CHAPTER XX

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"Malheureux! cet instant ou votre ame engourdie A secoue les fers qu' elle traine ici-bas, Ce fugitif instant fut toute votre vie; Ne le regrettez pas."

It was a wonderful morning which saw the birth of the new year in Venice,--one of those clear, bright days on which Winter lays aside all his severity and assumes the smiles of the Spring still asleep in the bosom of the stiffened earth. The _piazza_ was filled with a motley crowd of holiday folk, and the lagoons swarmed with a fleet of gondolas and _sandalos_.

Before a mighty marble house which stands where one of the smaller thoroughfares sweeps its waters into the Grand Canal, a gondola has paused. A young man, a foreigner evidently, steps from the boat and passes under the fretted archway, with an admiring glance at the beautiful carving. He is pressed for time, but he stops for a moment to glance into the square cortile, with its group of almond-trees and its playing fountain. He is met at the wide doorway by a servant, of whom he asks, in the best Italian he can muster, for the Signorina Almsford. The black-browed menial politely replies that it will be impossible for him to see the signorina; she is not at home to visitors. No further answer can the stranger obtain to his eager inquiries. A gold piece unlocks the tongue of the menial at last, and he informs the young man, in excellent English, that the signorina has been ill ever since her return from America, a month and more ago.

"She has been very ill; Girolomo says that she will die, and the Signor Almsford himself fears the worst. She has not left her room once. To-day being a _festa_, she has fancied to go out with Girolomo in the gondola, and I am to help him carry her downstairs."

As he finished speaking, the man noticed that the visitor had grown very pale, and now stood leaning against a marble pillar as if for support. When he spoke again it was to send his card to Mr. Almsford. On being admitted to an outer reception room he sank upon a chair, his face hidden in his hands. Soon he was bidden to enter. The signorina had learned of his arrival, and it was her pleasure to see him.

The young man passed through a long suite of stately rooms, scarcely noticing the rich furnishing and decorations. Before a curtained doorway he hesitated for a moment, but the servant, pushing aside the heavy portiere, left him no choice but to enter. Before him, reclining in a great chair, lay a figure which he had last seen full of health and strength. From a pile of sea-green cushions smiled a face which he had known when it was glorious with the freshness of youth. The color which the red rose of love had brought to her cheek had faded now; she was like a flower no longer, but a great white pearl shimmering through pale waters. She smiled, and held out her hand to her countryman; and Maurice Galbraith, bowing low over the small fingers, strove to hide his face from the great hollow eyes which looked inquiringly into his own.

"I am so glad you have come. I do not even ask what has brought you, it is so good to see some one from home."

It had become "home" to her now, the country which she had so long repudiated. "Home" after a half year's residence; "home," though the language spoken there was to her a foreign one. The meeting is not without its tears, the pleasure not unmixed with pain. Eager questions are asked, and faithfully answered. Millicent's visitor brings her tidings and tender messages from far-off friends. He is rewarded for his pains by a faint smile which glimmers over the pale features, rising in the deep eyes and losing itself in the tender curves of the mouth. Beside the couch stands a delicate bronze table wrought by no less cunning a hand than Benvenuto's. A vase of flowers and a crystal bell are here placed. The musical note of the bell now summons a domestic, who bows at the order given, softly disappears, and soon re-enters, bearing a salver on which are a plate of fruits and a bluish decanter, with glasses of the dainty Venetian fashion. From the delicately tendrilled flask Millicent pours a clear golden wine whose perfume permeates the apartment. She fills both glasses, and, touching the edge of hers to the rim of his, bids him drink to the health of the dear ones at home. Galbraith stops the musical ring which the contact has drawn from the tumbler by touching the edge with his finger in a mechanical manner. It was one of the superstitions which had waned to a habit with him.

"Why do you drown that sound of good cheer?"

"Because my grandmother told me when I was a little child that if a glass rang itself out to silence, the sound was sure to prove a death-knell."

"Listen, you can still hear mine faintly. It is a wonderful wine, connoisseurs say, this Lacrymae Christi of ours. How different, is it not, from the strong red wine of California that you gave us that day,--do you remember?--when we feasted with you under the fig-tree."

"As different as you were to the rest of us gathered about the board that day."

"And yet I would give all the wine that lies mellowing in the cellars of the palace for one cup of your good Los Angelos vintage."

The wine seemed to spread through her frame like a flame. It brought a flush to the pale cheeks and strength to the fragile body. She arose and walked unsupported across the room to a dusky mirror. She wrapped herself in a garment of silvery fur, and together they left the room fit for the boudoir of a princess. At the doorway Girolomo awaited them. Waving aside the domestic who stood ready to assist him, the strong gondolier lifted the delicate figure and bore it unaided down the marble stairs. He laid her light weight gently among the cushions of the gondola, and assuming his oar with the incomparably graceful movement of his guild, rowed the black-hooded craft down the Grand Canal. To the young American, the awe and mystery of the place are not yet familiar; and as the boat glides between the rows of mighty palaces, he wonders if the strange scene is the fabric of his own dream.

