University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

How wearily pass the hours to the anxious watcher beside
the couch of pain. To her, it seems as though the
current of time had forgotten to run on and join the mighty
past, and that its swift waters were gathering glassily
around her. With unmitigated care, Florence had attended
the bedside of her suffering parent; occasionally
slumbering on his pillow, but more frequently watching
through the long nights, and often stealing to the casement,
to look out upon surrounding gloom, and wonder if
the light of day would ever fall again on earth. Ah! in
the midnight hour, when all nature is hushed, when universal
darkness reigns, when the “still small voice” will
no longer be silenced, then we are wont to commune with
our own hearts. All barriers melt away, and the saddened
past, the troubled present, and the shadowy future rise
successively before us, and refuse to be put by. In vain
we tightly close the aching lids; strange lurid lights flare
around us, and mysterious forms glide to and fro.

To the guilty, how fearful must the season of darkness
prove, when, unable longer to escape from themselves, they
yield to the pangs of remorse, and toss in unutterable anguish!

And thousands, who in the sunny light of day rush madly
on to ruin, pause, shudderingly, in the midnight hour, and
look yearningly toward the narrow path where Virtue's
lamp, flashing into the deepest recesses of surrounding
gloom, dispels all shadow; and, in imagination, view the
Christian peacefully descending the hill of life, fearlessly
crossing the “valley of the shadow of death,” and resting
at last on that blest shore, where night and darkness are
unknown, “swallowed up in endless day.”

It was very evident that Mr. Hamilton could survive
but a few days; and to every entreaty that she would take
some rest, Florence but shook her head, and replied, that
she would not leave him when he must die so soon.

One evening Dr. Bryant, having administered a soothing
potion, turned to her and said, “My dear Miss Hamilton,
you will seriously injure your health by such constant
watching. Your father needs nothing now but quiet. Let
me entreat you to go out for a short time; the air will refresh
you, and your aunt will remain with Mr. Hamilton.”
He drew her reluctantly from her seat as he spoke, and
whispered Mary to accompany her.

Drawing her arm round Florence, Mary turned in the
direction of their accustomed rambles, but her cousin said,
“I am too weary to walk far, let us go to our old seat by
the river.”

The stream was only a few yards distant, and they
seated themselves on a broad, flat stone, beneath a cluster
of pomegranate and figs. The evening was beautifully
clear, the soft light which still lingered in the west mellowing
every object, and the balmy southern breeze, fresh
from “old ocean's bosom,” rustling musically amidst the
branches above. As if to enhance the sweetness of the
hour, and win the mourners from their sad thoughts, the
soothing tones of the vesper bells floated afar on the evening
air; distance had softened them, and now they sounded
clear and Eolian-like. The river eddied and curled rapidly
along at their feet; and ever and anon, the stillness
that seemed settling around was broken by the plunging
fish, that gamboled in hundreds amidst its blue waters.

“How calm and holy this stillness seems! Florry, does
it not cause you to lift your heart in gratitude to the
`almighty Giver' of so many blessings?”

“All things are dark to sorrow;” replied Florence, and
folding her arms across her bosom, she dropped her head
wearily upon them.

“Oh, Florry, do not give up so! I can not bear to hear
your despairing tone. Still hope; your dear father may
be spared to us;” and she put her arms caressingly around
her.

“Hope!” echoed Florence; “I have ceased to hope that
he will recover. I know that he can not: and in a few
hours I shall be alone in the world. Alone, alone!” she
repeated the words, as if fully to realize the misery in store
for her. O God! why hast thou not taken me before?
Take me now; oh, in mercy, take me with him!”

In vain Mary strove to soothe and console her: she remained
perfectly still, her face hid in her arms, and replied
not to her anxious questionings. A long silence ensued,
and Mary wept. A feeling of desolation began to
creep over her; a second time she was to be thrown on
the wide, cold world. She thought of her uncle's generosity
and unvaried kindness during the many years she
had dwelt under his roof, and scarcely felt that it was not
her own. And then there stole up the image of her lost
mother; the wan, but saint-like face, and the heavenly
smile with which she pointed upward, and bade her child
prepare for the glorious union, in that mansion which Jehovah
assigned to those who are faithful on earth.

Poor Mary's heart was sad indeed; yet there was no
bitterness in her soul, no rebellious feelings toward Almighty
God, who had thus afflicted her so sorely. She wiped
away her tears, and calming herself as much as possible,
repeated, in a faltering voice, the beautiful hymn commencing
“I would not live always.” She paused at the conclusion
of the second verse; but Florence did not lift her head,
and hoping to cheer her, she finished the hymn.

Twilight had fallen on the earth, and the blue vault
of heaven was studded with its myriad lamps. The new
moon glittered like a golden thread—low in the west—and
seemed almost to rest upon the bosom of the stream, as it
curved in the distance to meet the horizon.

“Come, Florry, you must not stay out so late; I am
afraid you will take cold!”

Florence rose mechanically and accompanied her.

“Oh, Florry, do try and trust in God, and believe that

in every trial and affliction he will comfort and assist
us.”

Her cousin sighed heavily, but made no reply.

As they reached the gate it was quickly opened, and the
Padre met them: he bowed coldly to Mary, but shook
hands with Florence, and promised to come again the ensuing
day. It was so late that Mary could not distinguish
his features; but just as he turned to go, Aunt Fanny
threw open the kitchen door, and the light streamed full
on his face; their eyes met, and she started at the smile
of triumph that irradiated his dark countenance: he bowed,
and passed on.

