"Her right eye is already gone, and the other, I fear, will never more see the light. Still, you should be grateful that her life will be preserved." And the surgeon took his hat and left.
"Blind! blind for life!" murmured Louis, in horror; "a fate worse than death. Oh, Minnette! Minnette!"
The lingering glory of an Italian sunset was streaming through the open window of the room where Minnette lay. It was a plainly, but neatly furnished room, in one of the _Scuole_, or benevolent inst.i.tutions of the city. Two months had pa.s.sed since that unhappy day on which we saw her last. She lies now on the bed, the sunlight falling brightly on her wan face; that blessed sunlight she will never see more. A Sister of Mercy, with holy face and meek eyes, sits by her side, holding one of her hands in hers.
And this is Minnette; this pale, faded, sightless girl, the once beautiful, haughty, resplendent Minnette! All her beauty was gone now; the glowing crimson of high health rests no longer on those hollow, sunken cheeks; the fierce light of pa.s.sion will never more flash from those dimmed orbs; from those poor, pale lips, bitter, scathing words can never more fall. But through all this outward wreck shines a calmer, holier beauty than ever rested on her face before. In the furnace, she has been purified; the fierce, pa.s.sionate spirit has been subdued by grace; the lion in her nature has yielded to the Lamb that was slain; the wrung, agonized heart has ceased to struggle, and rests in peace at last.
Not without many a struggle had her wild, fierce nature yielded to the soothings of religion. Long, tempestuous, and pa.s.sionate was the struggle; and when her good angel triumphed at last she came, not as a meek penitent, but as a worn, world-weary sinner, longing only for peace and rest.
She had not seen Louis during her illness. Often he came to visit her, but still her cry was: "Not yet! not yet!" Her wild, mad love was dying out of her heart, and with it her intense hatred of Celeste. Her days, now, were spent in meditation and prayer, or listening to the gentle, soothing words of Sister Beatrice.
"The sun is setting, sister, is it not?" she asked, turning her head towards the windows, as though she still could see.
"Yes; a more glorious sunset I never beheld."
"And I can never see it more; never behold the beautiful earth or sky; never see sun, or moon, or stars again!" said Minnette, in a voice low, but unspeakably sad.
"No, my child, but there is an inward vision that can never be seen with corporeal eyes. Now that those outward eyes are sealed forever, a glimpse of heaven has been bestowed upon you, to lighten the darkness of your life."
"Oh! Sister Beatrice, if I were always with you, I feel I could submit to my fate without a murmur. But when I go out into the world, this fierce nature that is within me, that is subdued but not conquered, will again arise; and I will become more pa.s.sionate, selfish, and sinful than ever."
"Then why go out into the world any more? Why not enter a convent, and end your days in peace?"
"Oh, sister! if I only might," said Minnette, clasping her hands; "but I, poor, blind, and helpless, what could I do in a convent?"
"You could pray, you could be happy; if you wish to enter, your blindness shall be no obstacle," said Sister Beatrice.
At this moment a servant entered and handed the sister a note, addressed to Minnette. She opened it, and read aloud:
"Every day for a month I have called here, and you have refused to see me. Minnette, I conjure you to let me visit you; I cannot rest until I have seen you, and obtained your forgiveness.
LOUIS."
Minnette"s pale face flushed deep crimson, and then grew whiter than before, as she said, vehemently:
"No, I will not! I will not! I _cannot_ see him more!"
"Why not?" said Sister Beatrice. "Confess, my child, that vanity still lingers in your heart. You do not wish to see him because you think he will be shocked to find you so changed and altered. Is it not so?"
"Yes, yes!" replied Minnette, in a fainting voice.
"But this is wrong; you ought to see him. As you are desirous of taking the vail, it is but right that you should see him, and bid him farewell, and let him inform your friends when he sees them. Come, my dear child, cast out this spirit of pride, and let me admit him, if only for a moment."
There was a fierce struggle in the breast of Minnette. It was but momentary, however, as, shading her face with one hand, she said:
"Be it so; I will endure the humiliation; let him come."
