The old steward met him, and said–“There is a letter for you which my master was writing at the time of his death. I know many circumstances which it is now of the last importance that you should know too. For God’s sake, Sir, go and read the letter, and I will be within call.”
The old man led the way to his master’s room. He looked round it piteously for a moment, and then hurried away, hiding his face in his hands. Ernest had never been in the room before; and yet how full it seemed of the living presence of him who was no more! There was his cloak flung on a chair;–there lay open books of which he and Ernest had recently been talking. There, too, was a flask of medicine–alas! how unavailing!–and a goblet of water, half drank. But one object more than all riveted Ernest’s attention;–there was the picture of Beatrice Cenci. It was a portrait as large as life: his own seemed to have been a copy of it. How well he knew that striking and lovely face! He knew not why, but he gazed upon it with a sudden terror; the large black eyes seemed to fix so mournfully upon his own. He turned away, and saw the letter on the table, addressed to himself. He seated himself, and began to read the contents; though the tears swam in his eyes as he saw the handwriting of an uncle who, whatever his faults, had always been kind, very kind, to himself. It ran thus:–
“My beloved Ernest,–For dear to me as a child of my own is the boy who has grown up at my side. I have long been desirous of communicating to you the contents of the following pages, but I have found it too painful to speak–I find that I must write. My confidence will not be misplaced, for I have noted in you a judgment beyond your years, and a delicacy which will estimate the trust reposed in you. My health is declining rapidly, and I would fain secure protection for my darling Pauline, and another as dear and more unfortunate. I have rejoiced to see that my sister’s plan for a marriage between you and my daughter is not likely to take place. You do not love your cousin–you prefer the solitary study and the lonely ramble–so would not a lover. She, too, is amused in your absence. I hear her step and song among her companions, and you are not with them. It is for the best–you will be a safe and affectionate friend. I hope she will never marry.
“Alas!–On me and mine has rested a fearful curse! I married one whose beauty let the picture now opposite to me attest, and her heart was even lovelier than her face. An Italian artist painted her as Beatrice Cenci: he said that the costume suited her so well. I have since thought it an omen that we should have chosen the semblance of one so ill-fated. For years we were most happy, but at last an unaccountable depression seized upon my wife. She became wayward and irritable. This led to the quarrel between your mother and ourselves. She knew not the fatal cause. After the birth of her third and last child, her malady took a darker turn. Ernest, it was melancholy madness, and incurable! In a paroxysm of despondency, she murdered the infant in her arms, and died a few hours afterwards in a state of raving insanity!
“I will not dwell on my after-years of misery. I was roused by fear of the headstrong and violent temper of my eldest girl, Minna–I saw in it the seeds of her mother’s malady. My terror was too well founded. She was found one evening attempting to strangle her little sleeping sister, who was then six years old–Minna being just fourteen. A brain fever followed, and a report was spread of her death. Why should our