Mary hastened down the walk, and entered the sick
room, fearing she scarcely knew what. The invalid was
tossing restlessly from side to side, and on the pillow lay a
rosary and crucifix. For an instant she stood motionless;
then sprang forward, and clasped his burning hand in hers.
“Uncle! dear uncle! tell me who has been with you!
Aunt Lizzy promised she would not leave you till we came
back. You have been excited; your hands are burning
with fever!”

“I was not alone, Mary; the Padre sat and talked with
me;” as the sufferer spoke, he shuddered and closed his
eyes.

“And did he leave these here?” said she, taking up the
crucifix and rosary.

“No, no! they are mine!” and he snatched them from
her.

Mary turned pale, and leaned against the bed for support.
Florence, now bending over her father, motioned to

her cousin to be silent; without effect, however; for, passing
round the bed, she knelt beside him. “Uncle, was it
by your desire that the Padre came here this evening?”

He did not seem to hear her question; she repeated it.

“Yes; that is, this is not his first visit.”

“Uncle, why do you evade me? Tell me, I entreat
you, if he did not force himself here in my absence!”

“Mary, will you drive my father delirious with your interference
with his wishes?”

“No, Florry, not when I am convinced that such are
his wishes. I know that in health he is no more a Papist
than you or I; yet, now I see him clinging to that rosary
and crucifix, what am I to think? If you can explain this
mystery, do so, Florry.”

“The day that you were at Mrs. Carlton's, learning to
make that custard my father likes so well, the Padre came,
and kindly sat with him some time. He came the next
night, and the next; and read and prayed with him. I
hope you are satisfied now that there is no intrusion.”
All this was whispered so low as not to reach the ears of
the invalid.

“Were you present at any of these interviews, Florry?”

“No; they always preferred being alone.”

“Oh! why did you not tell me this before?”

“I am sure I can't see what you are so excited about!
If my father chooses to become a Catholic, I should think
it would relieve you to know that he realizes his situation.”
She turned resolutely away as she finished speaking, and
seated herself beside the bed.

Mary left the room almost stunned by the discovery she

had made; and scarce knowing what to do, wrapped her
shawl about her, and walked quickly to Mrs. Carlton's.
To her she related all she had just learned, and begged
her advice and assistance.

Mrs. Carlton was sorely puzzled and much distressed.

“I fear, Mary, it is too late to remedy the evil.”

“Oh, do not say so! I can not bear that he should die
in that faith; he is too feeble to oppose any thing they
offer, and is scarcely conscious of his own actions. In
health, they dared not approach him; for they knew full
well that he scorned their creed, and disliked their Padre.
Yet now that he is so weak, in both body and mind, they
hope to influence him. Oh, how could Florence be so
blind! Dear Mrs. Carlton, come and reason with him.
I know he esteems you very highly, and your opinion might
weigh with him.”

“Indeed, my dear child, I will do all in my power to
dissuade him from the unfortunate course he has taken,
but not to-night; he must be wearied very much already.
I will come in the morning.”

Early the ensuing day she fulfilled her promise, and in
Florence's presence strove to elicit his views and belief.
To her surprise he refused to hold any conversation on the
subject; declaring that his mind was made up, and that
he was determined to die a member of the holy Catholic
Church.

Before she could frame a reply, they were startled by
the sound of a struggle at the door, and the next moment
it was flung wide open, and Father Mazzolin, livid with
rage, rushed in. Mrs. Carlton rose with gentle dignity,

and inquired his business. He heeded not her question,
but strode to the bed, and whispered in Mr. Hamilton's
ear. The invalid, in a voice so feeble that it was scarce
audible, requested them to leave him with the Padre for
an hour, as he wished to converse with him alone. Mrs.
Carlton perfectly well understood that he but repeated the
priest's orders, and perceiving that nothing could now be
effected, left the room accompanied by Florence. But
Mary clung to the bed, and refused to go.

“You have taken advantage of my uncle's weakness to
force yourself where your presence is unwelcome, and I
will not leave him when he is too weak to oppose your
orders.”

He strove to force her out, but she clung firmly to the
bed; and muttering an oath between his teeth, he turned
to the sufferer, and spoke in an unknown tongue; a feeble
response in the same language seemed to satisfy him, and
darting a triumphant glance at the kneeling girl, he seated
himself, and conversed for nearly an hour. Then offering
up a Latin prayer, departed, promising to come again.

Mrs. Carlton had not left the house; she waited anxiously
for Mary. And when Florence re-entered the sick
room, the former hastened to her friend.

“Oh, I did all I could to prevent it!” cried Mary, in
despair. “All is over, I am afraid. I was sitting on the
door step, preparing some arrowroot, when I saw Aunt
Lizzy go out the gate. I thought it strange at the time
of day, but never suspected the truth. Presently I saw
her coming back with the priest, and knew in an instant
she had gone for him. I was determined to prevent his

seeing my uncle, if possible, and fastened the front door.
Before I could lock my uncle's, he wrenched open the window,
and sprang in. I tried to put the key in my pocket,
and told him he could not go in then; but he made Aunt
Lizzy hold one of my hands, while he forced open my fingers
and took the key. Oh! that Dr. Bryant had been
here.” She showed Mrs. Carlton the marks of his grasp
on her wrist. “Tell, oh, tell me what I can do to save
him!”

“Alas! nothing, Mary. He is completely under the
control of the Padre, and no reasoning will avail now.”

With a sad heart Mrs. Carlton took leave, advising Mary
“to offer no further resistance, as it was now impossible to
convince her uncle of his error.”