The San Rosario Ranch Part 24

"And you are happy--contented; you are willing to pa.s.s 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 superst.i.tion are dropping from her cramped limbs."

"Yes; but it is a volcanic soil. Everything is so sudden and so s.h.i.+fting. 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 pa.s.s 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 s.h.i.+vered, 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 pa.s.sionless 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 pa.s.sed 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 ca.n.a.l."

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 sogner._" "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, extinguis.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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 st.u.r.dily 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 Ca.n.a.l, 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 bl.u.s.tering, 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 pa.s.sed 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 att.i.tude when she last saw her. If she had even breathed heavily the nun would have heard her, she sleeps so lightly."