Chapter 45 - Page 2

felt it all, and rushing to the feet of his brother, he exclaimed
in horror, pressing his hands between his own,--

"Francis--my own brother--do you not know me?"

The maniac regarded him with a vacant gaze, but the voice and the person
recalled the compositions of his more reasonable moments to his
recollection; pushing back the hair of George, so as to expose his fine
forehead to view, he contemplated him for a few moments, and then
continued to sing, in a voice still rendered sweeter than before by his
faint impressions:

His raven locks, that richly curled,
His eye, that proud defiance hurled.
Have stol'n my Marian's love!
Had I been blest by nature's grace,
With such a form, with such a face,
Could I so treacherous prove?

And what is man--and what is care--
That he should let such passions tear
The bases of the soul!
Oh! you should do, as I have done--
And having pleasure's summit won,
Each bursting sob control!

On ending the last stanza, the maniac released his brother, and broke into
the wildest laugh of madness.

"Francis!--Oh! Francis, my brother," cried George, in bitterness. A
piercing shriek drew his eye to the door he had passed through--on its
threshold lay the senseless body of his wife. The distracted husband
forgot everything in the situation of his Marian, and raising her in his
arms, he exclaimed,--

"Marian--my Marian, revive--look up--know me."

Francis had followed him, and now stood by his side, gazing intently on
the lifeless body; his looks became more soft--his eye glanced less
wildly--he too cried,--

"Marian--_My_ Marian."

There was a mighty effort; nature could endure no more, he broke a
blood-vessel and fell at the feet of George. They flew to his assistance,
giving the countess to her women; but he was dead.

For seventeen years Lady Pendennyss survived this shock: but having
reached her own abode, during that long period she never left her room.

In the confidence of his surviving hopes, Doctor Ives and his wife were
made acquainted with the real cause of the grief of their friend, but the
truth went no further. Denbigh was the guardian of his three young
cousins, the duke, his sister, and young George Denbigh; these, with his
son, Lord Lumley, and daughter, Lady Marian, were removed from the
melancholy of the Castle to scenes better adapted to their opening
prospects in life. Yet Lumley was fond of the society of his father, and
finding him a youth endowed beyond his years, the care of his parent was
early turned to the most important of his duties in that sacred office;
and when he yielded to his wishes to go into the army, he knew he went a