High on the hills the nuptial feast was spread:
Descending, choir to choir the maidens sang,
“Safe to her home our beauteous bride is led,”
While, each to each, the darkening ledges rang.
From vale and plain came up the revellers’ shout:
Maidens with maidens danced, and men with men;
Till, one by one, the festal fires burned out
By lonely waters. There was silence then.
Keen flashed the stars, with breath that came and went,
Through mountain chasms:—around, beneath, above,
They whispered, glancing through the bridal tent,
“We too are lovers: heaven is naught but love!”
Assunta Howard. III. In Extremis.
How slowly and drearily the time drags on, through all the weary length of
hours and days, in a household where one has suddenly been stricken down
from full life and health to the unconscious delirium of fever—when in
hushed silence and with folded hands the watchers surround the sufferer
with a loving anxiety; whose agony is in their helplessness to stay for
one moment the progress of the disease, which seems possessed of a fiend‐
like consciousness of its own fatal power to destroy; when life and death
hang in the balance, and at any moment the scale may turn, and in its
turning may gladden loving hearts or break them; and, oh! above and beyond
all, when through the clouding of the intellect no ray from the clear
light of faith penetrates the soul, and the prostrate body, stretched upon
its cross, fails to discern the nearness of that other cross upon this
Calvary of suffering, from which flows in perennial streams the fountain
of salvation! Oh! if in the ears, heedless of earthly sounds and words,
there could be whispered those blessed words from Divine lips, “This day
thou shalt be with me,” what heart that loves would not rejoice even in
its anguish, and unselfishly exclaim, “Depart, O Christian soul! I will
even crush down my poor human love, lest its great longing should turn thy
happy soul away from the contemplation of its reward, exceeding great—to
be in Paradise, to be with Christ”? But, alas! there were two crucified
within reach of those precious, saving drops, and one alone said, “Lord,
remember me.”
When the family of Mr. Carlisle first realized that the master of the
house had indeed been prostrated by the fever which had proved so fatal in
its ravages, they were stunned with surprise and grief. It was just the
calamity, of all others the least expected, the heaviest to endure.
Mrs. Grey’s affection for her brother was the deepest sentiment of her
superficial nature, and for the time she was bowed down with sorrow;
which, however, constantly found vent in words and tears. She would rise
from it soon, but not until the emergency had passed. She lived only in
the sunshine; she lost herself when the clouds gathered. Assunta was the
first to recover her calmness and presence of mind. Necessity made her
strong; not so much for the sake of the sick man—that might come by and
by—but for his sister, who clung to the young girl as to the last plank
from the shipwreck of her bright, happy life. The physician was in
constant attendance, and at the first he had proposed sending a nurse. But
the faithful Giovanni had pleaded with so much earnestness to be allowed
the privilege of attending his master that he was installed in the sick‐
room. And truly no better choice could have been made, for he combined the
physical strength of the man with the gentleness of woman, and every
service was rendered with the tenderness of that love which Mr. Carlisle
had the rare power of inspiring and retaining in dependents. But only
Assunta was able to quiet his wandering mind, and control the wild
vagaries of delirium. It was a painful duty to strive to still the ringing
of those bells, once so full of harmony, now “jangled, out of tune, and
harsh.” But, once recognizing where her duty lay, she would have performed
it at any cost to herself.
Her good and devoted friend, F. du Pont, came to see her the second day of
the illness, and brought sympathy and consolation in his very presence.
She had so longed for him that his coming seemed an echo of her earnest
wish—his words of comfort an answer to her prayers.
“Father,” she said at length, “you know all—the past and the present
circumstances. May I not, in the present necessity, and in spite of the
past, forget all but the debt of gratitude I owe, and devote myself to my
dear friend and guardian? You know,” she added, as if there were pain in
the remembrance, “it was Mr. Carlisle’s care for me that exposed him to
the fever. I would nurse him as a sister, if I might.”
