"I thank St. Joseph for what he gives, and for what he withholds; yea, for what he takes away!" observed Mere St. Louis to her special friend and gossip, Mere St. Antoine, as they retired from the chapel. "Our years of famine are nearly over. The day of the consecration of Amelie de Repentigny will be to us the marriage at Cana. Our water will be turned into wine. I shall no longer need to save the crumbs, except for the poor at our gate."
The advent of Amelie de Repentigny was a circumstance of absorbing interest to the nuns, who regarded it as a reward for their long devotions and prayers for the restoration of their house to its old prosperity. We usually count Providence upon our side when we have consciously done aught to merit the good fortune that befalls us.
And now days came and went, went and came, as Time, the inexorable, ever does, regardless of human joys or sorrows. Amelie, weary of the world, was only desirous of passing away from it to that sphere where time is not, and where our affections and thoughts alone measure the periods of eternity. For time, there, is but the shadow that accompanies the joys of angels, or the woes of sinners,--not the reality. It is time here, eternity there!
The two postulantes seemed impressed with the spirit that, to their fancies, lingered in the cell of their kinswoman, Mere Madelaine.
They bent their gentle necks to the heaviest yoke of spiritual service which their Superior would consent to lay upon them.
Amelie's inflexible will made her merciless towards herself. She took pleasure in the hardest of self-imposed penances, as if the racking of her soul by incessant prayers, and wasting of her body by vigils and cruel fastings, were a vicarious punishment, borne for the sake of her hapless brother.
She could not forget Pierre, nor did she ever try to forget him. It was observed by the younger nuns that when, by chance or design, they mentioned his name, she looked up and her lips moved in silent prayer; but she spoke not of him, save to her aunt and to Heloise.
These two faithful friends alone knew the inexpressible anguish with which she had heard of Pierre's intended departure for France.
The shock caused by the homicide of the Bourgeois, and the consequent annihilation of all the hopes of her life in a happy union with Pierre Philibert, was too much for even her naturally sound and elastic constitution. Her health gave way irrecoverably.
Her face grew thin and wan without losing any of its spiritual beauty, as her soul looked through its ever more transparent covering, which daily grew more and more aetherialized as she faded away. A hectic flush, like a spot of fire, came and went for a time, and at last settled permanently upon her cheek. Her eyes, those glorious orbs, filled with unquenchable love, grew supernaturally large and brilliant with the flames that fed upon her vital forces. Amelie sickened and sank rapidly. The vulture of quick consumption had fastened upon her young life.
Mere Esther and Mere Migeon shook their heads, for they were used to broken hearts, and knew the infallible signs which denote an early death in the young and beautiful. Prayers and masses were offered for the recovery of Amelie, but all in vain. God wanted her. He alone knew how to heal that broken heart. It was seen that she had not long to live. It was known she wished to die.
Pierre heard the tidings with overwhelming grief. He had been permitted but once to see her for a few brief moments, which dwelt upon his mind forever. He deferred his departure to Europe in consequence of her illness, and knocked daily at the door of the Convent to ask after her and leave some kind message or flower, which was faithfully carried to her by the friendly nuns who received him at the wicket. A feeling of pity and sympathy for these two affianced and unfortunate lovers stole into the hearts of the coldest nuns, while the novices and the romantic convent girls were absolutely wild over the melancholy fate of Pierre and Amelie.
He long solicited in vain for another interview with Amelie, but until it was seen that she was approaching the end, it was not granted him. Mere Esther interceded strongly with the Lady Superior, who was jealous of the influence of Pierre with her young novice. At length Amelie's prayers overcame her scruples. He was told one day that Amelie was dying, and wished to see him for the last time in this world.
Amelie was carried in a chair to the bars to receive her sorrowing lover. Her pale face retained its statuesque beauty of outline, but so thin and wasted!
"Pierre will not know me;" whispered she to Heloise, "but I shall smile at the joy of meeting him, and then he will recognize me."
Her flowing veil was thrown back from her face. She spoke little, but her dark eyes were fixed with devouring eagerness upon the door by which she knew Pierre would come in. Her aunt supported her head upon her shoulder, while Heloise knelt at her knee and fanned her with sisterly tenderness, whispering words of sisterly sympathy in her ear.
Pierre flew to the Convent at the hour appointed. He was at once admitted, with a caution from Mere Esther to be calm and not agitate the dying girl. The moment he entered the great parlor, Amelie sprang from her seat with a sudden cry of recognition, extending her poor thin hands through the bars towards him. Pierre seized them, kissing them passionately, but broke down utterly at the sight of her wasted face and the seal of death set thereon.
"Amelie, my darling Amelie!" exclaimed he; "I have prayed so long to see you, and they would not let me in."
"It was partly my fault, Pierre," said she fondly. "I feared to let you see me. I feared to learn that you hate, as you have cause to do, the whole house of Repentigny! And yet you do not curse me, dear Pierre?"
"My poor angel, you break my heart! I curse the house of Repentigny? I hate you? Amelie, you know me better."
"But your good father, the noble and just Bourgeois! Oh, Pierre, what have we not done to you and yours!"