A month,however,passed away,and I did not hear anything of Ellen.I called at the Lodge,and to my inquiries they answered that she was very much worse in health,and that since the death of the child she had been sinking fast,and so weak that she had been chiefly confined to her bed.I sent frequently to inquire,and often called myself,and all that Iheard convinced me that she was rapidly sinking into the grave.
Late one night I was summoned from my rest,by a visit from the person who had upon the former occasion acted as my guide;he had come to summon me to the death-bed of her whom I had then attended.With all celerity I made my preparations,and,not without considerable difficulty and some danger,we made a rapid night-ride to the Lodge,a distance of five miles at least.We arrived safely,and in a very short time--but too late.
I stood by the bed upon which lay the once beautiful form of Ellen Heathcote.
The brief but sorrowful trial was past--
the desolate mourner was gone to that land where the pangs of grief,the tumults of passion,regrets and cold neglect,are felt no more.I leant over the lifeless face,and scanned the beautiful features which,living,had wrought such magic on all that looked upon them.They were,indeed,much wasted;but it was impossible for the fingers of death or of decay altogether to obliterate the traces of that exquisite beauty which had so distinguished her.
As I gazed on this most sad and striking spectacle,remembrances thronged fast upon my mind,and tear after tear fell upon the cold form that slept tranquilly and for ever.
A few days afterwards I was told that a funeral had left the Lodge at the dead of night,and had been conducted with the most scrupulous secrecy.It was,of course,to me no mystery.
Heathcote lived to a very advanced age,being of that hard mould which is not easily impressionable.The selfish and the hard-hearted survive where nobler,more generous,and,above all,more sympathising natures would have sunk for ever.
Dwyer certainly succeeded in extorting,I cannot say how,considerable and advantageous leases from Colonel O'Mara;but after his death he disposed of his interest in these,and having for a time launched into a sea of profligate extravagance,he became bankrupt,and for a long time Itotally lost sight of him.
The rebellion of '98,and the events which immediately followed,called him forth from his lurking-places,in the character of an informer;and I myself have seen the hoary-headed,paralytic perjurer,with a scowl of derision and defiance,brave the hootings and the execrations of the indignant multitude.
STRANGE EVENT IN THE LIFE OF SCHALKEN THE PAINTER.
Being a Seventh Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell,P.P.of Drumcoolagh.
You will no doubt be surprised,my dear friend,at the subject of the following narrative.What had I to do with Schalken,or Schalken with me?He had returned to his native land,and was probably dead and buried,before I was born;I never visited Holland nor spoke with a native of that country.
So much I believe you already know.I
must,then,give you my authority,and state to you frankly the ground upon which rests the credibility of the strange story which I am,about to lay before you.
I was acquainted,in my early days,with a Captain Vandael,whose father had served King William in the Low Countries,and also in my own unhappy land during the Irish campaigns.I know not how it happened that I liked this man's society,spite of his politics and religion:but so it was;and it was by means of the free intercourse to which our intimacy gave rise that I became possessed of the curious tale which you are about to hear.
I had often been struck,while visiting Vandael,by a remarkable picture,in which,though no connoisseur myself,Icould not fail to discern some very strong peculiarities,particularly in the distribu-tion of light and shade,as also a certain oddity in the design itself,which interested my curiosity.It represented the interior of what might be a chamber in some antique religious building--the foreground was occupied by a female figure,arrayed in a species of white robe,part of which is arranged so as to form a veil.The dress,however,is not strictly that of any religious order.In its hand the figure bears a lamp,by whose light alone the form and face are illuminated;the features are marked by an arch smile,such as pretty women wear when engaged in successfully practising some roguish trick;in the background,and,excepting where the dim red light of an expiring fire serves to define the form,totally in the shade,stands the figure of a man equipped in the old fashion,with doublet and so forth,in an attitude of alarm,his hand being placed upon the hilt of his sword,which he appears to be in the act of drawing.
'There are some pictures,'said I to my friend,'which impress one,I know not how,with a conviction that they represent not the mere ideal shapes and combinations which have floated through the imagination of the artist,but scenes,faces,and situations which have actually existed.When I look upon that picture,something assures me that I behold the representation of a reality.'
Vandael smiled,and,fixing his eyes upon the painting musingly,he said:
'Your fancy has not deceived you,my good friend,for that picture is the record,and I believe a faithful one,of a remarkable and mysterious occurrence.It was painted by Schalken,and contains,in the face of the female figure,which occupies the most prominent place in the design,an accurate portrait of Rose Velderkaust,the niece of Gerard Douw,the first and,Ibelieve,the only love of Godfrey Schalken.
My father knew the painter well,and from Schalken himself he learned the story of the mysterious drama,one scene of which the picture has embodied.This painting,which is accounted a fine specimen of Schalken's style,was bequeathed to my father by the artist's will,and,as you have observed,is a very striking and interesting production.'