The San Rosario Ranch
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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