University of Virginia Library

6. JACQUELINE.

6. JACQUELINE.

“Dear mother,—is it not the bell I
hear?”

“Yes, my child; the bell for morning
prayers. It is Sunday to-day.”

“I had forgotten it. But now all days are
alike to me. Hark! it sounds again—louder—
louder. Open the window, for I love the sound.
There; the sunshine and the fresh morning air
revive me. And the church bell—oh mother,
—it reminds me of the holy sabbath mornings
by the Loire—so calm, so hushed, so beautiful!
Now give me my prayer-book, and draw the
curtain back that I may see the green trees

and the church spire. I feel better to-day,
dear mother.”

It was a bright, cloudless morning in August.
The dew still glistened on the trees;
and a slight breeze wafted to the sick-chamber
of Jacqueline the song of the birds, the
rustle of the leaves, and the solemn chime of
the church-bells. She had been raised up in
bed, and reclining upon the pillow, was gazing
wistfully upon the quiet scene without.
Her mother gave her the prayer-book and then
turned away to hide a tear that stole down her
cheek.

At length the bells ceased. Jacqueline
crossed herself, kissed a pearl crucifix that
hung around her neck, and opened the silver
clasps of her missal. For a time she seemed
wholly absorbed in her devotions. Her lips
moved,—but no sound was audible. At intervals
the solemn voice of the priest was heard
at a distance, and then the confused responses
of the congregation, dying away in inarticulate
murmurs. Ere long the thrilling chaunt of
the Catholic service broke upon the ear. At
first it was low, solemn, and indistinct;—then

it became more earnest and entreating, as if
interceding, and imploring pardon for sin;—
and then arose louder and louder, full, harmonious,
majestic, as it wafted the song of praise
to heaven,—and suddenly ceased. Then the
sweet tones of the organ were heard,—trembling,
thrilling, and rising higher and higher,
and filling the whole air with their rich melodious
music. What exquisite accords!—what
noble harmonies!—What touching pathos!—
The soul of the sick girl seemed to kindle into
more ardent devotion, and to be wrapt away to
heaven in the full harmonious chorus, as it
swelled onward, doubling and redoubling, and
rolling upward in a full burst of rapturous devotion!—Then
all was hushed again. Once
more the low sound of the bell smote the air,
and announced the elevation of the host. The
invalid seemed entranced in prayer. Her book
had fallen beside her,—her hands were clasped,
—her eyes closed,—her soul retired within its
secret chambers. Then a more triumphant
peal of bells arose. The tears gushed from
her closed and swollen lids; her cheek was
flushed; she opened her dark eyes and fixed
them with an expression of deep adoration and
penitence upon an image of the Savior on the
cross, which hung at the foot of her bed, and
her lips again moved in prayer. Her countenance
expressed the deepest resignation. She
seemed to ask only that she might die in peace,
and go to the bosom of her Redeemer.

The mother was kneeling by the window,
with her face concealed in the folds of the curtain.
She arose, and, going to the bed-side
of her child, threw her arms around her, and
burst into tears.

“My dear mother, I shall not live long—I
feel it here. This piercing pain—at times it
seizes me, and I cannot—cannot breathe.”

“My child, you will be better soon.”

“Yes, mother, I shall be better soon. All
tears and pain and sorrow will be over. The
hymn of adoration and entreaty I have just
heard, I shall never hear again on earth. Next
sabbath, mother, kneel again by that window
as to-day. I shall not be here, upon this bed
of pain and sickness, but when you hear the
solemn hymn of worship and the beseeching
tones that wing the spirit up to God,

think, mother, that I am there,—with my
sweet sister who has gone before us,—kneeling
at our Savior's feet, and happy—oh, how happy!”

The afflicted mother made no reply,—her
heart was too full to speak.

“You remember, mother, how calmly Amie
died. Poor child, she was so young and beautiful!—I
always pray, that I may die as she
did. I do not fear death as I did before she
was taken from us. But oh—this pain—this
cruel pain—it seems to draw my mind back
from heaven. When it leaves me I shall die
in peace.”

“My poor child!—God's holy will be
done!”

The invalid soon sank into a quiet slumber.
The excitement was over, and exhausted nature
sought relief in sleep.