“My dear child,” replied the priest, “I do not see how you could do less.
From my knowledge of Mrs. Grey, I should consider her entirely unfit for
the services of a sick‐room. It seems, therefore, your plain duty to
perform this act of charity. I think, my child, that the possible nearness
of death will calm all merely human emotion. Give that obedient little
heart of yours into God’s keeping, and then go to your duty as in his
sight, and I am not afraid. The world will probably look upon what it may
consider a breach of propriety with much less leniency than the angels.
But human respect, always bad enough as a motive, is never so wholly bad
as when it destroys the purity of our intention, and consequently the
merit of our charity, at a time when, bending beneath the burden of some
heavy trial, we are the more closely surrounded by God’s love and
protection. Follow the pillar of the cloud, my child. It is leading you
away from the world.”
“Father,” said Assunta, and her voice trembled, while tears filled her
eyes, “do you think he will die? Indeed, it is not for my own sake that I
plead for his life. He is not prepared to go. Will you not pray for him,
father? Oh! how gladly would I give my life as the price of his soul, and
trust myself to the mercy of God!”
“And it is to that mercy you must trust him, my poor child. Do you, then,
think that his soul is dearer to you than to Him who died to save it? You
must have more confidence. But I have not yet told you the condition I
must impose upon your position as nurse. It is implicit obedience to the
physician, and a faithful use of all the precautions he recommends. While
charity does sometimes demand the risk or even the sacrifice of life, we
have no right to take the matter into our own hands. I do not apprehend
any danger for you, if you will follow the good doctor’s directions. I
will try to see him on my way home. Do you promise?”
“Yes, father,” said Assunta, with a faint smile; “you leave me no
alternative.”
“But I have not yet put a limit to your obedience. You are excited and
worn out this afternoon, and I will give you a prescription. It is a
lovely day, almost spring‐like; and you are now, this very moment, to go
down into the garden for half an hour—and the time must be measured by
your watch, and not by your feelings. Take your rosary with you, and as
you walk up and down the orange avenue let no more serious thoughts enter
your mind than the sweet companionship of the Blessed Mother may suggest.
You will come back stronger, I promise you.”
“You are so kind, father,” said Assunta gratefully. “If you knew what a
blessing you bring with you, you would take compassion on me, and come
soon again.”
“I shall come very soon, my child; and meanwhile I shall pray for you, and
for all, most fervently. But, come, we will walk together as far as the
garden.” And summoning the priest who had accompanied him, and who had
been looking at the books in the library during this conversation, they
were about to descend the stairs, when Mrs. Grey came forward to meet
them.
“O F. du Pont!” she exclaimed impetuously, “will you not come and look at
my poor brother, and tell me what you think of him? They say priests know
so much.” And then she burst into tears.
F. Joseph tried to soothe her with hopeful words, and, when they reached
the door of the darkened chamber, she was again calm. The good priest’s
face expressed the sympathy he felt as they entered softly, and stood
where they would not attract the attention of those restless eyes. Mr.
Carlisle was wakeful and watchful, but comparatively quiet. It was pitiful
to see with what rapid strides the fever was undermining that manly
strength, and hurrying on towards the terrible moment of suspense when
life and death confront each other in momentary combat. With an earnest
prayer to God, the priest again raised the heavy damask curtain, and
softly retired, followed by Mrs. Grey.
“Will he recover?” was her eager question.
“Dear madam,” replied he, “I think there is much room for hope, though I
cannot deny that he is a very sick man. For your encouragement, I can tell
you that I have seen many patients recover in such cases when it seemed
little short of miraculous. It will be many days yet before you must think
of giving up good hope. And remember that all your strength will be
needed.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Grey impulsively, “I could not live if it were not for
Assunta. She is an angel.”
“Yes, she is a good child,” said the priest kindly; “and she is now going
to obey some orders that I have given her, that she may return to you more
angelic than ever. Dear madam, you have my deepest sympathy. I wish that I
could serve you otherwise than by words.”
