They were married, and if love, many blessings, and all good gifts
lavishly showered upon them could make them happy, then this young
pair were truly blest. But even in the rapture of the moment that made her
his, Forsyth observed how icy cold was the little hand he held, how
feverish the deep color on the soft cheek he kissed, and what a strange fire
burned in the tender eyes that looked so wistfully at him.
Blithe and beautiful as a spirit, the smiling bride played her part in all
the festivities of that long evening, and when at last light, life and color
began to fade, the loving eyes that watched her thought it but the natural
weariness of the hour. As the last guest departed, Forsyth was met by a
servant, who gave him a letter marked “Haste.” Tearing it open, he read
these lines, from a friend of the professor’s:
“DEAR SIR--Poor Niles died suddenly two days ago, while at the
Scientific Club, and his last words were: ‘Tell Paul Forsyth to beware of
the Mummy’s Curse, for this fatal flower has killed me.’ The circumstances
of his death were so peculiar, that I add them as a sequel to this message.
For several months, as he told us, he had been watching an unknown
plant, and that evening he brought us the flower to examine. Other matters
of interest absorbed us till a late hour, and the plant was forgotten. The
professor wore it in his buttonhole-- a strange white, serpent-headed
blossom, with pale glittering spots, which slowly changed to a glittering
scarlet, till the leaves looked as if sprinkled with blood. It was observed
that instead of the pallor and feebleness which had recently come over
him, that the professor was unusually animated, and seemed in an almost
unnatural state of high spirits. Near the close of the meeting, in the midst of
a lively discussion, he suddenly dropped, as if smitten with apoplexy. He
was conveyed home insensible, and after one lucid interval, in which he
gave me the message I have recorded above, he died in great agony, raving
of mummies, pyramids, serpents, and some fatal curse which had fallen
upon him.
“After his death, livid scarlet spots, like those on the flower, appeared
upon his skin, and he shriveled like a withered leaf. At my desire, the
mysterious plant was examined, and pronounced by the best authority one
of the most deadly poisons known to the Egyptian sorceresses. The plant
slowly absorbs the vitality of whoever cultivates it, and the blossom, worn
for two or three hours, produces either madness or death.”
Down dropped the paper from Forsyth’s hand; he read no further, but
hurried back into the room where he had left his young wife. As if worn
out with fatigue, she had thrown herself upon a couch, and lay there
motionless, her face half-hidden by the light folds of the veil, which had
blown over it.
“Evelyn, my dearest! Wake up and answer me. Did you wear that
strange flower today?” whispered Forsyth, putting the misty screen away.
There was no need for her to answer, for there, gleaming spectrally on
her bosom, was the evil blossom, its white petals spotted now with flecks
of scarlet, vivid as drops of newly spilt blood.
But the unhappy bridegroom scarcely saw it, for the face above it
appalled him by its utter vacancy. Drawn and pallid, as if with some
wasting malady, the young face, so lovely an hour ago, lay before him
aged and blighted by the baleful influence of the plant which had drunk
up her life. No recognition in the eyes, no word upon the lips, no motion of
the hand--only the faint breath, the fluttering pulse, and wide-opened eyes,
betrayed that she was alive.
Alas for the young wife! The superstitious fear at which she had smiled
had proved true: the curse that had bided its time for ages was fulfilled at
last, and her own hand wrecked her happiness for ever. Death in life was
her doom, and for years Forsyth secluded himself to tend with pathetic
devotion the pale ghost, who never, by word or look, could thank him for
the love that outlived even such a fate as this.
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