“Thank God!” exclaimed Assunta.
After breakfast, Mary came to her, as she stood for a moment by the
window, and, putting her arm about her affectionately, said:
“Darling, we need not make any more plans to entrap poor Augustine into a
confession, for I do believe he is all right. He came here for a few
minutes early this morning to say good‐by, as he was going to Frederick.
Of course that must mean a retreat; and a retreat is, of course, the first
step towards the seminary.”
“I am very, _very_ glad,” said Assunta, smiling. “Women are not always as
bright as they think they are, you see.”
Three weeks from that day Augustine Percival sailed for Europe to enter
upon his theological course in Rome. And two faithful hearts daily begged
for him of Almighty God grace and fortitude with that happy confidence
which seems almost a presage of answered prayer.
And five years passed away—long and often weary in the passing, but short
and with abundant blessings in the retrospect—five uneventful years, and
yet leaving a lasting impress upon the individual soul. Assunta’s home was
still with her friend, Mary Lee—an arrangement to which she most
gratefully consented, on condition that she might, from her ample income,
contribute her share towards the ease and comfort of the family. It thus
became a mutual benefit, as well as pleasure; for Capt. Lee’s pay as a
naval officer was small and their only dependence. Assunta had won the
hearts of all, even down to Mary’s two little ones, who came bringing
plenty of love with them, as well as adding much to the care and
solicitude of the young mother and her younger friend.
They saw but little of Mrs. Sinclair during those years. She had become a
thorough woman of the world—a leader of fashion in her own circle. She had
lost much of the simplicity and _naïveté_ of character and manner which
had made her charming in the old Roman days. Her laugh had not the genuine
ring which her own light heart used to give it. She was still
beautiful—very beautiful as queen of the ball‐room. But Mary Lee always
insisted that she had the unmistakable look of one who has an interior
closet somewhere which might reveal a skeleton; and Assunta thought—but
her thoughts she kept to herself—that it was not very difficult to divine
what that skeleton might be. She understood her, and pitied her from her
heart; and she loved her, too, with the old affection. But their life‐
paths, once seemingly parallel, had now diverged so widely that she felt
she could not help her. The consolation Clara sought was very different
from anything her brother’s ward could supply.
And that brother, Mr. Carlisle—did Assunta never think of him? Daily,
before God, she remembered him; but it was not for her peace to allow him
a place in her memory at other times. They were entire strangers now, and
she had long since given up the hope of any return to the old friendship.
He had dropped out of her life, and God alone could fill the place left
vacant by the surrender of this human love. She prayed for him, however,
still, but as one might pray for the dead. Her days glided quietly by,
each one bearing a record of deeds of love and kindness; while the
consciousness of duty fulfilled gave her a peace that it is not in the
power of mere human happiness to bestow. The blessings of the poor
followed her, and the blessing of God rested upon her soul.
Mary sometimes protested against this “waste of life,” as she called it.
“My darling,” she said one day, as she was rocking her baby to sleep in
her arms, “you will be a nun yet.”
“I fear not,” replied Assunta. “I might have wished to enter religion, but
it seems that God does not call me to that life.”
“Then, Assunta, why don’t you marry? It would break my heart to lose you,
darling; but, truly, it grieves me to have you settle yourself down to our
stupid life and ways, and you so young and rich and beautiful. It is
contrary to nature and reason.”
“Be patient with me, dear,” said Assunta. “I do not believe that you want
to be rid of me. Some time we shall know what it all means. I am sorry to
disappoint my friends, but my life is just as I would have it.”
“Well, you are a saint,” said Mary with a sigh; “and as I am the gainer, I
am the last one to complain. But I wish you had a dear little bother of
your own like my Harry,” And the maternal kiss had in it such a strength
of maternal love that the baby‐eyes opened wide again, and refused to
shut.
Mary heard occasionally from her brother; and sometimes she heard _of_ him
in a way that filled her heart with joy. Austere, yet with wonderful
sweetness, full of talent and a hard student, yet with touching humility,
Augustine Percival, by a life of mortification and prayer, which his
studies never interrupted, was preparing himself to do great things for
God. A few words, uttered simply by a true‐hearted Christian woman, had
turned the scale for him; and God will receive so much the more glory.
There will come a day which will reveal many such works, performed through
the perhaps unconsciously‐exercised influence of some noble woman, whose
mission is none the less real because it is accomplished silently and out
of the world’s sight.