"IN SUCH AN HOUR AS YE THINK NOT."
During the following week Juliet Temple was more serious than usual. She
often found herself wondering why her husband had spoken to her in such
mournful words. They haunted her the more she attempted to drive them
away; she could not even reflect with indignation upon his avowed
purpose as regarded the children. His solemn tones and manner had taken
the sting from his unwelcome resolutions.
Once she referred to the subject:
"Your sermon of last Sunday has sunk deep in my heart. It is the only
sermon that has ever done me any good--or harm," she added.
"I did not intend to trouble you; but you know I would like to see you
more thoughtful."
Had John Temple taken this course long ago with his wife, she would have
become perhaps a wiser, better woman. But he loved peace and quiet; and
he probably thought also that no serious words from him could make
impression upon her preoccupied, impervious mind.
John Temple was true to his word. For several mornings his children
were kneeling by his side at Mass, ere their mother had awakened from
her slumbers. He himself heard their daily lessons in Catechism.
When Saturday came around Juliet began to think about the children going
to St. Patrick's next day. She was so surprised at herself for having
acquiesced so readily. True, she knew it was no use to combat her
husband upon the point, but she might not have appeared to him to yield
so easily. Instead, however, of any disposition to disapprove, she began
to think how it would be were she to go herself. Pshaw! Where was all
her pride, that she should begin to think of going to church with her
Jim, Bridget, and Ann? But somehow, for the first time, she did not like
to think of her husband going without her. He had spoken so solemnly of
the possibility of his some time leaving her! Hereafter she should feel
as if he must not go out of her sight. She put away her embroidery for
her crochet. In turn, her crochet was tedious, and dropping it, she took
up a book which her husband had been reading at leisure moments the last
day or two.
The book she had never before observed. It was "The Following of
Christ." She opened where was his mark; and this mark was, for this
time, a tiny rose she had handed him that very morning. She pressed to
her lips the rose, which was yet fragrant, though faded. She commenced
to sing carelessly:
"Ye may break, ye may ruin the vase if ye will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still,"
when the heading of the Chapter, which the rose had marked, caught her
eye, "Of the thoughts of death."
"A very little while and all will be over with thee here. See to it, how
it stands with thee in the next life. Man to-day is, and to-morrow he is
seen no more. If thou art not prepared to-day, how wilt thou be
to-morrow?
"To-morrow is an uncertain day, and how knowest thou if thou shalt have
to-morrow?"
"No wonder his mind is sober and solemn, with such reading as this,"
mused Juliet, but she continued.
Fire bells commenced to ring. Was this so uncommon an occurrence as to
cause Juliet to drop her book and press her hand to her heart?
"What does it mean? I am so fearfully nervous. It is not our house that
is on fire."
She walked to a window; ah, the fire was near, but a few squares
distant; the slight wind, however, would bear it in an opposite
direction. There was no occasion for fear. Juliet took up her book
again, and read a few pages. She was reading these passages a second
time, and with something like a thrill of awe, for they seemed to be
spoken to herself:
"Be therefore always in readiness, and so live that death may never find
thee unprepared.
"Many die suddenly and unprovidedly; for the Son of Man will come at the
hour when He is not looked for.
"When that last hour shall have come, then thou wilt begin to think far
otherwise of all thy past life; and great will be thy grief that thou
hast been so neglectful and remiss."
The door-bell rang violently. Juliet made an effort to rise from her
chair, but sank back weak as an infant. Her face turned deadly pale, and
she clenched the closed book in her pallid hands.
There was a confused sound in the room below; the tread of men and
subdued voices. Suddenly, above these, she caught a groan. This broke
the spell; she flew rather than walked to the small parlor so strangely
occupied.
A knot of men separated slightly as she drew near. O God of Heaven, was
that her husband? John Temple, who went out a few hours ago brave and
strong, in the full vigor of beautiful manhood, blighted, disfigured,
burned in the fiery furnace?
"My child, my child," had a frantic woman screamed as she was borne down
a ladder in the powerful arms of a fireman.
