He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping The skies with chill splendor. And there, never flitting, Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting.
As the dawn to the darkness, so life seemed returning Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp yet burning, Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak.
He said, "If thou be of the living, and not of the dead, Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing Of that balmy voice; if it may be, revealing Thy mission of mercy; whence art thou?"
"O son Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not! One Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead:
To thee, and to others, alive yet" . . . she said . . .
"So long as there liveth the poor gift in me Of this ministration; to them, and to thee, Dead in all things beside. A French Nun, whose vocation Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation.
Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe, There her land! there her kindred!"
She bent down to smooth The hot pillow; and added . . . "Yet more than another Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother, I know them--I know them."
"Oh, can it be? you!
My dearest dear father! my mother! you knew,'
You know them?"
She bowed, half averting her head In silence.
He brokenly, timidly said, "Do they know I am thus?"
"Hush!" . . . she smiled, as she drew From her bosom two letters: and--can it be true?
That beloved and familiar writing!
He burst Into tears . . . "My poor mother--my father! the worst Will have reach'd them!"
"No, no!" she exclaimed, with a smile, "They know you are living; they know that meanwhile I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!"
But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd.
There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest:
And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping, The calm voice say . . . "Sleep!"
And he sleeps, he is sleeping.
XIII.
And day follow'd day. And, as wave follow'd wave, With the tide, day by day, life, re-issuing, drave Through that young hardy frame novel currents of health.
Yet some strange obstruction, which life's health by stealth Seemed to cherish, impeded life's progress. And still A feebleness, less of the frame than the will, Clung about the sick man--hid and harbor'd within The sad hollow eyes: pinch'd the cheek pale and thin:
And clothed the wan fingers with languor.
And there, Day by day, night by night, unremitting in care, Unwearied in watching, so cheerful of mien, And so gentle of hand, sat the Soeur Seraphine!
XIV.
A strange woman truly! not young; yet her face, Wan and worn as it was, bore about it the trace Of a beauty which time could not ruin. For the whole Quiet cheek, youth's lost bloom left transparent, the soul Seemed to fill with its own light, like some sunny fountain Everlastingly fed from far off in the mountain That pours, in a garden deserted, its streams, And all the more lovely for loneliness seems.
So that, watching that face, you could scarce pause to guess The years which its calm careworn lines might express, Feeling only what suffering with these must have past To have perfected there so much sweetness at last.
XV.
Thus, one bronzen evening, when day had put out, His brief thrifty fires, and the wind was about, The nun, watchful still by the boy, on his own Laid a firm quiet hand, and the deep tender tone Of her voice moved the silence.
She said . . . "I have heal'd These wounds of the body. Why hast thou conceal'd, Young soldier, that yet open wound in the heart?
Wilt thou trust NO hand near it?"
He winced, with a start, As of one that is suddenly touched on the spot From which every nerve derives suffering.
"What?
Lies my heart, then, so bare?" he moaned bitterly.
"Nay,"
With compassionate accents she hastened to say, "Do you think that these eyes are with sorrow, young man, So all unfamiliar, indeed, as to scan Her features, yet know them not?
"Oh, was it spoken, 'Go ye forth, heal the sick, lift the low, bind the broken!'
Of the body alone? Is our mission, then, done, When we leave the bruised hearts, if we bind the bruised bone?
Nay, is not the mission of mercy twofold?
Whence twofold, perchance, are the powers that we hold To fulfil it, of Heaven! For Heaven doth still To us, Sisters, it may be, who seek it, send skill Won from long intercourse with affliction, and art Help'd of Heaven, to bind up the broken of heart.
Trust to me!" (His two feeble hands in her own She drew gently.) "Trust to me!" (she said, with soft tone):
"I am not so dead in remembrance to all I have died to in this world, but what I recall Enough of its sorrow, enough of its trial, To grieve for both--save from both haply! The dial Receives many shades, and each points to the sun.
The shadows are many, the sunlight is one.
Life's sorrows still fluctuate: God's love does not.
And His love is unchanged, when it changes our lot.
Looking up to this light, which is common to all, And down to these shadows, on each side, that fall In time's silent circle, so various for each, Is it nothing to know that they never can reach So far, but what light lies beyond them forever?
Trust to me! Oh, if in this hour I endeavor To trace the shade creeping across the young life Which, in prayer till this hour, I have watch'd through its strife With the shadow of death, 'tis with this faith alone, That, in tracing the shade, I shall find out the sun.
Trust to me!"
She paused: he was weeping. Small need Of added appeal, or entreaty, indeed, Had those gentle accents to win from his pale And parch'd, trembling lips, as it rose, the brief tale Of a life's early sorrow. The story is old, And in words few as may be shall straightway be told.
XVI.
A few years ago, ere the fair form of Peace Was driven from Europe, a young girl--the niece Of a French noble, leaving an old Norman pile By the wild northern seas, came to dwell for a while With a lady allied to her race--an old dame Of a threefold legitimate virtue, and name, In the Faubourg Saint Germain.
Upon that fair child, From childhood, nor father nor mother had smiled.
