Fabiola : or, The church of the catacombs - Digital Repository Services

to resign his dominion BO easily. He had held undivided sway
too long to give way now, although his victim struggled fear-
fully beneath his clutch. He sat, deadly pale, listening to the
ticking of the clock as it sounded BO distinctly through the
quiet room, listening to the winter wind as it moaned and
howled around the house, seeming in every gust to tell of
and blasted hopes. One hour two hours and still she
was absent. When would she return to tell him that his boy
was better, and the danger over ? No footstep yet no cardrawing
near and stopping at the door ; nothing nothing
but tho moaning, sighing wind with its tale of death,
the hurried beating of his own withered heart.
and
Death ! death ! death ! sighs the wind without, as he starts
from his chair at last, and with his head uncovered, rushes
madly from the house into the cold, wet street.
CHAPTEB XIX.
ANOTHEB VICTORY, AND A KEAL ONE. PEACE.
THEY hurried back with all speed, and hastened to the room
of the dying boy. As they softly entered he opened his eyes
for a moment, and as he recognized Father Eustace, his sister,
and old Johnson, his eyes lighted up for an instant with sometiling
of its old fire, and he greeted them with the loving smile
which they were so soon to see no more. He looked anxiously
past them as if expecting some one else, and for a moment a
shadow flitted across his face as he saw they were alone. It
passed away, however, in an instant, as he made an effort to
peace
raise his hand, which held a crucifix, to his lips. He was too
weak, and the hand fell back listlessly upon the coverlet ; but
Father Eustace, interpreting his desire, raised it to his lips,
'io kissed the crucifix with all his remaining energy.
(They knelt around his bed, for they felt that the solemn change
was at hand. They watched the awful and mysterious shadow
as it crept across his face, and they knew that the young heart
would very soon be cold and still. Slower and slower still,
each breath more labored, more heavy, and more painful than
the one before. The storm outside is hushed, and the wind has
as it seems to wail for tho brave
died away to a solemn moan,
young heart that is passing to its God wails for the hopes that
arc dead, for the stricken hearts that are ready to break with
very grief. Earth to earth ! Dust to dust ! Ashes to ashes !
Slower and slower still. God be with him now ! Another
smile as he seems to recognize a well-known voice, which
strives, but almost in vain, to utter tho Church's parting
ar: "Go forth, O Christian soul; in the name of God the
r who created thee ; in the name of God the Son who
suffered for thee ; in the name of God the Holy Ghost who
sanctified thee ; in the name of the angels and archangels, the
cherubim and seraphim ; in the name of the patriarchs and
Earth to earth ! Dust to dust ! Ashes to ashes ! But the
SOUL ; and, oh ! let us thank God as we say it, the free, the
rtal soul, into the loving hand that gave it, to be taken
i.l laid so gently on that mercy-breathing breast, to b&
curried home for ever to Himself.
Now, whilst a solemn voice is sounding through the room,
striving with the sobs which choke its utterance, "Come to his
assistance all you saints of God, meet him all you angels, re-
liis soul, and present it now before its Lord ;"
that have
1 their hist upon tho world ; fold his arms, meekly and
a gentle and a reverent hand the bright young eyes
TllK TWO VICTOJtIKX. 23
humbly, across his breast, and place in the cold still hands the
crucili Jiff, he loved BO well ; let the heavy em-taint;
fall, and draw them closely around the sacred preR
dead. Yet, pause a moment that the pale and h.i
who is rushing in at the door, with such a fearful cry upon his
lips, may gaze for an instant upon the work of his own i
ere he throws himself with frantic grief upon the lifeless form.
Leave them alone, the father and sou. Leave them alo
leave them
the wind howls, and moans more sadly than ever ;
alone through the darkness of the night, and as the shadows
thicken round them, each tune that he dares to raise his eyes
and look upon the calm and placid face of the dead, let him
think of that other fearful night when he swore by his Maker's
name never to look upon that face again and let his ; proud
heart wither, and bend, and break, as he thinks how faithfully
he has kept his oath.
And, for thee, poor boy, peace be with thee ! Though our
hearts were heavy as we laid thee in thy early grave, and
though we often, even yet, are forced to drop
the silent t<
we muse upon thy sad and painful tale, still as we compare
thy little loss with thy unspeakable gain, we are forced to confess
that, even were it hi our power, we could never have the
heart to bring thee back again into this cold and dreary world
of ours. Oh ! no, we would rather leave thee in the old
churchyard where thou sleepest so calmly and so free from
care. We will tend with a loving hand the flowers that bloom
above thy grave and when ; our own hearts grow weak and
faint, we will steal in the softening twilight to the holy spot,
that we may gain strength and courage from the hallowed
memories that flit around us there, telling us as they do of a
brave young heart that is blessed with bliss eternal, because it
knew what it was to do all and dare all for its God. Peace,
be with thee 1
CHAPTER XX
MORALIZES AT AN UNPARDONABLE LENGTH.
AND now, dear reader, we have nearly finished. When we
commenced we warned you that we had no romantic story, or tale
of " thrilling interest" to tell you, but that ours was merely the
repetition of an old story the cost of a conversion and that our
object was to bring under your notice one phase of that which,
more or less modified, is passing around us every day. The
Catholic Church in England has gone through a severe ordeal,
and all the brightness of the hopeful Future is needed to make
us forget the darkness of the Past. For many a long year the
English Catholic was a stranger in his own home, and an exile
even in the land of his birth. Yet he never ceased to love her.
The love of country is woven round our hearts like the love of
our mother, and is mixed up with the purest, holiest, and best
feelings of our nature. Providence may place us in foreign
lands, our lot may be cast amongst those who are strangers to
prophets, of the holy apostles and evangelists, of the holy
martyrs, confessors and virgins in the name of all the saints of
;
; let thy place be this day in peace, and thy abode in holy
T look full of faith and love, and peace ineffable,
gazes for the last time on the crucifix which the old priest
liefore )his glazing eye ; another effort to form with his
pallid lips the saving names, and a pure and brave us, and the sweet music of our native tongue may seldom gladden
our ear, but the old feeling still remains, and our minds
wander with fond regret to our native land. We may visit sunnier
lands, and walk amid richer flowers than those which deck
our own, but somehow we cannot love them half so well, and
the grandest dwelling that we see in foreign climes pos-
young sesses not for us half the charms which twine around
has passed away to his eternal rest.
" the old
house at home." If we have never left the land of our birth,
how sweet is tho thought that we shall rest in the old church-
yard which wo love so well, where we have so often strayed in
childhood, and where we saw them lay the parents of our love!
n-e exiles from our home, how intense our desire i f re-
turning thither, how enduring the hope, how buoyant the con-
fidence, how fond the love, made fonder still by absence.
It was with feelings somewhat akin to these that the English
Catholic, in the by-gone days, ever looked upon his d<
erring, but still deeply -loved land. Years of persecutio:
suilering could not drive them from his heart ; nay; the',
increased and made them stronger. He kissed the hnu