But no; when he looks into the face of the woman lying amid the cushions, he knows that it is all true, and that this shadowy figure is more real to him than all the men and women he has ever known. Presently they emerge into the broader waters of the lagoon, where lie the fisher craft, with their many-colored sails spread to dry in the afternoon breeze. The smooth green water is marked here and there with the black mooring-piles, which throw a shadowy outline on the changeful tide. To the American, bred in a land where Art is in its cradle, and beauty exists in its more austere aspect alone, the glory of the spectacle, the wondrous architecture, the wealth of color, are intoxicating. The western sky glows with the first pale tints of the sunset, against which a score of spires are darkly outlined. The air is musical with soft, distant chimes, and the song of the gondoliers is rhythmic to the motion of their oars. From the shore come cheerful sounds of holiday folk; and now and then a _sandalo_ sweeps past them with a freight of joyous pleasure-seekers. In one of these a group of masqueraders are singing a gay love-ballad. Millicent hums the refrain to herself, and answers pleasantly to the noisy greeting with which one of the party hails them. A young girl, with the red-gold hair of her people, turns and looks long into Millicent's face. She wears over her broad shoulders a leopard-skin for warmth; while her head, with its glorious crown of hair, has no other protection than the doubtful one of a garland of roses. As she looks at Millicent, she takes the fragrant wreath from her brow, and, with a graceful salutation, tosses it into the gondola. In a moment the strong strokes of the two rowers carry the _sandalo_ out of sight, and Galbraith lays the flowers in Millicent's lap.

"May the saints bless the child! 'T is the tribute of happiness and beauty to grief and pain."

The air has grown chill with the down-dropping of the sun, and Girolomo, unbidden, turns the gondola homeward. As they float past the familiar places, Millicent looks long and steadily at the scenes which are so dear to her. She shivers as the Bridge of Sighs looms dimly forth, and smiles again at the familiar faces of the boatmen on the steps of the _piazzetta_.

"I am so glad that you have seen me in the city of my birth; you can understand me now as you could never have understood me over there. Dear, dreamy Venice, where great vices and greater virtues have flourished more grandly than anywhere else in the world! And now it is all past, her glory and her pain; and knowing this, we make the best of the pleasant things left to us. We steep ourselves in her rich beauty, content with its perfection; we con over her mysterious legends, and forget that other nations are living, striving, working, and making their histories, while we are dreaming and playing our lives away. Your great Saxon virtue, 'Truth,' is meaningless to us; we are content with Beauty."

"And you are happy--contented; you are willing to pass the rest of your life here?"

"Yes, and no. I could never be satisfied to drop back into the old easy life. I have drunk too deeply of the strong, new wine of Los Angelos, to be content with the mellow vintage of the Abruzzi."

"And yet there is fermentation of a strong, new wine here, in your wondrous Italy. All do not dream of the past; there are men and women who foretell a new existence to the land, now that the old shackles of tyranny and superstition are dropping from her cramped limbs."

"Yes; but it is a volcanic soil. Everything is so sudden and so shifting. There will be changes, but it is the making over of an old garment after all. Liberty may sponge and cleanse herself a vesture, but the old stains and spots have eaten deep into the tri-color."

"You will return then; you will not pass your life so far away from us?"

She smiled a little wearily and said, "I think I shall never see America again. But I am, oh, so thankful to have known my home! I, who have lived a Venetian, shall die an American."

"And yet--?"

"And yet I am glad to--do not be shocked, kind friend, if I say that I am glad to die in my own Venice where I was born. I have two selves. One was born and nurtured here under the shadow of the silent palaces; the other sprang up full-grown among the madrone trees of San Rosario. The two have warred and struggled _here_; their battle-ground has been my breast, and the new self conquered the old; but the victory will be short-lived."

Galbraith looked at her intently. She had spoken a little wildly, as if her mind were clouded. She saw his look, and with a sigh smoothed the lines from her brow.

"I am a little mad, you think? Yes, yes. But I am so happy to see you. You understand me, dear friend; and you understand him, a little. You will see him again, though perhaps I never shall. You will tell him--No, do not look so grieved. It is very likely that I shall get well."

He lifted her pale hand and touched it to his lips, as a Catholic might kiss the cross.

"You will be well and strong again, my child. Do not speak so."

