The Macabre Megapack Read online

  ‘Watch o’er them till their souls should waken.’”

  Mary shuddered and shook her head. Alarmed to see her so depressed, William fondly urged her to return home.

  “William, dear William, I am well—fear nothing for me, but oh! My beloved, my heart quails at the thought of burial. I do not fear to die—thanks be to heaven I have no fear of death; but the grave—the grave to me is overwhelmingly horrible. Oh, dear William! Would that we lived in ancient Rome, where the mortal remains were consigned to the funeral pyre! Surely we have decreased in civilization to relinquish the burial by fire for the internment underground. Fire is a glorious element, free, mighty and immaterial as the soul! Fire is a purifier, and separates the grosser clay from its immortal spirit—fire even ascends to heaven—it is a type and emblem of the human soul, it is tangible to the senses only while it has earthly food, when the poor material is consumed, the invisible and unknown spirit passes away from human sight or knowledge, and returns to Him, the master of the elements! Would that my burial might be by fire!”

  “Your thoughts and wishes are strange, dear Mary; the survivor’s heart would be more wrung to see the loved remains consumed by fire. When buried, they retain at least a knowledge that it is there, they can visit the spot and in memory recall its inhabitant.”

  “Aye, William—but as what?” she asked, with a strange look of excessive horror: “As what? A livid and loathsome mass of rottenness! A decaying, revolting, putrifying corruption, from which every sense recoils in loathing! Let the fondest love pursue in fancy the buried dead—the lips they kissed are foul with decay—the breath that used to part them is changed to the stench of rottenness—the fair bosom on which lay the loving head is alive indeed, for the long, slimy grave worms are feeding on it—the eyes, oh, God! Dare imagination picture that eye once beaming with the soul of love, now glowing with the unnatural fire of putrefaction?”

  “No more, no more, dear Mary!” exclaimed William, alarmed at the excitement of her fancy on such a theme: “your mother will be waiting for us.”

  “Yet hear me out dearest; and oh, William, promise—promise me, that if God takes me from you, you will never lay me in the damp, cold ground to rot!—Think, oh, think how pure, how beautiful is the idea of resolving back each portion of our humanity into its native element! And then, how delightedly may fond affection weep over the consecrated ashes! The pure, inoffensive remains of all that was loved and lovely—while fancy dwells with rapture on the bright thought that the undying soul, the immortal mind, has mounted to its first essence on wings of ethereal flame! Come, let us go home. I shudder to tread this rank, rich soil, instinct with human corruption.”

  * * * *

  From this time it appeared that the health of Mary Stuart suffered under some secret excitement; at times, indeed, her cheerfulness would return, and the awful phantom that haunted her be put to flight by the voice of love; but too soon again the gloom returned over her soul, and by slow but sure degrees undermined her health and life. No words can picture the grief which wrung the honest heart of her lover, argument and caresses he tried in vain, and at last, believing that the coil lay in her body not her mind, he applied in despair to a friendly physician of eminence who resided in the neighborhood. Happy it is for science when such a man as Doctor John Burton is its professor; learned without pedantry; humane without ostentation; firm without brutality, he joined the skill of the best physicians to the feelings of the kindest of men; he saw Mary Stuart and at once pronounced her case to be monomania—that sort of “perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart,” and for which drugs have no healing and medical science no cure.

  “You must take her from here,” he said gently but firmly to her mother. “She is of a morbid temperament, and the close retirement of her life together with the vicinity of the churchyard has aided a predisposition to nervous excitement. She must have a change of scene.”

  “Alas, sir!” replied the mother, in tears, “I have not the power, my means are scanty—this little cottage is allowed us rent-free by the landlord, who was a dear friend of my husband—a single journey and moth’s residence in a strange city would consume all we have to live on for a year.”

  Doctor Burton was not one of those Sir Oracles who content themselves by saying, “this must be done,” without endeavoring to point out the way how; he smiled benevolently and took the widow’s hand—

  “Mrs. Stuart, I venture to predict a certain cure, if you will follow a pleasant and easy prescription, for your daughter; you must marry her at once to William Lindsay. Nothing so sure to chase ideas of death as the blushes of a bride.”

  “Oh! Doctor! They are poor enough now—if they marry and have a family, the expenses of the children—”

  “Will be better to bear than losing the only one you have!” interrupted the Doctor, gravely; “my dear, madam, Mr. Lindsay is very clever in his profession—he has industry and good will to work; but as long as your daughter’s illness distracts his mind, he can never be himself. He has friends, and the young couple will do well, I doubt not; but of this be sure,” he continued with solemn decision, as she was about to speak—“of this be sure—on my reputation as a physician, I affirm, that if Miss Stuart continues in this situation much longer, her reason or her life will pay the penalty.”

