Death! be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death----
* * * * *
----Why swell'st thou, then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally';
And Death shall be no more:--Death! thou shalt die.
DR. DONNE
When Sir Robert Cecil returned to his wife's chamber, all within was
silent as the grave. He approached the bed; his daughter rose from the
seat she had occupied by its side, and motioned him to be still,
pointing at the same time to her mother, and intimating that she slept.
"Thank God for that!" he murmured, and drew his hand across his brow,
while his chest heaved as if a heavy weight had been removed from it.
The attendants had left the room to obtain some necessary refreshment
and repose, and father and daughter were alone with the sleeper in the
chamber of death. The brow of Lady Cecil was calm, smooth, and
unclouded, white as alabaster, and rendered still more beautiful by the
few tresses of pale auburn hair that escaped from under the head-tire.
The features were of a noble yet softened character, although painfully
emaciated; and not a shadow of colour tinged her upturned lip. Her
sleep, though occasionally sound, was restless, and the long shadowy
fingers, that lay on the embroidered coverlet, were now and then
stirred, as if by bodily or mental suffering. There was an atmosphere of
silence, not of repose, within the apartment, at once awful and
oppressive; and Sir Robert breathed as if his breathings were but a
continuation of suppressed sobs.
Constance Cecil, never in earlier life, never in after years, gracious
and beautiful as she ever was, appeared half so interesting to her
unhappy father as at that moment. There was at all times about her a
majesty of mind and feeling that lent to her simplest word and action a
dignity and power, which, though universally felt, it would have been
impossible to define. If one could have procured for her a kingdom to
reign over, or have chosen from the galaxy of heaven a region worthy her
command, it must have been that pale and holy star, which, splendid and
alone in the firmament, heralds the approach of day; so unfitted might
she have been deemed to mingle with a world less pure, so completely
placed by nature above all the littleness of ordinary life. Her noble
and majestic form was the casket of a rich and holy treasure, and her
father's conscience had often quailed, when contemplating the severity
of her youthful virtue. Dearly as he loved his wife, he respected his
daughter more, and the bare idea that certain occurrences of former
years might be known to her was as a poisoned dagger in his heart. He
had been a daring, and was still an ambitious man--successful in all
that men aim to succeed in; wealthy, honoured, and powerful, and--what
is frequently more ardently sought for than all--feared; yet would he
rather have sacrificed every advantage he had gained--every desire for
which he had unhesitatingly bartered his own self-esteem--every
distinction he had considered cheaply purchased at the price of
conscience, than have lost the good opinion, the confiding love of his
only child. Even now he looked upon her with mingled feelings of dread
and affection, though her bearing was subdued and her lofty spirit bowed
by sorrow, as she stood before him, the thick folds of her dressing-gown
falling with classic elegance to her feet, her fine hair pushed back
from her forehead and carelessly twisted round her head, and her
countenance deepened into an expression of the most intense anxiety:
while, assured that the invalid slept on, she whispered into his ear
words of consolation, if not of hope.