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 Ma.s.s, ere their mother had awakened from her slumbers. He himself heard their daily lessons in Catechism.
When Sat.u.r.day 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 pa.s.sages 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 G.o.d 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 ma.s.s, 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 a.s.sistance 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 a.s.sistance 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 _Viatic.u.m_ 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 G.o.d can help you, Mrs. Temple, and I pray that His grace may be sufficient for you."
"But you forget that I have no G.o.d."
"Mrs. Temple, you are beside yourself. No G.o.d?"
"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."