The two priests bade Assunta good‐by at the garden gate. F. Joseph’s heart
was full of pity for the young girl, whose act of sacrifice in
surrendering human happiness for conscience’ sake had been followed by so
severe a trial. But, remembering the blessed mission of suffering to a
soul like hers, he prayed—not that her chalice might be less bitter, but
that strength might be given her to accept it as from the hand of a loving
Father.
And so Assunta, putting aside every thought of self, took her place in the
sick‐room. She had a double motive in hanging her picture of St.
Catherine, from which she was never separated, at the foot of the bed. It
was a favorite with Mr. Carlisle, and often in his delirium his eyes would
rest upon it, in almost conscious recognition; while to Assunta it was a
talisman—a constant reminder of her mother, and of those dying words which
now seemed stamped in burning letters on her heart and brain.
Mrs. Grey often visited the room; but she controlled her own agitation so
little, and was so unreasonable in the number of her suggestions, that she
generally left the patient worse than she found him. Assunta recognized
her right to come and go as she pleased, but she could not regret her
absence when her presence was almost invariably productive of evil
consequences.
The first Sunday, Assunta thought she might venture to assist at Mass at
the nearest church; it would be strength to her body as well as her soul.
She was not absent from the house an hour, yet she was met on her return
by Clara, in a state of great excitement.
“Assunta, we have had a dreadful time,” she said. “Severn woke up just
after you left, and literally screamed for help, because, he said, a great
black cross had fallen on you, and you would be crushed to death unless
some one would assist him to raise it. In his efforts, he was almost out
of bed. I reasoned with him, and told him it was all nonsense; that there
was no cross, and that you had gone to church. But the more I talked and
explained, the worse he got; until I was perfectly disheartened, and came
to meet you.” And with the ready tears streaming down her pretty face, she
did look the very picture of discouragement.
“Poor Clara,” said Assunta, gently embracing her, “it is hard for you to
bear all this, you are so little accustomed to sickness. But you ought not
to contradict Mr. Carlisle, for it is all real to him, and opposition only
excites him. I can never soothe him except by agreeing with him.”
“But where does he get such strange ideas?” asked the sobbing Clara.
“Where do our dreams come from?” said Assunta. “I think, however, that
this fancy can be traced to the night when we visited the Colosseum, and
sat for a long time on the steps of the cross in the centre. You know it
is a black one,” she added, smiling, to reassure her friend. “And now,
Clara, I really think you ought to order the close carriage, and take a
drive this morning. It would do you good, and you will not be needed at
all for the next two or three hours.”
Mrs. Grey’s face brightened perceptibly. It was the very thing for which
she was longing, but she would not propose it herself for fear it would
seem heartless. To _seem_, and not to _be_, was her motto.
“But would not people think it very strange,” she asked, “and Severn so
sick?”
“I do not believe that people will know or think anything about it,”
answered Assunta patiently. “You can take Amalie with you for company, and
drive out on the Campagna.” And having lightened one load, she turned
towards her guardian’s room.
“Are you not coming to breakfast?” said Mrs. Grey.
“Presently.” And Assunta hastened to the bedside. Giovanni had been
entirely unable to control the panic which seemed to have taken possession
of Mr. Carlisle. He continued his cries for assistance, and the suffering
he evidently endured showed how real the fancy was to him.
“Dear friend,” said the young girl, pushing back the hair from his burning
forehead, “look at me. Do you not see that I am safe?”
Mr. Carlisle turned towards her, and, in sudden revulsion of feeling,
burst into a wild laugh.
“I knew,” he said, “that, if they would only come and help me, I should
succeed. But it was very heavy; it has made me very tired.”
“Yes, you have had hard work, and it was very kind in you to undertake it
for me. But now you must rest. It would make me very unhappy if I thought
that my safety had caused any injury to you.”
