are quenched by death—then hopeless and bereaved she sinks at once to the depths of lethargy. If this be so of all woman-kind, what additional woe must have fallen to the lot of hapless Mary? She, to whom death had been a dream of horror, an incubus of fear, was now doomed to witness it first in the person of her precious babe; on its loved limbs to mark the rigid impress—on its miniature features the cold seal of the conqueror; yet, to the wonder of it all, her sorrow rather seemed patient and resigned, than noisy or frantic. She resigned her breathless burthen to the arms of her weeping mother, and took from Mrs. Burton a strong opiate; after which, she was unresistingly undressed and put to bed. A messenger had been sent post-haste to London for Lindsay the same hour that his baby expired, and they hoped that if Mary could be kept calm until his arrival, the sight of him would prove her best consolation. While she slept, they shrouded the little pale corpse in muslin and lace, and laying it out on pillows strewed the whole with flowers. It was not until the midday following that the poor mother awakened, and at once asked leave to see her child.
“Do not deny me, dear friend,” she said in a low, resigned tone, “I well know that he is dead, that no tears of mine can call back the breath which I felt pass away on my lips; yet let me see the precious one for whom I suffered, I sorrowed so much.”
“Wait, dear Mary, until William comes; he will be here tonight, and then you shall see the babe.”
“Tonight!” she repeated thoughtfully; “will Lindsay be here tonight?”
“We hope so, love,” said her mother; “in the meantime, for all our sakes, keep tranquil.”
“And am I not tranquil, mother?” she asked, raising herself on her arm and looking piteously in her mother’s eyes; “have I not lost my own, my prized, my beautiful boy; and do I weep or wail? Ah! tears nor moans awake not the dead; yet I would that I could weep; my brain is hot, but my eyes are dry. Let me once more see my child, the blessed thing which came to reward my pains a thousand fold—once—I shall never ask it again.”
She looked so pale and woebegone that they could no longer refuse her entreaty; and, supported by both, she was led to the chamber of death and looked long on the dead infant. It seemed that some memories of the past troubled her mind, for she murmured, “How beautiful he looks! Can this be death? No livid hues, no loathsome sores revolt the heart! Perhaps he only sleeps, and by and by will waken? You will tell his father when he comes how sweet he sleeps.”
She stooped and kissed the cheek, and seemed revolted by its coldness.
“Ah! the ice-bolt has indeed stricken my child! Nothing but death was ever cold as this! He has left his mother’s bosom for the grave—the grave!”
She said no more, and was partially led back to bed, where the remaining effects of the opiate soon buried her senses again to sleep. Finding her so composed, Mrs. Burton, who had not been home for days, took the opportunity to leave her for a few hours, while her poor mother, who took the post of watcher by her bed, fell from exhaustion into a profound slumber.
It was the dead of night when the poor, old woman was awakened by a stifling smoke, and starting up she dimly perceived by the obscured light, that the bed by which she had slept instead of watched, was empty! Tottering with fear and rage, confused and scarce awake, the bewildered woman followed the first instinct of self-preservation, and hurried down the stairs and out of the cottage door. Recalled to sense by the free air, she looked up and saw the flames bursting from the casements of the upper rooms. A recollection of her ill-fated daughter then thronged upon her brain, and over-powered her feeble strength. With cries of impotent terror, she tottered a few paces and fell senseless to the earth, just as a post chaise, driving furiously, appeared in sight on the brow of the hill. Then it stopped and Lindsay, who probably feared that the sound of his carriage might startle his Mary, sprung out to be greeted with—oh, sight of horror! the cottage which contained her, bursting into flames. He rushed madly down the hill, followed scarcely less rapidly by Dr. Burton, and came in front of the blazing building in time to hear a maniac laugh which rung to the silent sky, and to see—merciful God!—the form of his wretched wife standing at the casement, holding in one arm the body of her dead infant and with the other wildly brandishing a blazing billet of wood! There she stood one moment, her white dress already on fire, her beautiful face and flowing hair distinctly visible by the eddying flames, looking like the spirit of fire presiding over her native element. The next instant and the light material of the cottage gave way, and with a single crash, roof, walls, and floors fell in, burying her in the bursting volume of fire, from which the words still seemed to sound—
“No grave for us, my child! no grave for us!”
The terrible catastrophe was too clearly understood. The madness of the ill-fated Mary on one theme which had only slumbered, was aroused in full force by the sight of death, but with the cunning peculiar to monomania, she had concealed her purpose until she was unwatched, then with her own desperate hand, she had seized a brand from the chimney and like a second Mynha, fired her own funeral pyre. Her first, last, and strongest wish was awfully granted, for her no grave was dug—no earth closed over her mortal clay—the woe-worn spirit passed in madness to its maker and its earthly tenement found a burial by fire.
THE VAMPYRE, by Elizabeth Ellet
(1849)
About a century ago, there might have been seen, in a remote part of Scotland, the ruins of a castle, which once belonged to the baronial race Davenat. It stood on a hill of no considerable elevation: but the massive and ancient trees that had escaped the sacrilegious axe, and the clinging ivy, which protected the roofless walls, gave it a venerable aspect. The peasantry told wild stories of the ancient lords of that domain—the family had long been extinct—and of their heroic deeds at home and abroad. When the ruins themselves were levelled to make way for a modern edifice, the superstitious tales connected therewith were gradually dropped, and at length passed from the minds of men; yet one may not be deemed unworthy of preservation.
On a beautiful afternoon in spring, two figures might have been seen on the terrace that overlooked the smooth, sloping lawn in front of the castle. The one was an elderly man, in deep mourning—no other, in short, than the lord of the mansion, Sir Aubrey Davenat, who, since the death of his wife many years before, had worn the sombre dress which was but an emblem of the gloom in his heart.
The Baron was highly respected by his neighbors and acquaintances—few of whom enjoyed his intimacy. He was brave, and generous almost to a fault; and so scrupulous was his regard for truth—so rigidly was his word kept, even when the fulfillment of a promise involved pain or trouble to himself—that his simple assertion was more implicitly relied on than the oath of another. Withal, there was a sternness about him, amounting, at times, to severity. He showed little indulgence towards faults of which he himself was incapable, and those who knew him best stood most in awe of him.
Although Sir Aubrey manifested, by his uniform melancholy, how fondly he clung to the memory of his departed wife, he never made the least allusion to her in conversation. Yet, that his heart was not dead to affection, appeared from his devoted love for his only child—Malvine—the living image of her lost mother.
The other person on the terrace was this cherished daughter. She had just completed her seventeenth year, and was celebrated through all the adjoining districts for her rare and luxuriant beauty. Unconscious of the admiration she commanded, Malvine loved best to cheer the solitude of her only surviving parent, and seemed to feel interest in none but him.
Yes—there was one other with whom she had grown from childhood, whom she loved as a brother, and who was, in truth, of blood kindred to her own, though not of close consanguinity. Edgar was the orphan son of a cousin—twice removed—of Sir Aubrey. Left destitute by the death of both of his parents, he had been taken into his kinsman’s house, and brought up with the same care and tenderness he would have bestowed upon his own son.
Three years before, Edgar had been sent to the continent on his travels, by his kind foster-father. His return was now expected—it had been announced—and it was in the hope of greeting the young cavalier that the father and daughter stood waiting for so long, looking down the broad road that swept around the hill at the foot of the