"Malheureux! cet instant ou votre ame engourdie
A secoue les fers qu' elle traine ici-bas,
Ce fugitif instant fut toute votre vie;
Ne le regrettez pas."
It was a wonderful morning which saw the birth of the new year in
Venice,--one of those clear, bright days on which Winter lays aside all
his severity and assumes the smiles of the Spring still asleep in the
bosom of the stiffened earth. The _piazza_ was filled with a motley
crowd of holiday folk, and the lagoons swarmed with a fleet of gondolas
and _sandalos_.
Before a mighty marble house which stands where one of the smaller
thoroughfares sweeps its waters into the Grand Canal, a gondola has
paused. A young man, a foreigner evidently, steps from the boat and
passes under the fretted archway, with an admiring glance at the
beautiful carving. He is pressed for time, but he stops for a moment to
glance into the square cortile, with its group of almond-trees and its
playing fountain. He is met at the wide doorway by a servant, of whom
he asks, in the best Italian he can muster, for the Signorina Almsford.
The black-browed menial politely replies that it will be impossible for
him to see the signorina; she is not at home to visitors. No further
answer can the stranger obtain to his eager inquiries. A gold piece
unlocks the tongue of the menial at last, and he informs the young man,
in excellent English, that the signorina has been ill ever since her
return from America, a month and more ago.
"She has been very ill; Girolomo says that she will die, and the Signor
Almsford himself fears the worst. She has not left her room once.
To-day being a _festa_, she has fancied to go out with Girolomo in the
gondola, and I am to help him carry her downstairs."
As he finished speaking, the man noticed that the visitor had grown very
pale, and now stood leaning against a marble pillar as if for support.
When he spoke again it was to send his card to Mr. Almsford. On being
admitted to an outer reception room he sank upon a chair, his face
hidden in his hands. Soon he was bidden to enter. The signorina had
learned of his arrival, and it was her pleasure to see him.
The young man passed through a long suite of stately rooms, scarcely
noticing the rich furnishing and decorations. Before a curtained
doorway he hesitated for a moment, but the servant, pushing aside the
heavy portiere, left him no choice but to enter. Before him, reclining
in a great chair, lay a figure which he had last seen full of health and
strength. From a pile of sea-green cushions smiled a face which he had
known when it was glorious with the freshness of youth. The color which
the red rose of love had brought to her cheek had faded now; she was
like a flower no longer, but a great white pearl shimmering through pale
waters. She smiled, and held out her hand to her countryman; and Maurice
Galbraith, bowing low over the small fingers, strove to hide his face
from the great hollow eyes which looked inquiringly into his own.
"I am so glad you have come. I do not even ask what has brought you, it
is so good to see some one from home."
It had become "home" to her now, the country which she had so long
repudiated. "Home" after a half year's residence; "home," though the
language spoken there was to her a foreign one. The meeting is not
without its tears, the pleasure not unmixed with pain. Eager questions
are asked, and faithfully answered. Millicent's visitor brings her
tidings and tender messages from far-off friends. He is rewarded for
his pains by a faint smile which glimmers over the pale features, rising
in the deep eyes and losing itself in the tender curves of the mouth.
Beside the couch stands a delicate bronze table wrought by no less
cunning a hand than Benvenuto's. A vase of flowers and a crystal bell
are here placed. The musical note of the bell now summons a domestic,
who bows at the order given, softly disappears, and soon re-enters,
bearing a salver on which are a plate of fruits and a bluish decanter,
with glasses of the dainty Venetian fashion. From the delicately
tendrilled flask Millicent pours a clear golden wine whose perfume
permeates the apartment. She fills both glasses, and, touching the edge
of hers to the rim of his, bids him drink to the health of the dear ones
at home. Galbraith stops the musical ring which the contact has drawn
from the tumbler by touching the edge with his finger in a mechanical
manner. It was one of the superstitions which had waned to a habit with
him.
"Why do you drown that sound of good cheer?"
"Because my grandmother told me when I was a little child that if a
glass rang itself out to silence, the sound was sure to prove a
death-knell."
"Listen, you can still hear mine faintly. It is a wonderful wine,
connoisseurs say, this Lacrymae Christi of ours. How different, is it
not, from the strong red wine of California that you gave us that
day,--do you remember?--when we feasted with you under the fig-tree."
"As different as you were to the rest of us gathered about the board
that day."
"And yet I would give all the wine that lies mellowing in the cellars of
the palace for one cup of your good Los Angelos vintage."
