Lady Cecil had much to say to her husband during the remaining moments
of her existence; but her breathing became so feeble, that he was
obliged to lean over the couch to catch her words.
"We part, my own, and only beloved husband, for ever in this
world;--fain would I linger yet a little, to recount how much I have
loved you--in our more humble state--in this--oh! how falsely termed our
prosperity. My heart has shared your feelings. In our late bitter
trials, more than half my grief was, that you should suffer. Oh, Robert!
Robert! now, when I am about to leave you and all, for ever--how my
heart clings--I fear, sinfully clings--to the remembrance of our earlier
and purer happiness! My father's house! The noble oak, where the
ring-doves built, and under whose shadow we first met! The stream--where
you and Herbert--wild, but affectionate brother!--Oh! Robert, do not
blame me, nor start so at his name;--his only fault was his devotion to
a most kind master!--but who, that lived under the gentle influence of
Charles Stuart's virtues, could have been aught but devoted?--And yet
what deadly feuds came forth from this affection! Alas! his rich
heritage has brought no blessing with it. I never could look upon these
broad lands as ours--Would that his child had lived--and then--But they
are all gone now--all gone!--Alas! what had we to do with courts, or
courts with us?--Our domestic comforts have been blighted--our hearth
left desolate--the children for whom you toiled, and hoped, and planned,
have been removed from us--nipped in the bud, or the first
blossoming!--And oh, Cecil! take the words of a dying woman to heart,
when she tells you, that you will go down childless to your grave, if
you do not absolve our beloved Constance from her promise to him whom
she can neither respect nor love. She will complete the contract, though
it should be her death-warrant, rather than let it be said a daughter of
the house of Cecil acted dishonourably--she will complete it,
Robert--she will complete it--and then die!"
Lady Cecil, overcome by emotion and exertion, fell back fainting and
exhausted on her pillow. Recovering herself, however, after a brief
pause she added, in a broken whispering voice, "Forgive me, my dear,
dear husband;--my mind is wandering--my thoughts are unconnected--but my
affection for you--for Constance--is strong in death. I mean not to pain
you, but to warn--for the sake of our only child--of the only thing that
remains to tell you of your wife. My breath trembles on my lips--there
is a mist before mine eyes--call her in, that my spirit may depart--may
ascend heavenward on the wings of prayer!--"