"The nest of the blind bird is made by God."--_Armenian
Proverb._
Christmas-day at Rome, as cold and crisp as any Northern festival,
with a piercing Tramontane wind sweeping across the piazza, the Alban
Hills snow-crested, as if cut in alabaster, and the fountains fringed
with icicles.
A gay and brilliant Christmas for a holiday world, with roses blooming
still in sheltered nooks; a devout Christmas for those prepared to
read its beautiful meaning in ancient churches, each of which had
found a voice in full choral harmonies on this day; a Christmas of
silent and devout thankfulness for those escaped the shadow of death.
Cecilia Denvil had been hovering on the borderland of feverish
delirium, where all is unreal, for weeks. Since the afternoon when the
carriage-wheels of her mother had passed over her, the present had
been blotted out. She was in her own home once more, she raved of her
father, her pet birds, the garden. When fever consumed her she was in
the foundry, the lava torrent of metal from the furnace mouth creeping
nearer and nearer, threatening to ingulf her. Gradually this tumult of
restless imagery subsided to a great calm. She wandered with San
Donato, the mighty angel, in fields of lilies so vast that they seemed
a sea of bloom. Then she became painfully aware of other shapes that
bent over her, touched her. A man and a woman met at her side and
clasped hands; their faces were vaguely familiar. Rome had vanished,
been obliterated; she only wandered among the lilies, guided by a
glorious angel, his robe rose-colored, with margin of gold, and a palm
branch in his hand. Certainly she must have passed away to another
world.
Henry Denvil, on receipt of that telegram, had left Foundryville by
the first train, overtaken an outward-bound steamer by means of a
small boat, and traversed England and France without delay. Arrived at
the apartment in Rome which bore his wife's name, he was met by her, a
pale, distraught creature, who clung to him with hysterical sobs, and
searched his face with anxious, terrified eyes.
"Is she dead?" he faltered, hoarsely.
"Oh no; but the surgeons think her limbs will be always useless, and
she a cripple."
He soothed, but put her aside to seek his child instead. Augusta
Denvil was conscious, for the first time, of a dull pang of jealousy.
In the long and painful days which ensued Henry Denvil had eyes and
thoughts only for Cecilia, while the latter, by one of those curious
instincts of illness, would accept nothing from another hand after his
arrival.
The mother's ordeal began earlier, and her waning youth had shrivelled
in the anguish she was then compelled to endure. Cecilia, from the
first, had been deaf to her mother's most tender tones, winced and
screamed at the touch of her fingers, even when lying with closed
eyes. Mrs. Denvil, in the awful and solemn watches of the night, read
in this aversion the doom of retribution. Her spirit succumbed in the
trial. The girl's foot might indeed have slipped and she been run over
anywhere. True, but by her own mother's wheels!
Christmas morning, so glorious and bright without, was gray and sober
within this apartment of a family of strangers, where each face bore
evidence of watching, care, grief.
Cecilia opened her eyes and glanced about her. She was lying on her
own bed in her little chamber at Rome, only some sharp sword-thrust of
circumstance had wholly severed her from the past. Her face was calm,
almost solemn in expression. It seemed natural that her father should
be sitting beside her holding her hand and striving to speak
cheerfully. She was not startled by the fact that brother Jack stood
at the foot of the bed. She noticed, entirely without responsive
emotion, that her mother had concealed her face on father's shoulder,
shaken by uncontrollable sobs. Her first words were:
"Where is San Donato?"
Her family failed to understand her. Mademoiselle Durand, also
tremulous and in tears, heard and hastened away to her own room. She
returned with the little image.
"It is her fancy," murmured the governess.
Cecilia indicated by a gesture that it was to be placed in her
father's hands. Mr. Denvil held it carefully, while the invalid gazed
steadfastly at her saint. They waited for her next words in silence
and suspense. The joy of a convalescent is seldom demonstrative. She
did not speak again for an hour. Then she exclaimed suddenly, in
stronger tones:
"It is Christmas-day and papa has come."
Henry Denvil bent over and kissed the wasted little face, praying in
his heart it might only be spared to him.
Jack looked on, stiff and ill at ease, after the manner of boys in a
sick-chamber. He answered his father's inquiries in constrained and
difficult English, with frequent lapses into French. Four years in a
Swiss school had wrought wonders for Jack, especially as his mother
had left him to take walking tours with his tutors during the summer
vacations. A foreign education had been Mrs. Denvil's idea of
preparation for life as an American citizen, especially at
Foundryville.
There was another lapse into stillness before Cecilia's voice became
again audible.
"If I had not--met with the accident on the Pincio, _would_ you have
come to Rome for Christmas?"
"I fear not, my child."
"Are we to go home with you now?"
"Yes."
Cecilia smiled and closed her eyes. Did she thus understand San
Donato's message at last?
Madame Robin will not be installed as housekeeper in the master's
house. In the future, Mrs. Denvil, with the reaction of a shallow
nature, may make trips to better climates for her neuralgia, or Jack
be absent at college; but Henry Denvil--nay, the very foundry--cannot
be more constant to the spot than his daughter. There will be no balls
for her, clad in satin, pearls and diamonds twinkling in her hair and
about her throat, no dancing days, no debut in society as an heiress.
Instead, Cecilia will flit from room to room of the long silent home
in a wheel-chair, a presence bright, cheerful, watchful, now pausing
in the sunny conservatory where each unfolding flower seems aware of
her presence, now awaiting the father's return from work.
Above the entrance door will be enshrined the image of San Donato,
guardian of the home, whose mission is to avert evil.