The wine seemed to spread through her frame like a flame. It brought a
flush to the pale cheeks and strength to the fragile body. She arose
and walked unsupported across the room to a dusky mirror. She wrapped
herself in a garment of silvery fur, and together they left the room fit
for the boudoir of a princess. At the doorway Girolomo awaited them.
Waving aside the domestic who stood ready to assist him, the strong
gondolier lifted the delicate figure and bore it unaided down the marble
stairs. He laid her light weight gently among the cushions of the
gondola, and assuming his oar with the incomparably graceful movement of
his guild, rowed the black-hooded craft down the Grand Canal. To the
young American, the awe and mystery of the place are not yet familiar;
and as the boat glides between the rows of mighty palaces, he wonders if
the strange scene is the fabric of his own dream.
But no; when he looks into the face of the woman lying amid the
cushions, he knows that it is all true, and that this shadowy figure is
more real to him than all the men and women he has ever known.
Presently they emerge into the broader waters of the lagoon, where lie
the fisher craft, with their many-colored sails spread to dry in the
afternoon breeze. The smooth green water is marked here and there with
the black mooring-piles, which throw a shadowy outline on the changeful
tide. To the American, bred in a land where Art is in its cradle, and
beauty exists in its more austere aspect alone, the glory of the
spectacle, the wondrous architecture, the wealth of color, are
intoxicating. The western sky glows with the first pale tints of the
sunset, against which a score of spires are darkly outlined. The air is
musical with soft, distant chimes, and the song of the gondoliers is
rhythmic to the motion of their oars. From the shore come cheerful
sounds of holiday folk; and now and then a _sandalo_ sweeps past them
with a freight of joyous pleasure-seekers. In one of these a group of
masqueraders are singing a gay love-ballad. Millicent hums the refrain
to herself, and answers pleasantly to the noisy greeting with which one
of the party hails them. A young girl, with the red-gold hair of her
people, turns and looks long into Millicent's face. She wears over her
broad shoulders a leopard-skin for warmth; while her head, with its
glorious crown of hair, has no other protection than the doubtful one of
a garland of roses. As she looks at Millicent, she takes the fragrant
wreath from her brow, and, with a graceful salutation, tosses it into
the gondola. In a moment the strong strokes of the two rowers carry the
_sandalo_ out of sight, and Galbraith lays the flowers in Millicent's
lap.
"May the saints bless the child! 'T is the tribute of happiness and
beauty to grief and pain."
The air has grown chill with the down-dropping of the sun, and Girolomo,
unbidden, turns the gondola homeward. As they float past the familiar
places, Millicent looks long and steadily at the scenes which are so
dear to her. She shivers as the Bridge of Sighs looms dimly forth, and
smiles again at the familiar faces of the boatmen on the steps of the
_piazzetta_.
"I am so glad that you have seen me in the city of my birth; you can
understand me now as you could never have understood me over there.
Dear, dreamy Venice, where great vices and greater virtues have
flourished more grandly than anywhere else in the world! And now it is
all past, her glory and her pain; and knowing this, we make the best of
the pleasant things left to us. We steep ourselves in her rich beauty,
content with its perfection; we con over her mysterious legends, and
forget that other nations are living, striving, working, and making
their histories, while we are dreaming and playing our lives away. Your
great Saxon virtue, 'Truth,' is meaningless to us; we are content with
Beauty."
"And you are happy--contented; you are willing to pass the rest of your
life here?"
"Yes, and no. I could never be satisfied to drop back into the old easy
life. I have drunk too deeply of the strong, new wine of Los Angelos,
to be content with the mellow vintage of the Abruzzi."
"And yet there is fermentation of a strong, new wine here, in your
wondrous Italy. All do not dream of the past; there are men and women
who foretell a new existence to the land, now that the old shackles of
tyranny and superstition are dropping from her cramped limbs."
"Yes; but it is a volcanic soil. Everything is so sudden and so
shifting. There will be changes, but it is the making over of an old
garment after all. Liberty may sponge and cleanse herself a vesture,
but the old stains and spots have eaten deep into the tri-color."
"You will return then; you will not pass your life so far away from us?"
She smiled a little wearily and said, "I think I shall never see America
again. But I am, oh, so thankful to have known my home! I, who have
lived a Venetian, shall die an American."
"And yet--?"
"And yet I am glad to--do not be shocked, kind friend, if I say that I
am glad to die in my own Venice where I was born. I have two selves.
One was born and nurtured here under the shadow of the silent palaces;
the other sprang up full-grown among the madrone trees of San Rosario.
The two have warred and struggled _here_; their battle-ground has been
my breast, and the new self conquered the old; but the victory will be
short-lived."
