CHAPTER XXXV.

EUTHANASY.

“Methinks it were no pain to die On such an eve, when such a sky O’er-canopies the west. To gaze my fill on yon calm deep, Then like an infant sink to sleep On earth my mother’s breath.”—_Old Poem._

The circumstance alluded to at the close of the last chapter, was the death of Monsieur Henri De L’Ile.

It was early in the autumn of the fifth year of Julius Luxmore’s residence on the Island, that the old man departed to the better land. His decease, as is frequently the case with the extremely aged, was sudden and painless. His death was as beautiful as his life had been beneficent. And this was the manner of his falling asleep. Upon the afternoon of the first of October, he had, in company with his niece and his friend, partaken of a slight supper of coffee, cakes, and fruit. He lingered awhile in the piazza, listening to Etoile’s guitar. At the close of her song, he smiled, laid his hand upon her bright curls, prayed God bless her, and then calling his pet spaniel, he walked out to his favorite arbor seat of late Bourbon roses, to sit and watch the golden autumnal sun go down behind the distant shore of Northumberland. He remained out so much longer than usual, that Madeleine went forth to seek him.

She found the old man sitting on the bench; leaning back against the frame of the rose-wreathed arbor, seemingly sleeping a sweet sleep. Not a feature of his fine old face was disturbed, not a tress of his silvery hair disheveled. His hands rested together on his lap; a blooming rose remained in his relaxed fingers. His favorite spaniel lay at his feet, quietly looking up into his calm face. His two white pigeons were near—the one perched upon his shoulder, cooing and pecking fondly at his cheek, the other flying in playful circles around his head. Madeleine spoke to him once—twice—thrice—and receiving no answer, took his hand. The lingering rose fell to his feet; the hand, the form, was icy cold. The loving spirit that had warmed it for more than ninety years, had left it for a higher sphere. Such had been his Euthanasy.

Etoile wept vehemently over his death; but the tears of youth are like morning dew or April showers—quickly dried.

He was buried quietly beneath a great old elm-tree near the shore. By his own long previously expressed wish, no marble tomb oppressed his body’s last sleeping-place. Etoile would remember his grave, and the angel of the resurrection would know where to find him; that was enough, he had said.

By his will, which he had executed during a lucid interval at Heathville, where his monomania was unsuspected, and which was duly opened the day after the funeral, it was found that he had left the whole of his vast property to his grand-niece, Etoile L’Orient, and appointed his good friend, Mr. Julius Luxmore, the guardian of his heiress. Not a single allusion to king, kingdom, or princess, betrayed his partial insanity. A codicil to the same instrument emancipated his faithful servant Madeleine, and her son Frivole.

This codicil, strange as the circumstance may at first sight seem _pleased_ Mr. Luxmore. He had always dreaded the secret influence of Madeleine over her nursling, without well knowing how to obviate it. Now, however, the way was clear.

And he informed the quadroon that herself and her son being manumitted by their late master’s will, must forthwith quit the Island.

At first, poor Madeleine was dismayed. The mild service of her master had been to her, protection, safety and support. The shores of the Island had bounded her world. She knew no other. To leave the Isle, to abandon her young nursling!—freedom under such conditions struck her as an overwhelming misfortune. She actually reversed Catiline’s immortal speech, and exclaimed—“What’s set free, but banished?” She tearfully represented to Mr. Luxmore, her strong attachment to her home, and to her young charge on the one hand, and on the other, her own inexperience, her helplessness, and her dread of the world of strangers.

But Julius on his side described in glowing colors, the “world beyond,” dwelling with enthusiasm upon the great advantages it possessed for her own advancement, and above all, for that of her beloved son Frivole. He also fired the mind of the boy with a vehement desire to tread those unknown shores. And between the eloquence of her patron, and the importunity of her son, poor Madeleine became resigned, if not reconciled to depart.

Mr. Luxmore also voluntarily promised to take the mother and son to New York, and to procure for them suitable employment.

And Julius kept his word—being quite willing to put himself to thus much inconvenience, for the sake of separating the nurse from her charge, and ingratiating himself with Etoile.

For, though the young creature sadly lamented the loss of her “Maman,” yet having been persuaded by Mr. Luxmore, that it was all for Madeleine’s good, she was not only reconciled to her departure, but even grateful to him for taking her away.

“You are going to the beautiful world beyond, Maman,” she said, “and some day I, too, shall follow you.” And unwilling to cloud the departure of her nurse with a single complaint, the girl had heroically abstained from expressing the keen regret she felt at losing her. When the sail that wafted Madeleine and her son away, was lost to view, Etoile abandoned herself to weeping for a while, but on recovering she took herself to task, saying—

“How selfish I am to weep, because Maman has gone to the beautiful world beyond! I ought to be glad, because I myself wanted to go there so much.” And she repelled grief as a sin of selfishness, and went and got her drawing materials, and occupied herself with painting from memory a portrait of “Maman.”

Mr. Luxmore performed his promise, that is to say, he conveyed the mother and son to New York, procured for Madeleine the place of chambermaid, and for Frivole that of waiter, in a third-class hotel, and abandoned them to their fate. Now, whether this change of fortune was considered “favorable” by the servants of the late Monsieur Henri De L’Ile, remains an open question.