"It may be, and yet I do not wish it. Life looks so hard and cold and lonely. I do not wish to live,--and yet I am so afraid to die." She shivered, and Galbraith drew the gray cloak closer about her. "If I could only fall quietly asleep, and wake to find this poor weak body left behind--but you remember that poor creature's death? It was so terrible--I can never forget it."

"You must not think of it. What message was it that you wanted to send home?"

"It was to Graham. I can speak to you about him and to no one else. You must tell him how thankful I am that I left my old home, my old life, and came to his country. Tell him that he has nothing to reproach himself with; that the only thing that has made my life worth living has been my love for him. Tell him to remember me tenderly and without regret; it should be a sweet memory without a shadow of bitterness. Tell him--but what am I saying? You could never repeat it all even if you would. Give him this; it will tell him all; it is a token the trace of which he will find on my hand when we meet again, if souls retain aught of their old vesture in the twilight world."

She seemed wandering again. From her slim finger she slipped the little ring which Galbraith took and kept.

"And Barbara, dear good Barbara. She is white with that spotless purity of a passionless womanhood. Do you know, Mr. Galbraith, that dying people sometimes have a power of seeing into the future? Shall I tell you what face I see beside Barbara's in the bright coming years which I shall never know? It is that of a brave and loyal man,--a man whose love would make such a woman happy and complete. It is the face of the friend who has brought me great peace on this New Year's Day."

The black gondola now floated at rest under the archway of the grim old palace. From beneath the sable hood Girolomo lifted the slender frame. The old fellow's eyes filled with tears at the gentle words which his young mistress whispered to him as he carried her through the marble archway and up the long steep stairs.

"_Tanto ricca, tanto giovine, tanto bella, e bisogna che muore._" Galbraith understood the words muttered by the old servant as he passed him after having laid his burden at rest in the great chair. He understood, but he would not believe them. It could not be true.

It was late that night when the soft-footed nun who was Millicent's nurse laid her patient on her couch, with a gentle reproof for her wilfulness in being so wakeful.

"But it was not my fault, my sister; I could not sleep earlier. Now I am better and shall rest." She smiled in the quiet face which bent over her under its snow-white coif of linen. The heavy gold-bronze hair was not plaited that night, Millicent was so tired. The sister smoothed it tenderly over the pillow, her hard fingers thrilling at the touch of so much beauty. Her own close-shaven head had once been covered with thick black curls, one of which slept on the heart of the dead man for the repose of whose soul her prayers were offered at every hour of the day.

"My sister, sit by me. I want to talk with you a little while. I know your story, blessed one. Let me ask you a little of your life in the convent, among the sick. Is it peaceful, is it happy? Do you feel that you are nearer to the spirit of your dead lover than when you were in the world?"

"My child, I may not speak of these things; it would be a sin. Our words we can control, if not our thoughts."

"But, sister, I need your help. You know that I have not your faith, and never could have. But I have loved as you once loved, and I shall never see the face of my lover. What shall I do with my empty life? I am so weak!"

"All the greater need have you for a stronger help than mine, for a haven from the ills of the world. I cannot think you would find that place in our cloister. There must be workers in the world among the living and strong, as well as with the sick and dying. It is in that world that you, my child, with your power, your wealth, your beauty, should find your work. The arms of the Church are wide, and embrace the toilers in the market-place as well as those who watch and pray in the cloister."

"There is only work, then, that will bring peace?"

"Work and prayer, my child. You must not talk of this to-night; you should sleep now. To-morrow you shall tell me more of the needs of your soul."

"Only work! I am so tired, I am so weak, I cannot work alone. If there had been one to help me--" She lifted her white hand, so nerveless now, and let it sink wearily beside her.

"Bring the great candelabrum, and set it at the foot of the bed. Light all the candles. I want to drive out the shadows from the dark corners. Ah! hear them singing below there in the canal."

She sat up among her pillows listening to the chorus chanted by a band of belated merry-makers. It was the love-song that the people in the _sandalo_ had sung that afternoon.

"_Dame un pensiero, sogna me, ed io ti sognero._" "In dreaming give a thought of me, and I will dream of thee."

"Give me my little golden crown, sister, and then lie down upon your couch and sleep. You do not mind the lights?"

Millicent was fanciful and wilful that night; and the nun, knowing that it was best to humor her, brought her from its velvet case the gold fillet of olive leaves which Graham had laid on the brow of his love in the forest of San Rosario. The girl set it on her head, and called for a mirror.

"I am beautiful still, my sister, though so pale, am I not?"

The nun nodded her head smilingly.

"Now that is all, and I shall sleep. Good-night to you. Say a little prayer for me, sister, and one for a strong, proud man who will be very sad to-night with me so far away from him."