The persons, between whom this scene
passed, were a widow and her sick daughter,
from the neighborhood of Tours. They had
left the banks of the Loire to consult the more
experienced physicians of the metropolis, and
had been directed to the Maison de Santé at

Auteuil for the benefit of the pure air. But all
in vain. The health of the suffering, but uncomplaining
patient grew worse and worse, and it
soon became evident that the closing scene was
drawing near.

Of this Jacqueline herself seemed conscious;
and toward evening she expressed a wish to receive
the last sacraments of the church. A
priest was sent for: and ere long the tinkling of
a little bell in the street announced his approach.
He bore in his hand a silver vase containing
the consecrated wafer, and a small vessel filled
with the holy oil of the extreme unction hung
from his neck. Before him walked a boy
carrying a little bell, whose sound announced
the passing of these symbols of the Catholic
faith. In the rear, a few of the villagers, bearing
lighted wax tapers, formed a short and melancholy
procession. They soon entered the
sick chamber, and the glimmer of the tapers
mingled with the red light of the setting sun,
that shot his farewell rays through the open
window. The vessel of oil and the vase containing
the consecrated wafers were placed
upon the table in front of a crucifix, that hung

upon the wall, and all present excepting the
priest, threw themselves upon their knees. The
priest then approached the bed of the dying
girl, and said in a slow and solemn tone;

“The King of kings and Lord of lords has
passed thy threshold. Is thy spirit ready to
receive him?”—

“It is, father.”

“Hast thou confessed thy sins?”

“Holy father, no.”

“Confess thyself, then, that thy sins may
be forgiven, and thy name recorded in the book
of life.”

And turning to the kneeling crowd around,
he waved his hand for them to retire, and was
left alone with the sick girl. He seated himself
beside her pillow, and the subdued whisper
of the confession mingled with the murmur of
the evening air, which lifted the heavy folds of
the curtains and stole in upon the holy scene.
Poor Jacqueline had few sins to confess,—a
secret thought or two towards the pleasures
and delights of the world,—a wish to live, unuttered,
but which to the eye of her self-accusing
spirit seemed to resist the wise providence

of God;—no more. The confession of a meek
and lowly heart is soon made. The door was
again opened;—the attendants entered, and
knelt around the bed, and the priest proceeded;

“And now prepare thyself to receive with
contrite heart the body of our blessed Lord
and Redeemer.—Dost thou believe that our
Lord Jesus Christ was conceived by the Holy
Spirit, and born of the Virgin Mary?”

“I believe.”

And all present joined in the solemn response—

“I believe.”

“Dost thou believe that the Father is God,
that the Son is God, and that the Holy Spirit
is God,—three persons and one God?”

“I believe.”

“Dost thou believe that the Son is seated
on the right hand of the Majesty on high,
whence he shall come to judge the quick and
the dead?”

“I believe.”

“Dost thou believe that by the holy sacraments
of the church thy sins are forgiven thee,
and that thus thou art made worthy of eternal
life?”

“I believe.”

“Dost thou pardon, with all thy heart, all who
have offended thee in thought, word or deed?”

“I pardon them.”

“And dost thou ask pardon of God and thy
neighbor for all offences thou hast committed
against them, either in thought, word, or deed?”

“I do!”

“Then repeat after me; O Lord Jesus, I
am not worthy, nor do I merit, that thy divine
Majesty should enter this poor tenement of
clay; but according to thy holy promises be
my sins forgiven, and my soul washed white
from all transgression.”

Then taking a consecrated wafer from the
vase, he placed it between the lips of the dying
girl, and while the assistant sounded the
little silver bell, said;

“Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat
animam tuam in vitam eternam.”

And the kneeling crowd smote their breasts
and responded in one solemn voice;

“Amen!”

The priest then took from the silver box on
the table a little golden rod, and dipping it in

holy oil, anointed the invalid upon the hands,
feet and breast in the form of the cross. When
these ceremonies were completed, the priest
and his attendants retired, leaving the mother
alone with her dying child, who, from the exhaustion
caused by the preceding scene, sank
into a death-like sleep.

The long twilight of the summer evening
stole on; the shadows deepened without, and
the night-lamp glimmered feebly in the sick
chamber; but still she slept. She was lying
with her hands clasped upon her breast,—her
pallid cheek resting upon the pillow, and her
bloodless lips apart, but motionless and silent
as the sleep of death. Not a breath interrupted
the silence of her slumber. Not a movement
of the heavy and sunken eye-lid-not a trembling
of the lip—not a shadow on the marble
brow told when the spirit took its flight. It
passed to a better world than this.