"He's gone--his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight,
Whither? I dread to think--but he is gone!"
BYRON.
Mr. Hamilton, though perfectly conscious that his end was rapidly
approaching, had scrupulously avoided the subject in the presence of
the girls. One morning, after a night of more than ordinary suffering,
he lay quite exhausted. Death was at hand, and feeling intuitively
that the appointed hour had arrived, he requested all to withdraw,
save Florence. When they were alone, he laid his hand on her head, and
said, in a low, feeble tone--"Florence, I am going. I cannot survive
this day, and I wish to give you my last advice. I am afraid your lot
will be a hard one, when I am gone; trials without number are in store
for you. Oh! my proudhearted, beautiful Florence, what will become
of you now?" He covered his face with his hands a moment, then
continued--"I do not wish you to return to your native place. My child
must be dependent on no one, yet to leave you here so unprotected,
is hard indeed. Dr. Bryant has promised to watch over you, and the
Carltons are kind friends. Florence you must depend upon yourself.
Thank God, you are strong-minded, and Mary, our kind, good Mary, will
be near, to comfort and assist you. I am growing weaker, but there is
one more thing I wish to say."
He paused, and for the first time Florence spoke.
"My father, tell me every wish; fear nothing for me, there is nothing
I cannot bear now."
"For my sake, Florence, if not for your own, will you promise to be
guided by Father Mazzolin?"
"Do you mean in matters of religion, my father?"
"I mean in all things: matters of interest, as well as matters of
faith. He will assist you much, if you will but follow his advice and
directions."
There was a pause, and then Florence said slowly, as if weighing every
word--"Rest assured your wishes shall be my law. I will consult the
Padre as you desire."
With a look of relief the dying man sank back on his pillow, and
closed his eyes. Florence quickly summoned the physician, and her aunt
and cousin. A little while after, as Mr. Hamilton's eye fell on the
weeping Mary, he extended his hand, and when she bent over him, drew
her face down, and imprinted a long kiss on her pale cheek. Even as he
did so, a dark form glided to the bedside. Another moment, the uncle
and niece were separated; none knew how, yet the Padre stood between,
whispering low in the sufferer's ear. Almost gasping for breath, the
latter intimated his desire to confess for the last time. And they
were left alone.
Nearly an hour after, the priest entered the apartment where Florence
and Mary sat. He trembled visibly, yet, in his usual tone, said that
he wished the family to be present at the last rites about to be
performed for the dying Papist. They immediately repaired to the sick
room, and the spectacle there presented made Mary quiver in every
limb. The sufferer had been placed for convenience on a low couch, and
was supported by pillows in an upright position. A dozen candles burnt
around him, and a cloud of incense wreathed slowly along the wall.
The room had been profusely sprinkled with holy water, and a chalice
containing the consecrated wafer, sat near. Gasping for breath, Mr.
Hamilton clasped a crucifix to his lips, though unable from weakness
to secure it there; for twice it fell from his fingers, and rolled to
the floor.
Father Mazzolin, attired in a surplice ornamented with the insignia of
his order, stood beside the bed, holding in one hand a superbly-bound
volume--in the other, a silver cup containing oil.
After a moment's pause he opened the book, and hurriedly read in
a low, muttering tone, a Latin service of several pages. At the
conclusion he carefully poured out a few drops of the oil, and just
touched the palms of the sufferer's hands and the soles of his feet,
bidding him at the same time cross himself. Perceiving that he was
utterly unable to do so, he hastily signed the figure and resumed his
reading. How long he would have gabbled on it is impossible to say,
but a gasping sound from the dying man declared that dissolution
was at hand, and, snatching the chalice, he hastily administered the
wafer, which was swallowed with difficulty. For the third time, Father
Mazzolin strove to replace the crucifix in his hand and bend it to
his lips. The cold fingers refused to clasp the consecrated wood, and
sank, stiffened and powerless, by his side.
Mary had gazed mournfully on as this mummery was enacted. A death-bed
for a theater, weeping relatives an audience, and Father Mazzolin an
amateur performer. Aunt Lizzy was kneeling beside the Padre, ever
and anon invoking the Virgin; while Florence sat with her face in her
hands, almost as unconscious of what passed as her dying parent She
bent over him now, and in heartrending accents conjured him not to
leave her. He struggled in vain to utter words of comfort; they died
away in whispers, and, with a slight moan, the spirit returned to
the God that gave it. The Padre snatched his hat and hastily left
the house, while Mary gave vent to an uncontrollable burst of sorrow.
Florence seemed suddenly frozen, so rigid was her countenance, as she
gazed on the cold form before her. She neither wept nor moaned, but
closed the eyes with a long, long kiss, and drawing a sheet over the
marble features, turned, with a slow, unfaltering step, away.