And while she was talking, Assunta had motioned to Giovanni to bring the
soothing medicine the doctor had left, and she succeeded in administering
it to her patient, almost without his knowledge, so engrossed was he in
his present vagary.
“But there was a cross?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, in a meaning tone, “a very heavy one; but it did not
crush me.”
“Who lifted it?” he asked eagerly.
“A powerful hand raised its weight from my shoulders, and I have the
promise of His help always, if I should ever be in trouble again, and only
will cry to Him.”
“Well, whoever he is,” said Mr. Carlisle, “he did not hurry much when I
called—and now I am so tired. And Clara said there was no cross; that I
was mistaken. I am _never_ mistaken,” he answered, in something of his
old, proud voice. “She ought to know that.”
Assunta did not answer, but she sat patiently soothing her guardian into
quiet at least, if not sleep. Once he looked at her, and said, “My
precious child is safe;” but, as she smiled, he laughed aloud, and then
shut his eyes again.
An hour she remained beside the bed, and then she crept softly from the
room, to take what little breakfast she could find an appetite for, and to
assist Mrs. Grey in preparing for her drive.
With such constant demands upon her sympathy and strength, it is not
strange that Assunta’s courage sometimes failed. But, when the physician
assured her that her guardian’s life was, humanly speaking, in her hands,
she determined that no thought or care for herself should interfere with
the performance of her duty.
Mrs. Grey’s drive having proved an excellent tonic, she was tempted to
repeat it often—always with a protest and with some misgivings of
conscience, which were, however, set aside without difficulty.
It was a singular coincidence that Mr. Sinclair should so often be found
riding on horseback in the same direction. A few words only would be
exchanged—of enquiry for the sufferer, of sympathy for his sister. But
somehow, as the days went by, the tone in which the words of sympathy were
expressed grew more tender, and conveyed the impression of something held
back out of respect and by an effort. The manner, too—which showed so
little, and yet seemed to repress so much—began to have the effect of
heightening the color in Mrs. Grey’s pretty face, and softening a little
the innocent piquancy of her youthful ways. It was no wonder that, loving
the brightness and sunshine of life, and regarding with a sort of dread
the hush and solemnity which pervade the house of sickness, and which may
at any moment become the house of mourning, she should have allowed her
anxiety for her brother to diminish a little under the influence of the
new thought and feeling which were gaining possession now, in the absence
of all other excitement. And yet she loved her brother as much as such
hearts can love—as deeply as any love can penetrate in which there is no
spirit of sacrifice—love’s foundation and its crown. If the illness had
lasted but a day, or at the most two, she could have devoted herself with
apparent unselfishness and tender assiduity to the duties of nursing. But,
as day after day went on without much perceptible change in Mr. Carlisle,
her first emotion subsided into a sort of graceful perplexity at finding
herself out of her element. And by the time the second week was drawing
towards its close—with the new influence of Mr. Sinclair’s sympathy
seconding the demands of her own nature—she began to act like any other
sunflower, when it “turns to the god that it loves.” And yet she continued
to be very regular in her visits to the sick‐room, and very affectionate
to Assunta; but it may be greatly doubted whether she lost many hours’
sleep. Surely it would be most unjust to judge Clara Grey and Assunta
Howard by the same standard. Undine, before and after the possession of a
human soul, could hardly have been more dissimilar.
It was the fifteenth day of Mr. Carlisle’s illness when Assunta was
summoned from his bedside by Mrs. Grey, who desired to see her for a few
moments in her own room. As the young girl entered, she found her sitting
before a bright wood‐fire; on her lap was an exquisite bouquet fresh from
fairy‐land, or—what is almost the same thing—an Italian garden. In her
hand she held a card, at which she was looking with a somewhat perturbed
expression.
“Assunta, love,” she exclaimed, “I want you to tell me what to do. See
these lovely flowers that Mr. Sinclair has just sent me, with this card.