She folded her palms upon her breast, as they fold the hands of the dead. The sister stood beside her, watching uneasily the light slumber into which her patient had fallen. Her pulse was full and even, the breathing regular, and the sleep peaceful as that of a child.

"A strange fancy to light those candles, and to put that wreath about her head. Poor child, she is beautiful, indeed, as the vision of a saint," murmured the sister.

At last the black-robed watcher laid aside her coif, and, lying down upon a couch near the bedside, fell asleep. She could not have told how long she slept, when a sound awoke her. The quiet of the night was broken by a sudden gust of wind blowing through the long apartment with a deep sigh. It trembled among the tresses of the sleeping girl, and stirred and lingered in the strand of hair which overhung the tiny ear. It blew the flame of the candles straight out from the wick, and fanned the embers on the hearthstone to a last up-flaming. It blew over the lips of the sleeper, and bore these softly spoken words to her ear,--

"I come, I come! wait for me!"

The girl turned on her pillow, and smiled in her sleep. All was going well. The nun replenished the dying fire with fuel, and, extinguishing the candles, lay down to sleep again by the light of the night lamp, muttering an Ave Maria.

And the breath of the west wind passed out of the silent sick room, and went roystering through the long suite of stately apartments, where it met no man. It was a strong puff of wind, which had travelled far and sturdily across wild seas and smiling lands. It had raced with man's toy of steam and iron, and laughed in derision at the poor engine and its boasted speed; it had swayed dim forest-trees in a far-off land; it had ruffled a quiet ocean into deep furrows of foam; it had breathed upon a band of icy mountain giants, and had grown cold at their contact; it had come sighing down the Grand Canal, and had entered the great palace unceremoniously; it had fanned the cheek of a sleeping woman beautiful as the vision of a saint; it had whispered in her ear its message. And now, at the doorway of that great palace, the bold wind ceased its blustering, and died away into the still air of the ante-chamber, getting behind the heavy arras, and imparting a trembling motion to the faded figures of warrior and horse. A dim, gray Presence had entered the palace, before which the merry west wind had grown quiet. The hush of deepest night was on all the sleeping house, and the tide of the Adriatic was at the ebb. Silently the Presence crept toward the sick-room, and, as it crossed the threshold, the spark of the night light flickered and went out, while the nun crossed herself as she slept.

When Maurice Galbraith called at the Palazzo Fortunio early on the morning after he had seen Millicent, to inquire how she had passed the night, he found the porter's room empty. He rang at the door of the apartment, which was opened, after some delay, by a weeping woman. He could not understand what she said to him, and made his way to the boudoir where he had last seen Millicent, without meeting any one. He heard voices in the next room, which he knew to be her sleeping apartment.

"It must have been quite painless," he heard a strange voice say in English. "See! she has not moved; the clothes are quite unruffled. It is doubtful if she woke at all. Sister Theresa says she was in this attitude when she last saw her. If she had even breathed heavily the nun would have heard her, she sleeps so lightly."

A chill fell upon the young man's heart. What could those strange words mean? The door opened at last, and two men entered the room, the younger carefully closing it behind him. He was evidently a physician. The elder man passed him with bowed head and clasped hands. Galbraith touched the younger man on the arm, and asked him what his words had meant. The doctor waited till the father had left the room, and, turning to the stranger, answered him gently and compassionately; told him the little there was to tell beyond the great fact that Death had entered in the night and stolen the breath of the fairest, while she slept.

"If I could but fall quietly asleep!" he remembered her words of yester eve. Her prayer had been answered. The grim visage of Death had been hidden by the tender veil of sleep.

The physician was very patient with the stranger who asked him so often if it were certain, if there could be no mistake regarding the dreadful event. At last, when he was satisfied that there was no hope, he turned to go, stumbling over a chair as he went. The doctor made him take a glass of wine, and bade him rest awhile before going out. Maurice Galbraith was a strong man, and after the first faintness which the news had brought him, he nerved himself to meet the terrible grief, and bear it as a strong man should.

"You are Mr. Galbraith, from California, of whom she spoke last night?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps you could help me in a little matter which Mr. Almsford has asked me to attend to. This telegram came an hour ago. It was directed to her, and is dated California. Do you know the sender, and the meaning of the message?"

Galbraith took the slip of blue paper, and read these words:--

"I am coming to you. I start to-night.

"GRAHAM."

"You know the person?"

"Yes, very well."

"As we have not his address, would you kindly answer the despatch and tell him?"

"Surely."

"It would be a great favor."

"It is the last but one that I can ever do for her now."

He found his way to the telegraph office, he never knew how, and with trembling hand penned this message, which should fly swifter than west wind or shifting water, to John Graham on the far golden shore, where the tide was at the flood, and the earth glad and green in the promise of the new-born year:--

"_Millicent died last night._"

University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.

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