  And without allowing the querulous old lady time to answer, he left her to ponder on his words. Great was the joy of Lindsay at this advice, and as the wise physician had truly prophesied, the startling proposal of immediate marriage, produced a reaction in the mind of Mary and very soon evinced its beneficial effects. Resolved not to do things by halves, the excellent doctor employed Lindsay professionally in copying specimens of morbid anatomy, and invited Mary to pass a few weeks with his wife and daughters and to consult them concerning her future arrangements. Oh! How much happiness can be conferred by a few kind words and actions of those whose fortune or skill raises them above their ordinary fellow-creatures! How little studious of their own enjoyment are such as never buy the dear delight of giving pleasure! What epicurean delight—what fashionable luxury—what expensive purchase ever conferred the soul-felt rapture called forth by unhoped-for benediction? What public fame or loud-mouthed huzzas—what sugared praise or subtle flattery—ever gave the heart the self-content derived from beholding the bliss itself has created? The truth of this too-little-considered fact was essentially proved by the pleased Doctor Burton and his amiable wife, as they watched the mantling blush which came over and anon like a bright bird of passage over Mary’s faded features, as they saw the honest tear of gratitude glisten on William’s manly cheek, or heard the murmured blessing from the relieved mother who felt that her widowed age would not now be robbed of it’s only comfort.

  Cheerily passes the time when the heart is at ease. The few weeks previous to the wedding day of Mary glided by as if the footfall of June only fell upon flowers. Each of the Miss Burtons presented the expected bride with a bridal dress, and if their graceful simplicity could not add to her beauty, they certainly contributed to her honest pride and pleasure. The cake was made, the love knots twisted, the ring was bought and two days only intervened between the happy day, when one evening as the family of Doctor Burton were sitting cheerfully conversing, the sound of carriage-wheels stopped at the door, and a heavy lumbering noise sounded in the hall.

  “Oh, my father is arrived!” exclaimed Ellen Burton, rising rapidly.

  “What sort of luggage are they bringing in, in the name of wonder?” said her sister.

  “Let us go and see,” said Ellen.

  Mary stopped her; and, with a cheek as white as chalk, said, tremulously, “they tread like men who bear a heavy burden; they whisper, too, beneath their voices; there is a scent of camphor spreading through the house. It is a corpse they are bring in!”

  “You dream, dear Mary—come, let us go and meet this dreaded luggage; my life upon it, its terror will vanish when encountered.”

  With gentle but steady g
rasp she raised the trembling Mary, and would have let her out, but was stayed by the entrance of her father. He looked pale and somewhat excited, and hurriedly evaded their questions. Suddenly he heard a hard, suppressed breathing, and looking round, beheld Mary gazing at him with wild and rigid stare; her blue lips apart, and her clenched hands pressed forcibly upon her breast. All his presence of mind at once returned, and, advancing to her with composure, he said—“What, Miss Stuart, and have my luckless glass vials and electronic machinery startled you also? For shame, young ladies, I thought you were all better soldiers!”

  “It is William!” hissed poor Mary, never for a moment relaxing her distended gaze; “it is Lindsay’s corpse!”

  “Mary, my dear child! For God’s sake do not thus torture yourself; Lindsay is well; but to see you thus, might well make him otherwise. What! You do not believe me? Then come in yourself, William, and convince this obstinate heretic to happiness.”

  He went to the door of his private surgery and called out Lindsay, who instantly flew to his beloved girl. The instant Mary beheld him, she uttered a frantic shriek, and fell in his arms, exclaiming, “Not dead! Not yet doomed to the dreadful grave! William—my William!”

  A burst of tears relieved her o’ercharged heart, and the benevolent Doctor, smiling on her, said—

  “Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip!”

