“And so I have you all to myself once more; no interference from cruel
guardians on your side, and none from unreasonable husbands on mine.
Joking apart, Assunta darling, I think God has been very good to me to
give me such a compensation for Harry’s long absence. Every trial seems to
have a blessing in its train, by way of a set‐off. And you are just the
very dearest of blessings.” And Mary Lee moved her chair a little nearer
to her friend, by way of showing her appreciation. Assunta looked up from
her work with a bright smile, as she replied:
“You are not in the least changed from the dear Mary Percival of convent
days—and happy days they were, too—while I feel twenty years older than I
did the day I bade you good‐by at the garden gate. But now you are
mistaken. I am the one blessed, not blessing. For think what it is to me—a
waif—to find awaiting me so kind a welcome and so pleasant a temporary
home. God only knows what would have become of me without you.”
“Oh!” said Mary, “my only fear was that, with so many claimants for the
honor, I should never succeed in carrying off the prize. I am sure, until
it was decided, and I saw your trunks safely landed at my door, I looked
upon Mrs. Sinclair as my deadly enemy.”
“Clara is very kind—much more so than I deserve,” said Assunta, while an
expression of seriousness passed over her face; “but I should not have
liked to accept her hospitality now. I think the present arrangement is
more for the happiness of all parties.”
And the remembrance of a certain evening on board the steamer, when Mr.
Sinclair, a married man, had dared to tell her, his wife’s friend, that
she had first possessed his heart, and that his love for her was still
unchanged, made her shudder now involuntarily. He must indeed have
strangely forgotten himself, when, after that, he added his entreaties to
those of his unsuspecting wife that she would look upon their home as
hers. Assunta felt as if the word love had indeed been profaned by the
lips of George Sinclair. God is love; but she knew that he would not
hesitate to take even that most holy name in vain. Why then scruple to
profane the attribute? However, all this was a secret, known to herself
alone.
“Mrs. Sinclair must have been a lovely bride,” said Mary musingly. “But,
Assunta, why did Mr. Carlisle return at once to Europe? I should think he
would be tired of travelling by this time, and would like to settle down
for a while on his own place. I have heard it is so beautiful.”
“The habit of travelling grows upon one,” replied Assunta. “He only
returned to Maryland to attend to certain matters in regard to his
sister’s property and mine. It was his intention to spend some time longer
in Europe and the East.” Then, to change the subject, she continued: “But,
Mary dear, when does your brother enter the seminary?”
“I do not know,” said Mrs. Lee. “I cannot understand Augustine at all. He
seems just as good and earnest as ever, and yet something troubles him, I
see it plainly. But he is unusually reserved with me; so that I feel a
reluctance to question him. I wish you would ask him about the seminary.
You can do it quite incidentally; and very likely he would tell you all
about it.”
“I certainly will,” said Assunta. “He is your brother; so I almost feel as
if he were mine too.”
“I do not think,” continued Mary, “that he is well. I am afraid his trip
to the East may have done him more harm than good. He always protests that
he is perfectly well, if I ask him; but I am sure he does not look so.”
“I have thought so myself, and I think we must look upon his case as our
next duty.” And Assunta arose, as the clock struck eleven.
The opportunity to take the case in hand came much sooner than the fair
conspirators had anticipated. The next afternoon, while Mrs. Lee had
excused herself for a few hours, in order to pay the expected weekly visit
to her mother‐in‐law, Mr. Percival joined Assunta, as she sat alone in the
cosey library, finishing a garment for a poor child in whom she was
already interested. Assunta noticed more than usual the paleness of the
spiritual face she had always so much admired, and the weariness of its
expression; but, with true feminine tact, she made no comment; only, as he
seated himself beside the table, she looked up with a smile of welcome, as
his sister might have done.
“Hard at work, as usual. I hope I do not interrupt you, Miss Howard?” said
Mr. Percival, with an answering smile.
“Oh! no indeed. I am delighted to see you this evening. We have not had a
good long talk since I came; and yet we have so many topics of mutual
interest.”
