LIGHT IN DARKNESS.
"By the strong spirit's discipline—
By the fierce wrong forgiven—
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to Heaven."—Willis.
here was a moment's profound silence, during which Louis stood like one thunderstruck, and Minnette glared upon him with her fierce black eyes.
"And you have been with me all this time, Minnette, and I knew it not," said Louis, at length.
"No," she said, with a bitter laugh. "You did not know me. Had it been Celeste, do you think you would have recognized her?"
"Minnette, do not look so wildly. Good heaven! who would ever think of seeing you here, and in such disguise?" he added, still scarcely able to realize it was Minnette who stood before him.
"And it was for your sake," she replied, in a voice almost choked by contending emotions.
"For me, for me! wretch that I am!" he said, with bitter remorse. "Oh, Minnette! I am unworthy such devoted love."
Something in his manner inspired her with hope. She clasped her hands, and said, wildly:
"Only say you will not cast me off. Only say you will yet love me, and I will be a thousand-fold repaid for all I have endured for your sake. Oh, Louis! is it for the cold, prudish Celeste you reject such love as mine?"
"We cannot compel our affections, Minnette. Celeste is the only woman who can ever possess my heart; but you—you shall always be to me as a dear sister. You must throw off this disguise, and return with me home immediately. Your friends shall never know of this—they do not dream you are here; and you will soon learn to look back to this time as a troubled dream, happily past."
"Ha, ha, ha! You might take me back to America, that I might witness your marriage with Celeste. No, Louis Oranmore, never shall she enjoy such a triumph! I have hated her all my life; and I shall hate her with my last breath. Do you think I could live and survive this disgrace? You have driven me to madness; and now behold its fruits."
Her voice was hoarse with concentrated passion; her eyes burning like fire; her face ghastly and livid. As she spoke, she drew from within the doublet she wore a gleaming dagger. As the quick eye of Louis saw the motion, he sprang forward and seized her by the wrist. She struggled madly to free herself from his grasp; and in the struggle the point of the dagger entered her eye.
A torrent of blood flowed over his hands. Shriek after shriek of mortal agony broke from the lips of Minnette. The fatal dagger dropped from the hand of Louis—he staggered back, and stood for a moment paralyzed with horror. Mad with agony, Minnette fled round the room, the blood gushing from her sightless eye and covering her face, her agonizing screams making the house resound. It was an awful, ghastly, appalling spectacle. Louis stood rooted to the ground, unable to remove his gaze from the terrible sight.
Her piercing shrieks soon filled the room. Among the crowd came Lugari, who instantly guessed what had happened. A surgeon was sent for, and poor Minnette, struggling madly, was borne to her room and laid upon her bed. The surgeon, an Englishman, at length arrived; and Louis, at last restored to presence of mind, speedily expelled the gaping crowd, and shut himself up in his own room, unable to endure the harrowing sight of Minnette's agony. For upwards of two hours he trod up and down, almost maddened by the recollection of the dreadful scene just past. Bitter, indeed, was his anguish and remorse; in those two hours seemed concentrated ages of suffering.
Suddenly the sound of footsteps announced that the physician was about to take his leave. Hurriedly leaving the room, Louis followed him, scarcely daring to ask the question that hovered upon his lips.
"Tell me!" he exclaimed, vehemently, "is she—will she——"
"No, she will not die," replied the doctor, who knew what he would ask. "The wound is dangerous, but not mortal. She must be taken care of. I will have her immediately removed from here."
"Then she will recover!" said Louis, fervently, "Thank God!"
"Yes, she will recover," said the doctor, hesitatingly, "but——"
"But what?" exclaimed Louis, in vague alarm.
"She will be blind for life!"
"Great heaven!"
"Her right eye is already gone, and the other, I fear, will never more see the light. Still, you should be grateful that her life will be preserved." And the surgeon took his hat and left.
"Blind! blind for life!" murmured Louis, in horror; "a fate worse than death. Oh, Minnette! Minnette!"
The lingering glory of an Italian sunset was streaming through the open window of the room where Minnette lay. It was a plainly, but neatly furnished room, in one of the Scuole, or benevolent institutions of the city. Two months had passed since that unhappy day on which we saw her last. She lies now on the bed, the sunlight falling brightly on her wan face; that blessed sunlight she will never see more. A Sister of Mercy, with holy face and meek eyes, sits by her side, holding one of her hands in hers.
And this is Minnette; this pale, faded, sightless girl, the once beautiful, haughty, resplendent Minnette! All her beauty was gone now; the glowing crimson of high health rests no longer on those hollow, sunken cheeks; the fierce light of passion will never more flash from those dimmed orbs; from those poor, pale lips, bitter, scathing words can never more fall. But through all this outward wreck shines a calmer, holier beauty than ever rested on her face before. In the furnace, she has been purified; the fierce, passionate spirit has been subdued by grace; the lion in her nature has yielded to the Lamb that was slain; the wrung, agonized heart has ceased to struggle, and rests in peace at last.