  In spite of this relief, the evening passed heavily; there seemed to be an indescribable something weighing on William’s heart. Mary was exhausted from over-excitement, and the Doctor appeared to listen uneasily to every sound. Mrs. Burton and the ladies retired early, and Ellen left Mary, as she believed, in a sweet and fast sleep. The mystery existing in the surgery was soon explained to William. A certain man had died in one of the London hospitals of a disease which baffled the skill of the physicians. His relations obstinately refused his body for dissection, and with extreme peril and difficulty, a select committee, of which Dr. Burton was the president, had contrived to steal it from the grave. Fearing, however, lest the loss might be discovered and search made, the Doctor had boxed up the body and brought it down to his own private surgery, where, besides having time to examine minutely, he had the advantage of William’s skill as a draughtsman to copy any peculiar appearance the system may present. It was the first time Lindsay had ever witnessed the process of dissection; and as the body had been many days in the grave, and was in an advanced state of decomposition, the trial to his nerves and senses was such, that he devoutly hoped it might be the last. He had for some time slept in a small room adjoining the surgery, and now, for the free circulation of air, left the intermediate door open. Towards the dead of night, his frightful occupation was interrupted by the sound of a footstep. He paused, looked round, called the Doctor by name, and then, seeing nothing, sat once more down to his awful task. All was as still as the grave which was thus robbed of its ghastly tenant; when, suddenly, a loud, long scream smote on his ear, more resembling the prolonged yell of a wild Indian, or the frantic howl of a maniac, than any natural cry of terror. He sprung up, and saw standing by him the figure of his Mary—if, as such, he might recognize the distorted face and writhing form that stood before him, glaring on the blackened corpse.

  To his dying day Doctor Burton would never relate without shuddering, the scene he saw when William’s appalling cries brought him to his aid. Erect as if fashioned of stone, with bloodshot eyeballs and livid features, with hair standing out stiffened with horror, and lips drawn up from the set teeth through which the blood was slowly trickling—there she stood, glaring on the reality of the very phantom which so long had haunted her; and Lindsay, palsied with horror, could only wind his arms around her stiffened figure, and rend the air with cries for help. The moment he entered, Dr. Burton threw a cloak over the corpse, and, as if with the loss of that object, there vanished the unnatural strength with which she had looked on it. Mary fell senseless to the ground. She was bled and carried to bed without giving any token of recollection, and with bitter fears they watched her all night; towards morning she seemed to sleep, and when wakened it was with no remembrance of the frightful events of the night previous. She would have risen, and seemed astonished to find herself so weak; but her manner was calm as usual, and she made no allusion at all to the previous day. William and the ladies rejoiced in deep thankfulness for what they considered almost a miracle of deliverance, but Doctor Burton, though he would not dash their joy, feared much for the stability of that reason which the terrible shock had on one subject completely annihilated. Mary however slowly recovered, and about two weeks after the originally appointed day, Lindsay led her proudly from the church, his wife; and the anxious Doctor was perhaps the only one who noticed that, on returning from it through the churchyard, she smiled and muttered to herself, as she looked on the grave, words of which he could only hear these, “I shall never make one amongst ye!”

  Many months after their marriage passed in tranquility, and peace seemed once more to have builded her nest in the heart of Mary. Her health, it was true, was delicate; but the frightful monomania which had hitherto poisoned her happiness seemed to slumber, and her benevolent friend and physician hoped it was lulled to rest forever. Blest with the wife he loved, Lindsay gave his time and attention to his profession with a devotion which ensured success: and having removed after his marriage to London, that populous city served not only to increase his employment, but wholly to divert the attention of his wife. And soon, to crown his joy, Mary proved likely to be a mother. As this trying time approached, although her frame was weak, her mind was unusually buoyant. No fears appeared to perplex her, and her sole wish was to meet her confinement in the little cottage of her mother at Hastings, which request William granted, rather contrary to the advice of Doctor Burton. Here, constantly attended by the good doctor and his wife, she met her trial with unflinching fortitude, and endured severe and protracted agonies with the courage of a heroine and the patience of a martyr. After three days of doubt and danger, a child was born to the alarmed husband, and about a week after, he and Dr. Burton returned to London, where both where engaged on matters of pressing emergence. The infant sickened shortly after, not of any violent disease, but wasting daily from some unknown cause, fading so gradually that Mrs. Burton hesitated to recall her husband from his important occupations in the metropolis until it was too late. The little sufferer’s cry became weaker and more weak, its tiny limbs wasted, until, like a lamp that goes out for want of oil, the light of his little life sunk, and his baby breath was yielded in his mother’s arms.

  A mother’s grief for her first-born child: who shall describe? Her long burthen and her bitter pain are as nothing when she looks in the infant eyes of her blessing; watching and weariness are unfelt, while hope still shines in her baby’s smile; the voice of despair is unheard while its low cry still speaks her a mother; but when this is hushed forever—when the bright eyes and innocent smile 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 no
t 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.