Mr. Percival took from his pocket a little box, and, opening it, said:
“Miss Howard, I have ventured to bring you a souvenir of my travels, which
I beg you will accept from Mary’s brother, and because of the
association.”
He placed in her hand a heart‐shaped locket, plain but heavy, in the
centre of which glowed a large crimson ruby, and around it were engraved
the words, “Cor cordium.” Within, on one side, was a miniature painting of
the Sacred Heart of Jesus; on the other side was set a tiny crucifix,
carved from the olive‐wood of Gethsemani by one of the monks of Jerusalem,
and which had been laid upon the altar in the Chapel of the Holy
Sepulchre.
“And I prayed for you in that sacred spot most fervently, you may be
sure,” said Mr. Percival.
Assunta’s eyes were still fixed upon the beautiful treasure which she held
in her hand. Tears were in them, as she raised them at last, saying:
“Words are poor thanks for such a gift as this. You know, Mr. Percival,
how much I shall value it. Indeed, I feel most unworthy to possess
anything so precious; yet I shall accept it, as you said, from the brother
of my dearest friend, who is to me truly a sister in affection.” And
pressing her lips to the crystal which protected the crucifix, she
carefully replaced the locket in its case.
“And so you did not forget those foolish, fanciful remarks I made by
Shelley’s grave. I had not dreamed they would have dwelt in your memory so
long; still less did I imagine they would inspire so beautiful a design as
this, which is, of course, your own.” Then she added after a little pause:
“There is one greater gift even than this that I shall ask of you one of
these days. It is one of your first Masses, when, as a priest, you are
privileged to offer the Holy Sacrifice.”
“Miss Howard,” exclaimed Mr. Percival, with deep emotion, “that is a
subject of which I cannot even think without suffering.”
“Forgive me,” murmured Assunta, surprised beyond measure. “It was indeed
unpardonable in me to pain you by speaking of that which is between
yourself and God alone. My only excuse is that I thought the matter had
long been settled.”
Then followed a silence, so prolonged that Assunta began to wonder what
kept that manly head bowed forward upon the table. Was it confusion, was
it prayer, or had he perhaps fainted? At last he suddenly looked up, and
fixed those fine, earnest eyes of his full upon Assunta’s face; and even
in that moment the thought struck her what pure, true eyes they were.
“Miss Howard, you are the last person on earth to whom I ought to speak on
this subject, and I know not what impels me to do so now. Pray for me; for
my salvation may depend upon it.”
Assunta tried to be calm, as she said gently, while she breathed a silent
prayer for guidance:
“You must think of me as almost a sister.”
Mr. Percival went on:
“Even your image, true and beautiful and holy as it is, and pure as an
angel’s, should never have been allowed to come between me and the God to
whose special service I was inclined. But believe me, Miss Howard, never
for one moment have I cherished a hope that you might be to me other than
you are; only, when I have striven to rise above all human feeling, and to
give myself unreservedly to him who demanded the sacrifice, God help me!
you seemed to fill his place in my soul. Forgive me and pity me! I am
miserably weak.”
After a moment he continued:
“Ah! Miss Howard, you know what I mean. It is only because of my own
weakness that I have found the memory of you an obstacle to my advance
towards the perfection to which I aspired.”
“And to which you will still aspire.” And Assunta’s voice was low and
sweet, as she for the first time broke silence. “I had not dreamed of
this, Mr. Percival, but I hope you will never have occasion to regret the
confidence you have reposed, not in the ideal which has for a moment
passed as a cloud of temptation between your soul and its high calling,
but in one who, though full of faults, may yet offer you her sympathy and
her prayers.”
“God bless you!” escaped from Mr. Percival’s lips.
“I am too young and inexperienced,” continued Assunta, “to give you
counsel; besides, I am a woman; but, with my woman’s intuition, I think I
see how all this has come about.... May I go on?”
“I beg you will; it is the sort of soul‐wound that needs probing.”