Read it.” And as she handed her the dainty card, whose perfume seemed to
rival that of the flowers, the color mounted becomingly into her cheeks.
There were only these words written:
“I have brought a close carriage, and hope to persuade you to drive a
little while this afternoon. I will anxiously await your reply in the
garden. Yours, S——.”
“Well?” questioned Clara, a little impatiently, for Assunta’s face was
very grave.
“Dear Clara,” she replied, “I have no right to advise you, and I certainly
shall not question the propriety of anything you do. I was only thinking
whether I had not better tell you that I see a change in your brother this
afternoon, and I fear it is for the worse. I am longing for the doctor’s
visit.”
“Do you really think he is worse?” exclaimed Clara. “He looks to me just
the same. But perhaps I had better not go out. I had a little headache,
and thought a drive might do me good. But, poor Severn! of course I ought
not to leave him.”
“You must not be influenced by what I say,” said Assunta. “I may be
entirely mistaken, and so I should not alarm you. God knows, I hope it may
be so!”
“Then you think I might go for an hour or two, just to get a breath of
air,” said Mrs. Grey. “Mr. Sinclair will certainly think I have found it
necessary to call a papal consistory, if I keep him much longer on the
promenade.”
Poor Assunta, worn out with her two weeks of watching and anxiety, looked
for a moment with a sort of incredulous wonder at the incarnation of
unconscious selfishness before her. For one moment she looked “upon this
picture and on that”—the noble, devoted brother, sick unto death; and that
man, the acquaintance of a few days, now walking impatiently up and down
the orange avenue. The flush of indignation changed her pale cheeks to
scarlet, and an almost pharisaical thanksgiving to God that she was not
like _some_ women swept across her heart, while a most unwonted sarcasm
trembled on her lips. She instantly checked the unworthy feeling and its
expression; but she was so unstrung by care and fatigue that she could not
so easily control her emotion, and, before the object of unusual
indignation had time to wonder at the delay of her reply, she had thrown
herself upon the sofa, and was sobbing violently. Mrs. Grey was really
alarmed, so much so that she dropped both card and flowers upon the floor,
and forgot entirely her waiting cavalier, as she knelt beside the excited
girl, and put her arms about her.
“Assunta dear, what is the matter? Are you ill? Oh! what have I done?” she
exclaimed.
“My poor guardian—my dear, kind friend, he is dying! May God have mercy on
him and on me!” were the words that escaped Assunta’s lips between the
sobs.
A shudder passed through Mrs. Grey at this unexpected putting into words
of the one thought she had so carefully kept from her mind; and her own
tears began to flow. Just at this moment the physician’s step sounded in
the hall, and she went hastily to summon him. He took in the whole scene
at a glance, and, seating himself at once upon the sofa beside Assunta, he
put his hand gently and soothingly upon her head, as a father might have
done.
“Poor child!” said he kindly, “I have been expecting this.”
The action expressing sympathy just when she needed it so much caused her
tears to flow afresh, but less tumultuously than before. The remains of
Mrs. Grey’s lunch were standing on a side‐table, and the good doctor
poured out a glass of wine, which Assunta took obediently. Then, making an
effort at self‐control, she said:
“Please do not waste a moment on me. Do go to Mr. Carlisle; he seems very
ill. I have been weak and foolish, but I will control myself better next
time.”
“I have just left Mr. Carlisle’s room,” replied the doctor. “I will not
deceive you. He is, as you say, very ill; but I hope we may save him yet.
You must call up all your courage, for you will be much needed to‐night.”
He knew by the effect that he had touched the right chord, so he
continued: “And now, Miss Howard, I am going to ask of you the favor to
send one of your servants to my house, to notify my wife that I shall not
return to‐night. I will not leave you until the crisis is
passed—successfully, I hope,” he added with a smile.
