11. CHAPTER XI.
“He's gone—his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight,
Whither? I dread to think—but he is gone!”
Byron.
Mr. Hamilton, though perfectly conscious that his end
was rapidly approaching, had scrupulously avoided the
subject in the presence of the girls. One morning, after a
night of more than ordinary suffering, he lay quite exhausted.
Death was at hand, and feeling intuitively that
the appointed hour had arrived, he requested all to withdraw,
save Florence. When they were alone, he laid his
hand on her head, and said, in a low, feeble tone—“Floence,
I am going. I can not survive this day, and I wish
to give you my last advice. I am afraid your lot will be
a hard one, when I am gone; trials without number are
in store for you. Oh! my proud-hearted, beautiful Florence,
what will become of you now?” He covered his
face with his hands a moment, then continued—“I do not
wish you to return to your native place. My child must
be dependent on no one, yet to leave you here so unprotected,
is hard indeed. Dr. Bryant has promised to watch
over you, and the Carltons are kind friends. Florence, you
must depend upon yourself. Thank God, you are strong-minded,
and Mary, our kind, good Mary, will be near, to
comfort and assist you. I am growing weaker, but there
is one more thing I wish to say.”
He paused, and for the first time Florence spoke.
“My father, tell me every wish; fear nothing for me,
there is nothing I can not bear now.”
“For my sake, Florence, if not for your own, will you
promise to be guided by Father Mazzolin?”
“Do you mean in matters of religion, my father?”
“I mean in all things: matters of interest, as well as
matters of faith. He will assist you much, if you will
but follow his advice and directions.”
There was a pause, and then Florence said slowly, as
if weighing every word—“Rest assured your wishes shall
be my law. I will consult the Padre as you desire.”
With a look of relief the dying man sank back on his
pillow, and closed his eyes. Florence quickly summoned
the physician, and her aunt and cousin. A little while
after, as Mr. Hamilton's eye fell on the weeping Mary, he
extended his hand, and when she bent over him, drew her
face down, and imprinted a long kiss on her pale cheek.
Even as he did so, a dark form glided to the bedside.
Another moment, the uncle and niece were separated;
none knew how, yet the Padre stood between, whispering
low in the sufferer's ear. Almost gasping for breath, the
latter intimated his desire to confess for the last time.
And they were left alone.
Nearly an hour after, the priest entered the apartment
where Florence and Mary sat. He trembled visibly, yet,
in his usual tone, said that he wished the family to be
present at the last rites about to be performed for the dying
Papist. They immediately repaired to the sick room, and
the spectacle there presented, made Mary quiver in every
limb. The sufferer had been placed for convenience on a
low couch, and was supported by pillows in an upright
position. A dozen candles burnt around him, and a cloud
of incense wreathed slowly along the wall. The room
had been profusely sprinkled with holy water, and a chalice,
containing the consecrated wafer, sat near. Gasping
for breath, Mr. Hamilton clasped a crucifix to his lips,
though unable from weakness to secure it there; for twice
it fell from his fingers, and rolled to the floor.
Father Mazzolin, attired in a surplice, ornamented with
the insignia of his order, stood beside the bed, holding in
one hand a superbly-bound volume—in the other, a silver
cup containing oil.
After a moment's pause he opened the book, and hurriedly
read in a low, muttering tone, a Latin service of
several pages. At the conclusion he carefully poured out
a few drops of the oil, and just touched the palms of the
sufferer's hands, and the soles of his feet, bidding him at
the same time cross himself. Perceiving that he was utterly
unable to do so, he hastily signed the figure, and resumed
his reading. How long he would have gabbled on,
it is impossible to say, but a gasping sound from the dying
man, declared that dissolution was at hand, and, snatching
the chalice, he hastily administered the wafer, which was
swallowed with difficulty. For the third time, Father
Mazzolin strove to replace the crucifix in his hand and bend
it to his lips. The cold fingers refused to clasp the consecrated
wood, and sank, stiffened and powerless, by his side.
Mary had gazed mournfully on, as this mummery was
enacted. A death-bed for a theatre, weeping relatives an
audience, and Father Mazzolin an amateur performer.
Aunt Lizzy was kneeling beside the Padre, ever and anon
invoking the Virgin; while Florence sat with her face in
her hands, almost as unconscious of what passed as her
dying parent. She bent over him now, and in heart-rending
accents conjured him not to leave her. He struggled
in vain to utter words of comfort; they died away in
whispers, and, with a slight moan, the spirit returned to
the God that gave it. The Padre snatched his hat and
hastily left the house, while Mary gave vent to an uncontrollable
burst of sorrow. Florence seemed suddenly frozen,
so rigid was her countenance, as she gazed on the cold
form before her. She neither wept nor moaned, but closed
the eyes with a long, long kiss, and drawing a sheet over
the marble features, turned, with a slow, unfaltering step,
away.
