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

strvnee, fondly, " which thou shalt say ench night ; and when
Harry grows older, thou shall teach him too, but not till he is
old enough to know that it is a secret mother's secret, which
you
must tell nr> one."
And Mary, with a look of great importance, promised ; and
she repeated after her mother the words of the " Hail Mary,
blessed art thou amon -at
full of grace, the Lord is with thee ;
TYBOliNE.
women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, JESUS. Holy
Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour
of our death. Amen."
A shadow of awe gathered on her childish face. "I will
never forget it, mother, and say it every night when I think of
you, before I go to sleep."
The day of parting came at last, and Lady Fortescue, stern,
cold, and harsh, a rived to receive the children; and when
Constance, with bur-ting heart, would have given her some of
the counsels respecting them, which a mother's heart alone can
give, she was repulsed by
"Pardon me, your Grace, the mother who can forsake her
children, is oue who can meet with no sympathy from me."
And Constance turned away to hold her children for the last
time in her arms. Her little lovely Mary, just six years old,
and her noble boy of three, with his large, sfarlike eyes, and
his playful ways, and a wisdom beyond his years they cling
to her ueck and cover her with kisses, and cry and sob with all
their childish misery at parting but she knows well ; this will
pass, and they will be taught to forget and despise the mother
who loves them so wildly. She knows it, and she bears it all,
and her heart is rent and broken within her. It is her torturechamber
and her racking. And now the desolate future lay
before Constance ; and in the midst of her agony, as before in
her joys, she was thoughtful for others. She saw that
Bachel's strength was rapidly giving way from the great
strain on bo.Jy and mind, attendant on Isabel's long illness,
and her present trying state ; and Constance knew that Ra-
chel'.i prayer was that she might live to see Isabel recover even
an hour's consciousness, and be reconciled to her God. Con-
stauce thought also of Rose and her future ; for Rose's parents
were dead, t>nd her brothers scattered.
The duchess proposed to her brother that he should commit
to her the care of his afflicted wife, and that they should together
seek a refuge in France or Belgium. They would there be
free from molestation, and the entire change of air and scene
might possibly tend to restore Isabel's mind. The earl gladly
consented. His wish now was to obtain a divorce, and by a
second marriage perpetuate his family, and in his burning indignation
against his sister, he desired to persuade the Duke
of Bertram to follow his example. But this the duke, sorely
afflicted, refused to do. Nothing could, however, suit the
earl s plans better than the exile of Constance and Isabel, and
he facilitated their speedy departure. They left London in
the direction of Apswell, but turning sharply away when within
a few miles of that place, they travelled the same road
which, eleven years before, Walter de Lisle had passed in his
hasty flight. A small vessel was in waiting, and the party em-
barked. Isabel was laid on cushions on the deck, and she
laughed with child. sh glee at the foaming waves and the ropes
and sails, while Rachel sat beside her, with tears rolling down
her face. The proud Isabel, with her haughty intellect and
her indomitable will, and this was the end ! Rose, too, sat
still and wept, and by her side sat a tall thin woman, on whose
pale cheeks there burned one spot of red, and whose sunken
eyes were glassy and bright, and who looked on the receding
shore with no glance of sorrow or regret. The tears, indeed,
rolled down her cheeks, but they came from a sorrow within
it was easy to see they were the constant tears of a penitent.
There were no tears on Constance's face. She stood gazing at
the white cliffs of England, until they grew dim in the distance.
From the land where her children dwelt she raised her eyes to
thu clear sky above, and as she thought of the Love to wbich
even a mother's is as a vain shadow, her bruised heart was
BtilL
CHAPTER XIY.
*' Now thd heavy day ia done,
Homo awaits thee, wearied one.'*
" I am footfeore and very weary,
But I travel to meet a friend :
The way IB long ani? dreary,
But I know that it toon must end.
" Like a dream, all my toil will vanish,
When I lay my head on his breast ;
But the journey is very weary,
And he only can give me rest !
"
FELICIA
ADELAIDE PBOCTOR.
MANY, years have passed away, and we may cast one glance
round upon the different characters in whose joys and sorrows
we have taken some interest, and linger for a moment longer
upon spots which have been associated with these events.
To an old, quaint town hi Bolgium, we must bend our steps.
Threading our way along the narrow streets where the houses
almost meet overhead, we come at last to a curious pile of
buildings a long low house on each side,, and an old Gothic
church in the middle. It is the Convent and Hospital of tup
Dames of St. Augustine, who break their cloister ouly to attend
upon the sick and dying. The church is open to all comers,
so we will open the door and walk in. It is a beautiful
church, and from the glare of the summer's day there is coolness
and refreshment in the shade of those long aisles a.'d
shadowy roof, and the sunlight falls through the stained glass
in gorgeous hues upon the stone floor. In the portion set
apart for the religious several nuns are kneeling in prayer.
They wear the habit and scapular of white serge, the leathern
belt, and straight black veil, which mark t..e daughters of St.
Austin.
In the outer part of the chapel there hangs upon the wall a
large and celebrated painting ; it is of the " Mater Dolorosa."
Before the picture is kneeling a lady dressed in black, and
those who are in the habit of frequenting the church bear wit-
ness how constantly through the Jay that same slight figure is
seen kneeling there, and t^ose eyes, which are so often swolleu
with weeping, gaze long and loving y on the face of Her who
cried, " Is there any sorrow like uuto my sorrow ? " And tijo e
who knew Constance said afterwards that she told them she
could think only of one of those seven sorrows which grieved
the heart of Mary, and it was the three days'
loss, when His mother "sought Him sorrowing." But
on this day, while Constance knelt absorbed in prayer,
a side door opened, and a nun entered, and beneath the habit
of the Religious might be recognized t e sweet feaiures of
Rose Ford. She bent for a few moments in earnest prayer ;
then approaching Constance, beckoned her from the church.
When they were outside, she
" "
said, There is a change and
;
without another word they hastened to a large room in the
hospital, in which Isabel was lying. For ten years had she
lingered in darkness of mind, and, until the last few weeks, in
the same state in which she had left England. She had not
even missed Rachel, who, a few months after their arrival,
died, literally of exhaustion and sorrow, blessing God that He
had Brought her to die within the shadow of His huuse, and
with the strength of His sacraments, and pray ug with her last
breath for the child of her love and devotion.
Beside Rachel's grave there was another, unmarked, save by
a little cross ; and the good nuns of the convent often prayed
beside it, and mingled tears with their p ayers, for they wild
that though she who rested there had been unable to sprak
their language, they knew assuredly her fervent penance had
won favor with God, and if they prayed for her according to
her last earnest message to them, she would plead for them
before God's face.
Shortly after Rachel's death, Rose entered the convent, and
received the habit of the order, and in due time wai
She was, however, constantly sent, as well as other of the
Religious, to assist Constance in the care of Lady Beauville,
But latterlv Isabel's strength had suddenlv Given wav. wit out