Assunta went at once to give the desired order, relieved and grateful that
they would have the support of the physician’s presence and skill; and yet
the very fact of his remaining discouraged the hope he had tried to
inspire. When she had gone, he turned to address a few comforting words to
Mrs. Grey, when, suddenly recollecting himself, he said:
“By the way, Mrs. Grey, I forgot to tell you that I met Mr. Sinclair down‐
stairs, and he begged me to inquire if you had received a message from
him. Can I be of service in taking him your reply?”
“O poor man! I quite forgot him,” exclaimed the easily diverted Clara, as
she stooped to pick up the neglected flowers. “Thank you for your kind
offer, but I had better run down myself, and apologize for my apparent
rudeness.” And, hastily wiping her eyes, she threw a shawl over her
shoulders and a becoming white _rigolette_ about her head, and with a
graceful bow of apology she left the room.
“Extraordinary woman!” thought the doctor. “One would suppose that a dying
brother would be an excuse, even to that puppy Sinclair. I wish he had had
to wait longer—it wouldn’t have hurt him a bit—he has never had half
enough of it to do. And what the devil is he coming here for now, anyhow?”
he added to his former charitable reflections, as he went to join Assunta
in her faithful vigil beside the unconscious and apparently dying man.
Mr. Sinclair met Mrs. Grey at the foot of the stairs with an assumption of
interest and anxiety which successfully concealed his inward impatience.
But truly it would have been difficult to resist that appealing face, with
its traces of recent tears and the flush caused by excited feeling.
As a general thing, with all due deference to poetic opinion, “love is
(_not_) loveliest when embalmed in tears.” But Mrs. Grey was an exception
to many rules. Her emotion was usually of the April‐shower sort, gentle,
refreshing, even beautifying. Very little she knew of the storm of
suffering which desolates the heart, and whose ravages leave a lasting
impression upon the features. Such emotions also sometimes, but rarely,
leave a beauty behind them; but it is a beauty not of this world, the
beauty of holiness; not of Mrs. Grey’s kind, for it never would have
touched Mr. Sinclair as hers did now.
“My dear Mrs. Grey,” he said, taking her hand in both his, “how grieved I
am to see you showing so plainly the results of care and watching!
Privileged as he must be who is the recipient of such angelic
ministrations, I must yet protest—as a friend, I trust I have a right to
do so—against such over‐exertion on your part. You will be ill yourself;
and then who or what will console me?”
Mr. Sinclair knew this was a fiction. He knew well enough that Mrs. Grey
had never looked fresher or prettier in her life. But the _rôle_ he had
assigned to himself was the dangerously tender one of sympathy; and where
a sufficient occasion for displaying his part was not supplied, he must
needs invent one.
Clara was not altogether deceived, for, as she put her lace‐bordered
handkerchief to her eyes, from which the tears began again to flow, she
replied:
“You are mistaken, Mr. Sinclair. I am quite well, and not at all fatigued;
while dear Assunta is thin and pale, and thoroughly worn out with all she
has done. I can never be grateful enough to her.”
Had the lady raised her eyes, she might have been astonished at the
expression of contempt which curled Mr. Sinclair’s somewhat hard mouth, as
he rejoined:
“Yes; I quite understand Miss Howard’s _motive_ in her devotion to her
guardian, and it is not strange that she should be pale. How do you
suppose I should look and feel if the dearest friend I have in the world
were at this moment lying in her brother’s place?”
Mrs. Grey might have received a new light about the young girl had she not
been rendered obtuse to the first part of this speech by the very pointed
allusion to herself afterwards, that was accompanied by a searching look,
which she would not see, for she still kept her handkerchief before her
eyes. Mr. Sinclair placed her disengaged hand upon his arm, and gently
drew her towards the garden. Had she been able to look down into the heart
of the man who walked so protectingly beside her, she would doubtless have
been surprised to find a disappointment lurking in the place where she had
begun to feel her image was enshrined. She would have seen that Assunta’s
face had occupied a niche in the inner sanctuary of the heart of this man
of the world, before which he would have been content to bow; that pique
at her entire indifference to his pretensions, and the reserve behind
which she always retreated in his presence, had led him to transfer his
attentions to the older lady and the smaller fortune; and that his jealous
observation had brought to his notice, what was apparent to no one else,
the relations between Assunta and her guardian.