"My child," she still cried from the ground, her eyes upraised to the
window of flame, her hands clasped in pleading agony. Eager eyes looked
upward, but even brave hearts hesitated to rush into the sea of flame.
It was madness, but John Temple ventured. They would have held him back,
but in that supreme moment of supernatural exaltation of courage he was
strong as well as bold. As he would others should do for him so would he
do for them. It was the thought of his wife and children that nerved him
to such heroic, desperate effort, and alas, so unavailing!
Streams of water had darkened the fiery mass, and hope began to whisper
to the eager crowd.
Yes, John Temple stepped out upon the slippery, blackened ladder,
grasping the inanimate form of a little child. Loud cheers rent the air.
But they pierced the hearts of those who bent over the senseless forms
of the deliverer and the child. Most of their clothing, their hair, and
eyebrows were burned, they were fearfully scarred, and worse than all
they had breathed the flames! Physicians were on the ground, prompt
assistance was rendered, and John Temple again drew breath. With the
child there was a moan, a gasp, and all was over.
This was the result of a kerosene explosion. So instant had been the
ignition of everything combustible that nearly the whole interior was in
flames before assistance could arrive. Stout engines played but upon
useless debris, and saved only unsightly walls.
Some friend of John Temple had run for the priest, and by the time he
was laid in his own house Father Duffy too had arrived. The sufferer had
become sensible, but could not speak. He was evidently in fearful agony.
Three physicians looked at each other and shook their heads. They had
the wife to care for now, who, with piercing shrieks, fell insensible at
their feet.
"Will you leave me alone with him a moment," said the priest, and the
others withdrew, bearing away the stricken woman.
It was but for a few moments indeed. The dying man could only make
signals in answer to questions, and received the _Viaticum_ with eyes
raised in thankfulness. The physicians had not been able to get him to
swallow, but this blessed bread of life, this comforter by the way,
this solace and support through the dark valley, nature nor suffering
did refuse. It was pitiful to see him attempt to fold in reverence his
inflamed and swollen hands, and to make, as his last expiring effort,
the beloved sign of our holy religion.
To John Temple death had come suddenly indeed, but not unprovidedly. He
had been moved, no doubt by heavenly inspiration, to make a general
confession only the Sunday previously. And Father Duffy had reason to
believe it had been made with that care, diligence, and fullness as if
he had known it to have been his last. We have seen what an impression
had been made upon his mind in his interview with his wife.
Upon recovering consciousness, Juliet demanded to be admitted to her
husband. Disguises and delays she would not brook, and they led her
back. Her children were now there, and Althea, and further back the
servants. These latter were upon their knees, with the priest, saying
prayers for the dead.
Let us here draw a veil. We have been disgusted with Juliet, out of all
patience with her levity and unwomanliness, but we sympathize in her
unutterable grief. Hard must be the heart unmoved by those wildest
moans, those saddest plaints.
"Do not weep," said Dr. Browne to her after the funeral, "it is vain,
worse than vain."
"Only tears are left me," she half-uttered.
"Your children!"
"They only speak to me of him."
"But yourself; for your own sake do not thus yield to immoderate
grief."
"I tell you, Dr. Browne, my heart shall dash itself against this sorrow
till it break--break!" she exclaimed wildly.
"But this is not Christian submission."
"I am not a Christian, Dr. Browne; you cannot expect from me submission.
Do you expect grapes from thorns?"
"Not a Christian, Mrs. Temple?"
"You know I am not a Christian, Dr. Browne! I have never known but one
Christian in my life, and that was John Temple."
Dr. Browne felt somewhat scandalized. A member of his church to say
boldly she had never known but one Christian, and that Christian a Roman
Catholic; was it not incomprehensible? But then Mrs. Temple was not now
in her usual mind. Due allowance must be made, and he would seek a more
favorable opportunity for renewing the subject. He arose to leave.
"What shall I do, Dr. Browne? I cannot bear day nor night; life is a
torture; I cannot bear life, nor can I endure to think of death. O, help
me, Dr. Browne."
"Only God can help you, Mrs. Temple, and I pray that His grace may be
sufficient for you."