Galbraith looked at her intently. She had spoken a little wildly, as if
her mind were clouded. She saw his look, and with a sigh smoothed the
lines from her brow.
"I am a little mad, you think? Yes, yes. But I am so happy to see you.
You understand me, dear friend; and you understand him, a little. You
will see him again, though perhaps I never shall. You will tell
him--No, do not look so grieved. It is very likely that I shall get
well."
He lifted her pale hand and touched it to his lips, as a Catholic might
kiss the cross.
"You will be well and strong again, my child. Do not speak so."
"It may be, and yet I do not wish it. Life looks so hard and cold and
lonely. I do not wish to live,--and yet I am so afraid to die." She
shivered, and Galbraith drew the gray cloak closer about her. "If I
could only fall quietly asleep, and wake to find this poor weak body
left behind--but you remember that poor creature's death? It was so
terrible--I can never forget it."
"You must not think of it. What message was it that you wanted to send
home?"
"It was to Graham. I can speak to you about him and to no one else.
You must tell him how thankful I am that I left my old home, my old
life, and came to his country. Tell him that he has nothing to reproach
himself with; that the only thing that has made my life worth living has
been my love for him. Tell him to remember me tenderly and without
regret; it should be a sweet memory without a shadow of bitterness.
Tell him--but what am I saying? You could never repeat it all even if
you would. Give him this; it will tell him all; it is a token the trace
of which he will find on my hand when we meet again, if souls retain
aught of their old vesture in the twilight world."
She seemed wandering again. From her slim finger she slipped the little
ring which Galbraith took and kept.
"And Barbara, dear good Barbara. She is white with that spotless purity
of a passionless womanhood. Do you know, Mr. Galbraith, that dying
people sometimes have a power of seeing into the future? Shall I tell
you what face I see beside Barbara's in the bright coming years which I
shall never know? It is that of a brave and loyal man,--a man whose
love would make such a woman happy and complete. It is the face of the
friend who has brought me great peace on this New Year's Day."
The black gondola now floated at rest under the archway of the grim old
palace. From beneath the sable hood Girolomo lifted the slender frame.
The old fellow's eyes filled with tears at the gentle words which his
young mistress whispered to him as he carried her through the marble
archway and up the long steep stairs.
"_Tanto ricca, tanto giovine, tanto bella, e bisogna che muore._"
Galbraith understood the words muttered by the old servant as he passed
him after having laid his burden at rest in the great chair. He
understood, but he would not believe them. It could not be true.
It was late that night when the soft-footed nun who was Millicent's
nurse laid her patient on her couch, with a gentle reproof for her
wilfulness in being so wakeful.
"But it was not my fault, my sister; I could not sleep earlier. Now I
am better and shall rest." She smiled in the quiet face which bent over
her under its snow-white coif of linen. The heavy gold-bronze hair was
not plaited that night, Millicent was so tired. The sister smoothed it
tenderly over the pillow, her hard fingers thrilling at the touch of so
much beauty. Her own close-shaven head had once been covered with thick
black curls, one of which slept on the heart of the dead man for the
repose of whose soul her prayers were offered at every hour of the day.
"My sister, sit by me. I want to talk with you a little while. I know
your story, blessed one. Let me ask you a little of your life in the
convent, among the sick. Is it peaceful, is it happy? Do you feel that
you are nearer to the spirit of your dead lover than when you were in
the world?"
"My child, I may not speak of these things; it would be a sin. Our
words we can control, if not our thoughts."
"But, sister, I need your help. You know that I have not your faith,
and never could have. But I have loved as you once loved, and I shall
never see the face of my lover. What shall I do with my empty life? I
am so weak!"
"All the greater need have you for a stronger help than mine, for a
haven from the ills of the world. I cannot think you would find that
place in our cloister. There must be workers in the world among the
living and strong, as well as with the sick and dying. It is in that
world that you, my child, with your power, your wealth, your beauty,
should find your work. The arms of the Church are wide, and embrace the
toilers in the market-place as well as those who watch and pray in the
cloister."
"There is only work, then, that will bring peace?"
"Work and prayer, my child. You must not talk of this to-night; you
should sleep now. To-morrow you shall tell me more of the needs of your
soul."
"Only work! I am so tired, I am so weak, I cannot work alone. If there
had been one to help me--" She lifted her white hand, so nerveless now,
and let it sink wearily beside her.
"Bring the great candelabrum, and set it at the foot of the bed. Light
all the candles. I want to drive out the shadows from the dark corners.
Ah! hear them singing below there in the canal."
She sat up among her pillows listening to the chorus chanted by a band
of belated merry-makers. It was the love-song that the people in the
_sandalo_ had sung that afternoon.
