly after, not of any violent disease, but wasting daily from some unknown cause, fading so gradually that Mrs. Burton hesitated to recall her husband from his important occupations in the metropolis until it was too late. The little sufferer’s cry became weaker and more weak, its tiny limbs wasted, until, like a lamp that goes out for want of oil, the light of his little life sunk, and his baby breath was yielded in his mother’s arms.
A mother’s grief for her first-born child: who shall describe? Her long burthen and her bitter pain are as nothing when she looks in the infant eyes of her blessing; watching and weariness are unfelt, while hope still shines in her baby’s smile; the voice of despair is unheard while its low