"But you forget that I have no God."
"Mrs. Temple, you are beside yourself. No God?"
"No! He is afar off, or I am shut out from Him. I have never known Him.
I cannot pray to Him."
"When you shall be more collected I will call again. Meantime, you will
find much comfort in our Book of Common Prayer. Have recourse to it and
to the throne of grace."
Juliet abandoned herself as much to remorse as to grief.
She had had the best of husbands; she had been to him the worst of
wives. As in a mirror, she saw all her past life. She remembered how
fretful and fault-finding she had been; how difficult to please, how
unlovely she had made herself. If John could come back, only just long
enough for her to tell him how very, very sorry she was, how much she
loved and respected him, how he had always done everything right, and
she had been ever in the wrong; but he could not come even for that. She
collected around her the various articles he had used; among others, his
rosary, crucifix and prayer-book. How careful he had been to keep them
hidden away, where they might not offend her eye, or provoke her
ridicule and sneer. She read every day, in the "Following of Christ,"
the chapter John had last read, which the faded rose still marked.
In this was a kind of comfort, but there was peace nor rest in aught
else. She walked the floor distractedly, and wrung her hands and tore
her garments. She shut herself up in the darkness, and stretched forth
her hands and prayed the spirit of John to come back to her in pity. She
would not admit her sisters; her children she allowed to grieve alone.
Suddenly, came back to her the memory of a look of pity and compassion,
which she had forgotten. When she had returned, on that memorable day,
to her husband, who had just breathed his last, as she raised her eyes,
scarcely daring to let them fall upon the dear face, she encountered the
gaze of Father Duffy. He had, unconsciously, looked upon this bereaved
woman, whom he knew to be without the fold, therefore, without suitable
consolation for this trying moment, as our dear Lord may be supposed to
have looked upon Mary and Martha, when they informed Him that Lazarus,
their brother, was dead.
The remembrance of this compassionate look softened Juliet's heart
toward the priest. For the first time in her life, she began to think he
might be something beside an impersonation of evil. To John he had been
a father and a friend; might not she have confidence in one he had so
loved and trusted?
She began to wish he would call. She wondered he did not, if but to see
after the children. He must be aware of John's recent action in regard
to them, perhaps may have counselled the same. The more she thought of
this, the stronger, by degrees, became her desire to see and consult
him.
Juliet was what might be termed a "person of one idea." Not that her
ideas never changed--she was very versatile; but she was animated wholly
by one idea at a time, to the exclusion of all others. Two weeks ago,
the Catholic Irish priest was the last person she would have thought of
with desire to see. Now, of all people in the world, it was from Father
Duffy she would seek counsel.
She rang her bell, and when Ann appeared, thus addressed her:
"You may do my hair, Ann; I have changed my mind; I thought I would
never have it touched again by comb or brush, but I will. You need not
be particular; only get the tangles out and let it hang; you can find a
black ribbon somewhere. I don't care any more how I look, besides, I am
only going to see your priest, Mr. Duffy. He must be used to seeing
people in all sorts of rigs. It would be different if I were to meet Dr.
Browne. I would dress for him as for a king, once; but not now! I never
shall care again how I look; poor John cannot see me."
Sobs and tears choked further utterance. Ann gave a quick start, when
her mistress mentioned the priest's name. She could hardly believe she
had heard aright. She was used to almost every caprice from Mrs. Temple,
but this last transcended every other. What did it portend?
Mrs. Lang, who was about the size and height of Mrs. Temple, had kindly
taken upon herself the care of procuring her sister's mourning. Having
submitted to all the troubles and inconveniences, she had, but the day
before, sent home several dresses. She would herself have accompanied
them, had she not repeatedly been refused admittance to her sister.
Juliet's hair being finished, she ordered Ann to undo the small mountain
of mourning goods, and select the plainest garment. And, after all, it
was with much hesitation, and continued wringing of hands, and moans and
lamentations, that she allowed herself to be arrayed in these insignias
of her widowhood. She more than once gave up her purpose, only as often
to resume it.