"_Dame un pensiero, sogna me, ed io ti sognero._" "In dreaming give a
thought of me, and I will dream of thee."
"Give me my little golden crown, sister, and then lie down upon your
couch and sleep. You do not mind the lights?"
Millicent was fanciful and wilful that night; and the nun, knowing that
it was best to humor her, brought her from its velvet case the gold
fillet of olive leaves which Graham had laid on the brow of his love in
the forest of San Rosario. The girl set it on her head, and called for
a mirror.
"I am beautiful still, my sister, though so pale, am I not?"
The nun nodded her head smilingly.
"Now that is all, and I shall sleep. Good-night to you. Say a little
prayer for me, sister, and one for a strong, proud man who will be very
sad to-night with me so far away from him."
She folded her palms upon her breast, as they fold the hands of the
dead. The sister stood beside her, watching uneasily the light slumber
into which her patient had fallen. Her pulse was full and even, the
breathing regular, and the sleep peaceful as that of a child.
"A strange fancy to light those candles, and to put that wreath about
her head. Poor child, she is beautiful, indeed, as the vision of a
saint," murmured the sister.
At last the black-robed watcher laid aside her coif, and, lying down
upon a couch near the bedside, fell asleep. She could not have told how
long she slept, when a sound awoke her. The quiet of the night was
broken by a sudden gust of wind blowing through the long apartment with
a deep sigh. It trembled among the tresses of the sleeping girl, and
stirred and lingered in the strand of hair which overhung the tiny ear.
It blew the flame of the candles straight out from the wick, and fanned
the embers on the hearthstone to a last up-flaming. It blew over the
lips of the sleeper, and bore these softly spoken words to her ear,--
"I come, I come! wait for me!"
The girl turned on her pillow, and smiled in her sleep. All was going
well. The nun replenished the dying fire with fuel, and, extinguishing
the candles, lay down to sleep again by the light of the night lamp,
muttering an Ave Maria.
And the breath of the west wind passed out of the silent sick room, and
went roystering through the long suite of stately apartments, where it
met no man. It was a strong puff of wind, which had travelled far and
sturdily across wild seas and smiling lands. It had raced with man's
toy of steam and iron, and laughed in derision at the poor engine and
its boasted speed; it had swayed dim forest-trees in a far-off land; it
had ruffled a quiet ocean into deep furrows of foam; it had breathed
upon a band of icy mountain giants, and had grown cold at their contact;
it had come sighing down the Grand Canal, and had entered the great
palace unceremoniously; it had fanned the cheek of a sleeping woman
beautiful as the vision of a saint; it had whispered in her ear its
message. And now, at the doorway of that great palace, the bold wind
ceased its blustering, and died away into the still air of the
ante-chamber, getting behind the heavy arras, and imparting a trembling
motion to the faded figures of warrior and horse. A dim, gray Presence
had entered the palace, before which the merry west wind had grown
quiet. The hush of deepest night was on all the sleeping house, and the
tide of the Adriatic was at the ebb. Silently the Presence crept toward
the sick-room, and, as it crossed the threshold, the spark of the night
light flickered and went out, while the nun crossed herself as she
slept.
When Maurice Galbraith called at the Palazzo Fortunio early on the
morning after he had seen Millicent, to inquire how she had passed the
night, he found the porter's room empty. He rang at the door of the
apartment, which was opened, after some delay, by a weeping woman. He
could not understand what she said to him, and made his way to the
boudoir where he had last seen Millicent, without meeting any one. He
heard voices in the next room, which he knew to be her sleeping
apartment.
"It must have been quite painless," he heard a strange voice say in
English. "See! she has not moved; the clothes are quite unruffled. It
is doubtful if she woke at all. Sister Theresa says she was in this
attitude when she last saw her. If she had even breathed heavily the
nun would have heard her, she sleeps so lightly."
A chill fell upon the young man's heart. What could those strange words
mean? The door opened at last, and two men entered the room, the
younger carefully closing it behind him. He was evidently a physician.
The elder man passed him with bowed head and clasped hands. Galbraith
touched the younger man on the arm, and asked him what his words had
meant. The doctor waited till the father had left the room, and,
turning to the stranger, answered him gently and compassionately; told
him the little there was to tell beyond the great fact that Death had
entered in the night and stolen the breath of the fairest, while she
slept.
"If I could but fall quietly asleep!" he remembered her words of yester
eve. Her prayer had been answered. The grim visage of Death had been
hidden by the tender veil of sleep.