Assunta smiled. “I do not think such severe treatment will be
required—only an examination, perhaps, preparatory to healing. You met me
in Rome—forgive me if I speak too freely of myself—surrounded by that
atmosphere of beauty and poetry which steals into the soul, because it
breathes from the very centre of Catholic faith and the glory of the
church militant. But when you met me, I was with those whose hearts were
not open to such influences; and it was very natural that you and I should
feel drawn to each other by the attraction of a common faith and hope. Do
you think I could have said those foolish words, which it seems you have
remembered only too well”—and she glanced at the little case in her
hand—“if I had not felt that you could sympathize with my thoughts,
however poorly they were expressed? Believe me, it was a certain
earnestness of faith in me, which your presence drew out into somewhat too
free expression and which remained in your memory as an attraction; and
the devil has ingeniously made use of that little opening to insinuate
some subtle poison. But his power is at an end, thank God! He has, for me,
overreached his mark. The very fact that you could speak of this to me
proves that the danger is already passing. O my friend! think what a poor,
miserable substitute is even the greatest human happiness for the life to
which God calls you. Think of the reward! Heaven is the price! However, it
is the Holy Spirit, not I, that should speak to your soul. Will you not
give him the opportunity? Will you not, perhaps, go into retreat? Or
rather, please do not listen to me, but go to your director, and open your
heart to him. I can only give you a few words of sympathy and
encouragement. He can speak to you as the voice of God.”
“You do not despise me, then, for having wavered?”
“Do not say that, Mr. Percival,” exclaimed the young girl earnestly. “What
saint is there that has not suffered temptation? Despise you? I envy you,
rather. Think of the vocation God has given you! If it proves to be the
mountain of sacrifice, and you ascend it with the cross upon your
shoulders, will you not be all the better priest from your likeness to Him
who was at once both priest and victim!”
“Miss Howard, pardon me, but you speak as if the lesson of Calvary were
not new to you; as if you, too, knew what it is to suffer—not, as I have
done, through your own weakness—God forbid! That I could never think.”
“We each of us must bear some cross,” said Assunta hastily; and then, to
give a lighter turn to the conversation, she added: “I am sorry that I
should have proved to be yours.”
For the first time Augustine Percival smiled, as he said:
“But if, through you, I win my crown, you will not then regret it?”
“O that crown!” exclaimed Assunta; “let us both keep it ever in sight as
an incentive. The way will not then seem so long or so hard. Mr. Percival,
will you see your director to‐night?”
“I will go to him now. It is what I have neglected only too long. God
bless you, Miss Howard! But dare I now, after all that has passed, ask you
to retain my trifling gift, that you may not forget to pray for me?”
“I shall prize it most highly,” said Assunta. “But I shall not need to be
reminded to commend you very often to the Sacred Heart of our divine Lord,
where you will find strength and consolation. I am sure the least I can do
for you is to pray for you, having been the occasion of your suffering.”
“And of something more than that,” said Mr. Percival.
“And I shall still hope for the other greater gift,” said Assunta in
pleading tones.
“Miss Howard,” replied Mr. Percival, almost with solemnity, “if I,
unworthy as I am, should ever be permitted to offer the Holy Sacrifice, my
first Mass shall be for you, God willing. But I dare not yet look forward
with hope to such a possibility. Once more, God bless you! Pray for me.”
And in a moment more he had left the house.
Assunta attended Mass daily at the cathedral. The next morning, as she was
leaving the church, Mr. Percival joined her; but, without saying a word,
he placed a note in her hand, and at the corner he turned, and took his
way in the opposite direction. In her own room the young girl read these
words:
“To‐day I start for Frederick, where I shall make a retreat with the good
Jesuit fathers. In solitude and prayer I hope that God may make known to
me his will. Pray, that I may have light to see and grace to follow the
inspirations of the Holy Spirit. The words you spoke last night are known
to the loving Heart of Jesus. He will reward you. I can say no more now.
Your brother in Christ,