Ellen Percy; or, The Memoirs of an Actress — page 21: what you’re looking at

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8 ELLEN PERCY; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF AN ACTRESS, And in what an altered voice too were those syllables spoken !—as if that voice were contending difficultly and painfully with a hoarse impeding rattling in the throat; and as if the strongest efforts were required to enable it to dominate over the gaspings which would otherwise have convulsed and strangled. ‘“‘ JT have sworn,” replied Mrs. Parks. ‘ What deeper oath can I take? and why, sir, do you seem to doubt me ?” “‘T don’t say that I doubt you,” answered my grandfather, as if testily and irritably: “but I know the world so well that even the spectacles of death-beds do not always Ah!” and he gasped “make survivors do their duty. My death- bed is mean, wretched, and desolate enough! I feel i6 now—I know it now! I might have had friends around me—relatives also But no !” There was another painful gasp; and then my grandfather added, “ Here I am friendless—forlorn —a wretched old man !” “‘ Cease these lamentations, dear sir,” said the housekeeper. ‘‘ Shall I give you water? you have more to tell me——” ‘‘ Yes—and I must make haste,” continued my grandfather; “ for my strength is failing me.—Ah! this change which took place so suddenly 5 Here he gasped again: his voice seemed choking: methought he must be dying. I glided through the office :—the reader will have understood that the door of his chamber stood partially open; and I had reached the threshold above the half-dozen steps which led up into it, when again was I trans- fixed—petrified—with the blood congealed in my veins, by the next words which came from my grandfather’s lips. ; “ Yes—may my withering, blighting curse cling to you if you violate your oath! May it wrap it- self around you like a poisoned garment—eating into your flesh—devouring the tendons—scorching the fibres—searing, burning, and rotting your very nerves! On the other hand my blessing — the blessing of heaven, and of all the angels in it, will be yours if you act faithfully to your solemn, sacred vow !” “T will, sir—I will!” said Mrs. Parks. “Go on, sir !—I beseech you to finish !” ‘‘There—in that bureau,’ resumed my grand. father, speaking with increasing difficulty, “ there is a secret recess———it is behind the middle drawer you press upon what seems to be the head of a screw—it touches a spring—the receptacle be- comes revealed. The document is there! Take it—act as I have told you—act as you yourself have sworn—and may heaven bless you!” I was standing, as I have said, upon the thresh- old; and from that point, by leaning slightly for- ward, I could look into the interior of the cham- ber. The light of a solitary candle played with flickering sickliness upon the ghastly countenance of the old man,—that countenance which, habi- tually cadaverous, was now yellow and corpse- like as he sat up in the miserable bed, pointing with his lank lean hand towards the escritoire. The housekeeper had her back towards me: she was standing by the side of the couch ; and I could not catch a glimpse of her face. I felt an inclina- tion to precipitate myself into my grandfather's arms; but the spell of mingled awe and terror was upon me—my feet seemed rooted to the spot. Lhe candle was upon a table close under the window the night was beautifully clear—the moon was shining—and there was a hard frost. Just at the very instant that my grandfather had given utter- ance to those last words, while still pointing to the escritoire—and with the feeble rays of the candle playing upon his ghastly countenance — another countenance appeared! It was at the window: some one looked in unto the room. I knew the face in a moment:—it was that of the stranger whose visit two years back had so much troubled me! “There! there!—’tis he!” exclaimed the dying man: and almost at the same instant a scream thrilled from my own lips. The countenance disappeared from the window: the housekeeper started as if galvanized: my grandfather lay gasping in the last agonies of exist- ence. I flew towards him—TI knelt by the side of the bed; and taking his hand, strained it to my lips). He knew me: he made an effort to say something—but he could not. He pressed my hand: more audibly sounded the deadly rattle in his throat—and in a few moments all was silent, save the expression of my agony ! Oh! deep was the anguish which I experienced for a few minutes: and then there came the awful, the solemn, the almost stupifying conviction that I was looking upon death for the first time. This sensation was gradually absorbed ina certain in- describable numbness of feeling; and how long I remained in that state I can scarcely tell. I recol- lect that Mrs. Parks, speaking to me with every appearance of the utmost kindness and sympathy, induced me to leave the chamber of death: and she led me to my own room. There she assured me that I should always find a friend in her, and that she would never desert me. Oh! how neces- sary consolation was to me then! I forgot her ugliness—I forgot the sinister expression of her looks—I forgot the suspicions of her sincerity which had so often floated in my mind. Tears came to my relief: I wept in her arms—I thanked her for all she was saying to me. Gently did she continue to speak. She asked me how long I had been upon the threshold of the chamber: I frankly told her wherefore I had descended from my room—how long I had been listening—everything I had heard—and what I had seen at the window. She listened with the deepest attention: and when I had finished, she said, “ Yes, my sweet child—your poor dear grandfather made me swear that I would never desert you; and I willnot! I dare say the paper in the escritoire contains an ace count of whatsoever little money he may possess I know it cannot be much; for, as you have seen, he was very poor. But whatever the amount, it is all for your benefit. As for that stranger who dared to look in at the window “ ‘Ts he indeed a stranger to you?” I asked. “ Assuredly !” responded Mrs. Parks. “I never saw him before that time, you know But I daresay he is some evil-intentioned man; and we must guard against him. Now get to bed, my dear child—and sleep, if possible.” “One word more!” I said, almost suffocated with the anguish that oppressed me. “ Must I not write to my aunt and cousin to-morrow, to tell them of the dreadful thing that has happened ?” CORNICLOOKS €om