The physician was very patient with the stranger who asked him so often
if it were certain, if there could be no mistake regarding the dreadful
event. At last, when he was satisfied that there was no hope, he turned
to go, stumbling over a chair as he went. The doctor made him take a
glass of wine, and bade him rest awhile before going out. Maurice
Galbraith was a strong man, and after the first faintness which the news
had brought him, he nerved himself to meet the terrible grief, and bear
it as a strong man should.
"You are Mr. Galbraith, from California, of whom she spoke last night?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps you could help me in a little matter which Mr. Almsford has
asked me to attend to. This telegram came an hour ago. It was directed
to her, and is dated California. Do you know the sender, and the
meaning of the message?"
Galbraith took the slip of blue paper, and read these words:--
"I am coming to you. I start to-night.
"GRAHAM."
"You know the person?"
"Yes, very well."
"As we have not his address, would you kindly answer the despatch and
tell him?"
"Surely."
"It would be a great favor."
"It is the last but one that I can ever do for her now."
He found his way to the telegraph office, he never knew how, and with
trembling hand penned this message, which should fly swifter than west
wind or shifting water, to John Graham on the far golden shore, where
the tide was at the flood, and the earth glad and green in the promise
of the new-born year:--
"_Millicent died last night._"
University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.
* * * * * * * *
CHOICE FICTION
FOR
SUMMER READING.
VESTIGIA. By GEORGE FLEMING, author of "Kismet," "Mirage," "The Head of
Medusa." 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25.
A NEWPORT AQUARELLE. 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.
THE USURPER. An Episode in Japanese History. Translated from the
French of Judith Gautier by ABBY L. ALGER. 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.
THE SAN ROSARIO RANCH. By MAUD HOWE. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25.
SUWANEE RIVER STORIES. By SHERWOOD BONNER. With illustrations by F. T.
Merrill. 16mo. Cloth.
TREASURE ISLAND. By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. With illustrations by F.
T. Merrill. 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25.
MOODS. A Novel. By Louisa M. Alcott. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.
BY THE TIBER. By the author of "Signor Monaldini's Niece." 16mo.
Cloth. Price, $1.50.
THE HEAD OF MEDUSA. By the author of "Kismet" and "Mirage." 16mo.
Cloth. Price, $1.50.
BLESSED SAINT CERTAINTY. By the author of "His Majesty Myself." 16mo.
Cloth. Price, $1.50.
DOCTOR JACOB. A Novel. By Miss M. B. EDWARDS. 12mo. Cloth. Price,
$1.00.
OFF THE SKELLIGS. By JEAN INGELOW. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.
FATED TO BE FREE. By JEAN INGELOW. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.
SARAH De BERENGER. By JEAN INGELOW. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.
DON JOHN. By JEAN INGELOW. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.
MARGARET. A Tale of the Real and the Ideal, of Blight and Bloom. By
SYLVESTER JUDD. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.
THE VICAR'S DAUGHTER. By GEORGE MACDONALD. With illustrations. 16mo.
Cloth. Price, $1.50.
MY MARRIAGE. A Novel. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.
TIP CAT. A Story. By the author of "Miss Toosey's Mission" and
"Laddy." 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25.
SOME WOMEN'S HEARTS. By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 16mo. Cloth. Price,
$1.50.
GEORGE SAND'S NOVELS. Mauprat; Antonia; Monsieur Sylvestre; The Snow
Man; The Miller of Angibault; My Sister Jeannie. 16mo. Cloth. Price,
$1.50 each.
FRANCES M. PEARD'S NOVELS. The Rose Garden; Unawares; Thorpe Regis.
16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50 each.
WENDERHOLME. A Story of Lancashire and Yorkshire. By P. G. HAMERTON.
12mo. Cloth. Price, $2.00.
THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT. By HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD, author of "The
Amber Gods." 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25.
THE MARQUIS OF CARABAS. A Romance. By HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.
16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.
WORK. A Story of Experience. By LOUISA M. ALCOTT. 16mo. Cloth.
Illustrated. Price, $1.75.
PINK AND WHITE TYRANNY. A Society Novel. By HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.
MOONDYNE. A Story of the Under World. By JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 16mo.
Cloth. Price, $1.00.
FOR SUMMER AFTERNOONS. By SUSAN COOLIDGE. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25.
REALMAH. By ARTHUR HELPS. 12mo. Cloth. Price, $2.00.
CASIMIR MAREMMA. By ARTHUR HELPS, 12mo. Cloth. Price, $2.00.
PHANTASMION. A Fairy Tale. By SARA COLERIDGE. 12mo. Cloth. Price,
$2.00.
_Our publications are for sale by all Booksellers, and will be mailed
postpaid, on receipt of price, by the publishers,_
ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.