All this would not have been very flattering to Mrs. Grey, so it was
perhaps as well that the gift of clairvoyance was not hers; though it is a
sad thought for men and angels how few hearts there are that would bear to
have thrown on them the clear light of unveiled truth. The day is to come
when the secrets of all hearts are to be revealed. But Mr. Sinclair, even
if he knew this startling fact, would not have considered it worth while
to anticipate that dread hour by revealing to the lovely lady at his side
any of those uncomfortable circumstances which would inevitably stand in
the way of the consummation of his present wish. So he bravely undertook
the noble enterprise of deceiving a trusting heart into believing in a
love which did not exist, but which it was not so very difficult to
imagine just at that moment, with the little hand resting confidingly on
his arm, and the tearful eyes raised to meet his.
In a broken voice, Mrs. Grey said: “Mr. Sinclair, I came down myself to
thank you for the beautiful flowers you sent me, and to excuse myself from
driving with you this afternoon. Poor Severn is worse, they think. Oh! if
he should not recover, what will become of me?” And as she spoke, she
burst into renewed weeping, and threw herself upon a seat beneath a group
of orange‐trees, whose perfume stole upon the senses with a subtle yet
bewildering influence. Mr. Sinclair sat down beside her, saying gently:
“I hope, dear Mrs. Grey, it is not so serious as that. I am confident that
you have been needlessly alarmed.”
The world will, no doubt, pardon him—seeing that Mammon was his chosen
master—if the thought was not altogether unpleasing that, should Mr.
Carlisle die now, before Assunta could have a claim upon him, it would
make an almost princely addition to the dowry of his sister. Nor on this
account were his words less tender as he added:
“But, even so, do you not know of one heart waiting, longing to devote
itself to you, and only with difficulty restrained from placing itself at
your feet by the iron fetters of propriety? Tell me, Clara, may I break
these odious chains, and say what is in my heart?”
“Mr. Sinclair, you must not speak such words to me now, and my poor
brother so ill. Indeed, I cannot stay to hear you. Thank you very much for
your kind sympathy, but I must leave you now.”
“Without one word of hope? Do I deserve this?” And truly the pathos he put
into his voice was calculated to melt a heart of stone; and Clara’s was
much more impressible. She paused beside him, and, allowing him still to
retain in his the hand he had taken, continued:
“I think you take an unfair advantage of my lonely position. I cannot give
you a favorable answer this afternoon, for I am so bewildered. I begin to
think that I ought not to have come down at all; but I wanted to tell you
how much I appreciated the bouquet.”
“I hope you read its meaning,” said Mr. Sinclair, rising. “And do you not
see a happy omen in your present position, under a bower of orange
blossoms? It needs but little imagination to lower them until they
encircle the head of the most lovely of brides. Will you accept this as a
pledge of that bright future which I have dared to picture to myself?” And
as he spoke he put up his hand to break off a cluster of the white
blossoms and dark‐green leaves, when Giovanni appeared at the gate.
“Signora,” he said, “will you please to come up‐stairs? The Signorina is
very anxious to see you.”
“I am coming,” she replied. “Pardon me, Mr. Sinclair, and forget what has
been said.” And she walked towards the house.
“Do you refuse the pledge?” he asked, placing the flowers in her hand,
after raising them to his lips.
“Really,” answered Clara, almost petulantly, “I am so perplexed, I do not
know what to say. Yes, I will take the flowers, if that will please you.”
Saying which, she began to ascend the stairs.
“And I take hope with me,” said Mr. Sinclair, in a tender tone. But as he
turned to go he mentally cursed Giovanni for the interruption; “for,”
thought he, “in one minute more I would have had her promise, and who
knows but now that brother of hers may recover and interfere?”