Sister Beatrice pressed her lips to the brow of the invalid, and left the room. A moment later, and Louis, pale, thin, and careworn, entered.
He started, and grew a shade paler, as his eyes fell on that poor, pale face, robbed of all its beauty, and with a suppressed groan, sank on his knees by the bedside.
"Minnette! Minnette!" he said, hoa.r.s.ely. "Can you ever forgive me?"
The sightless eyes were turned toward him, in the vain effort to see.
Alas! All was darkness. She held out one little, transparent hand, which he took between both of his.
"I have nothing to forgive," she said, meekly. "All that has happened to me I deserved. Do not grieve for me, Louis, you have nothing to reproach yourself with; it was all my own fault."
He bowed his forehead on her hand, and tears, that did honor to his generous heart, fell from his eyes.
"Tell Celeste, when you see her, how sorry I am for all my cruelty and injustice toward her. Ask her to forgive me; she is good and gentle, I feel she will do it. If I only had her pardon, I feel I could die content. And, Oh Louis! when she is happy with you, will you both sometimes think of Minnette, blind, and alone in a foreign land?"
"Oh, _poor_ Minnette!" he said, in a choking voice.
"Do not pity me, Louis; I am very happy," but the pale lips trembled as she spoke; "happier than I ever was when I was full of life and health.
Oh, Louis, when I look back and think of what I have been--so selfish, and hard-hearted, and cruel--I tremble to think what I might yet have been if G.o.d in his mercy had not sent me this affliction. And Celeste; no words can ever tell how I have wronged her. You know how I struck her, in my blind rage, and the angelic patience and forgiveness with which she afterward sought to love me, and make me happy. Oh, Louis! all her sweetness and meekness will haunt me to my dying day."
Her voice faltered, then entirely failed, and for the first time in her life the once haughty Minnette wept.
"Tears are strange visitors to these eyes," she said, with a sad smile; "there may be hope for me yet, since I can weep for the past. Louis, in a few weeks I will enter a convent, and the remainder of my life shall be spent in praying for you and Celeste, and the rest of my friends. And now you must leave me--farewell, a last farewell, _dear_ Louis. Tell them all at home how I have learned to love them at last, and ask them to forgive poor Minnette."
He could not speak; she made a sign for him to go. Raising the thin, pale hand to his lips, and casting one long, last look on the sad, yet peaceful face of the once beautiful Minnette, he quitted the room. And thus they parted, these two, never to meet in life again.
Meantime, we must revisit St. Mark"s, and witness the startling events that are bringing matters to a rapid _denouement_ there.
CHAPTER x.x.xV.
THE DEATH-BED CONFESSION.
"Her wretched brain gave way, And she became a wreck, at random driven, Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven."
It was a bleak, stormy December evening, a week before Christmas. A bright fire was burning in the well-known parlor of Sunset Hall.
In his easy-chair, with his gouty legs, swathed in flannels, reposing on two others, lay our old friend the squire, literally "laid up by the legs." In the opposite corner was Lizzie, dozing, as usual, on her sofa; while good Mrs. Gower sat with her fat hands folded in her lap, reposing after the cares of the day. Dr. Wiseman had not yet sufficiently recovered from his wounds and bruises to go abroad, and had just retired to his room, while his affectionate spouse was enjoying herself at a grand ball in the village.
The worthy trio had sat in solemn silence for upwards of an hour, when the door was flung open, and Jupiter rushed in to announce "dat a boy commanded to see ole marster "mediately."
"To see me?" said the squire, in amazement. "What does he want? I won"t see anybody to-night."
"He"s got a letter, and says he must d"liver it to-night--it"s very important," said Jupiter.
"Humph! well, admit him then. I never can get a minute"s peace. "No rest for the wicked," as Solomon says. Well, here he comes."
As he spoke, a youth, apparently about sixteen, entered the apartment, bearing every evidence of having journeyed fast.