Not without many a struggle had her wild, fierce nature yielded to the soothings of religion. Long, tempestuous, and passionate was the struggle; and when her good angel triumphed at last she came, not as a meek penitent, but as a worn, world-weary sinner, longing only for peace and rest.
She had not seen Louis during her illness. Often he came to visit her, but still her cry was: "Not yet! not yet!" Her wild, mad love was dying out of her heart, and with it her intense hatred of Celeste. Her days, now, were spent in meditation and prayer, or listening to the gentle, soothing words of Sister Beatrice.
"The sun is setting, sister, is it not?" she asked, turning her head towards the windows, as though she still could see.
"Yes; a more glorious sunset I never beheld."
"And I can never see it more; never behold the beautiful earth or sky; never see sun, or moon, or stars again!" said Minnette, in a voice low, but unspeakably sad.
"No, my child, but there is an inward vision that can never be seen with corporeal eyes. Now that those outward eyes are sealed forever, a glimpse of heaven has been bestowed upon you, to lighten the darkness of your life."
"Oh! Sister Beatrice, if I were always with you, I feel I could submit to my fate without a murmur. But when I go out into the world, this fierce nature that is within me, that is subdued but not conquered, will again arise; and I will become more passionate, selfish, and sinful than ever."
"Then why go out into the world any more? Why not enter a convent, and end your days in peace?"
"Oh, sister! if I only might," said Minnette, clasping her hands; "but I, poor, blind, and helpless, what could I do in a convent?"
"You could pray, you could be happy; if you wish to enter, your blindness shall be no obstacle," said Sister Beatrice.
At this moment a servant entered and handed the sister a note, addressed to Minnette. She opened it, and read aloud:
"Every day for a month I have called here, and you have refused to see me. Minnette, I conjure you to let me visit you; I cannot rest until I have seen you, and obtained your forgiveness.
Louis."
Minnette's pale face flushed deep crimson, and then grew whiter than before, as she said, vehemently:
"No, I will not! I will not! I cannot see him more!"
"Why not?" said Sister Beatrice. "Confess, my child, that vanity still lingers in your heart. You do not wish to see him because you think he will be shocked to find you so changed and altered. Is it not so?"
"Yes, yes!" replied Minnette, in a fainting voice.
"But this is wrong; you ought to see him. As you are desirous of taking the vail, it is but right that you should see him, and bid him farewell, and let him inform your friends when he sees them. Come, my dear child, cast out this spirit of pride, and let me admit him, if only for a moment."
There was a fierce struggle in the breast of Minnette. It was but momentary, however, as, shading her face with one hand, she said:
"Be it so; I will endure the humiliation; let him come."
Sister Beatrice pressed her lips to the brow of the invalid, and left the room. A moment later, and Louis, pale, thin, and careworn, entered. He started, and grew a shade paler, as his eyes fell on that poor, pale face, robbed of all its beauty, and with a suppressed groan, sank on his knees by the bedside.
"Minnette! Minnette!" he said, hoarsely. "Can you ever forgive me?"
The sightless eyes were turned toward him, in the vain effort to see. Alas! All was darkness. She held out one little, transparent hand, which he took between both of his.
"I have nothing to forgive," she said, meekly. "All that has happened to me I deserved. Do not grieve for me, Louis, you have nothing to reproach yourself with; it was all my own fault."
He bowed his forehead on her hand, and tears, that did honor to his generous heart, fell from his eyes.
"Tell Celeste, when you see her, how sorry I am for all my cruelty and injustice toward her. Ask her to forgive me; she is good and gentle, I feel she will do it. If I only had her pardon, I feel I could die content. And, Oh Louis! when she is happy with you, will you both sometimes think of Minnette, blind, and alone in a foreign land?"
"Oh, poor Minnette!" he said, in a choking voice.
"Do not pity me, Louis; I am very happy," but the pale lips trembled as she spoke; "happier than I ever was when I was full of life and health. Oh, Louis, when I look back and think of what I have been—so selfish, and hard-hearted, and cruel—I tremble to think what I might yet have been if God in his mercy had not sent me this affliction. And Celeste; no words can ever tell how I have wronged her. You know how I struck her, in my blind rage, and the angelic patience and forgiveness with which she afterward sought to love me, and make me happy. Oh, Louis! all her sweetness and meekness will haunt me to my dying day."
Her voice faltered, then entirely failed, and for the first time in her life the once haughty Minnette wept.
"Tears are strange visitors to these eyes," she said, with a sad smile; "there may be hope for me yet, since I can weep for the past. Louis, in a few weeks I will enter a convent, and the remainder of my life shall be spent in praying for you and Celeste, and the rest of my friends. And now you must leave me—farewell, a last farewell, dear Louis. Tell them all at home how I have learned to love them at last, and ask them to forgive poor Minnette."
He could not speak; she made a sign for him to go. Raising the thin, pale hand to his lips, and casting one long, last look on the sad, yet peaceful face of the once beautiful Minnette, he quitted the room. And thus they parted, these two, never to meet in life again.
Meantime, we must revisit St. Mark's, and witness the startling events that are bringing matters to a rapid denouement there.