Assunta met Mrs. Grey just outside the door of Mr. Carlisle’s room, and
drew her into the library, where she sat down beside her on the sofa, and,
putting her arm affectionately about her, began to speak to her with a
calmness which, under the circumstances, could only come from the presence
of God.
“I thought, dear Clara, that I had better ask you to come here, while I
talk to you a little about your brother, and what the doctor says. We must
both of us try to prepare.” Here her voice broke, and Mrs. Grey
interrupted her with,
“Tell me, Assunta, quickly, is he worse?”
“I fear so, dear,” replied Assunta; “but we must help each other to keep
up what courage and hope we may. It is a common sorrow, Clara, for he has
been more than a brother to me.”
“But, Assunta, I do not understand. You are so calm, and yet you say such
dreadful things. Does the doctor think he will die?” And once again she
shuddered at that word, to her so fearful and so incomprehensible.
“I dare not deceive you, dear—I dare not deceive myself. The crisis has
come, and he seems to be sinking fast. O Clara, pray for him!”
“I cannot pray; I do not know how. I have never prayed in my life. But let
me go to him—my poor, dear Severn!” And Mrs. Grey was rushing from the
room, when Assunta begged her to wait one moment, while she besought her
to be calm. Life hung upon a thread, which the least agitation might snap
in a moment. She could not give up that one last hope. Mrs. Grey of course
promised; but the instant she approached the bed, and saw the change that
a few hours had made, she shrieked aloud; and Assunta, in answer to the
doctor’s look of despair, summoned her maid, and she was carried to her
own room in violent hysterics, the orange blossoms still in her hand.
Truly they seemed an omen of death rather than of a bridal. The doctor
followed to administer an opiate, and then Assunta and himself again took
up their watch by Mr. Carlisle. Hour after hour passed.
Everything that skill could suggest was done. Once only Assunta left the
room for a moment to inquire for Mrs. Grey, and, finding that she was
sleeping under the influence of the anodyne, she instantly returned. She
dared not trust herself to think how different was this death from that
other she remembered. She could not have borne to entertain for one moment
the thought that this soul was going forth without prayer, without
sacrament, to meet its God. She did everything the doctor wished, quietly
and calmly. The hours did not seem long, for she had almost lost her sense
of time, so near the confines of eternity. She did not even _feel_ now—she
only _waited_.
It was nearly twelve when the doctor said in a low voice:
“We can do nothing more now; we must leave the rest to nature.”
“And to God,” whispered Assunta, as she sank on her knees beside the bed;
and, taking in both hers her guardian’s thin, out‐stretched hand, she
bowed her head, and from the very depths of her soul went up a prayer for
his life—if it might be—followed by a fervent but agonized act of
resignation to the sweet will of God.
She was so absorbed that she did not notice a sudden brightening of the
doctor’s face as he bent over his patient. But in a moment more she felt a
motion, and the slightest possible pressure of her hand. She raised her
head, and her eyes met those of her guardian, while a faint smile—one of
his own peculiar, winning smiles—told her that he was conscious of her
presence. At last, rousing himself a little more, he said:
“_Petite_, no matter where I am, it is so sweet to have you here.” And,
with an expression of entire content, he closed his eyes again, and fell
into a refreshing sleep.
“Thank God!” murmured Assunta, and her head dropped upon her folded hands.
The doctor came to her, and whispered the joyful words, “He will live!”
but, receiving no answer, he tried to lift the young girl from her knees,
and found that she had fainted. Poor child! like Mary, the Blessed Mother
of Sorrows, she had _stood_ beneath her cross until it was lightened of
its burden, She had nerved herself to bear her sorrow; she had not counted
on the strength which would be needed for the reaction of joy.
“Better so,” said the doctor, as he placed her upon the couch, “She would
never have taken rest in any other way.”
To Be Continued.
A Discussion With An Infidel.