"She must have been happy, then. Perhaps she had nothing she loved except Jehovah, and no home but heaven."
"Indeed, she must have been happy, for she left some one behind her who had been to her so dear as to make her promise to become his own."
"I am glad she was so wise, then, as to hide from him that she broke her heart to part with him; for she could not help it: and it was worthy of a young girl who could write a symphony," said Clara, very calmly, but with her eyes closed among the flowers she was holding in her hand. "Sir, what did they do with the symphony? and, if it is not rude, what did the rose and the violet have to do with this sad tale?"
"Oh! I should have told you first, but I wished to get the worst part over; I do not generally tell people. It was the day our prizes were distributed she took her death-blow, and I received from the Chevalier Seraphael, who superintended all our affairs, and who ordered the rewards, a breast-pin, with a violet in amethyst, in memory of certain words he spoke to me in a rather mystical chat we had held one day, in which he let fall, 'the violin is the violet.' And poor Maria received a silver rose, in memory of Saint Cecilia, to whom he had once compared her, and to whom there was a too true resemblance in her fateful life. The rose was placed in her hair by the person I told you she loved best, just as she was about to stand forth before the orchestra; and when she fainted it fell to my feet. I gathered it up, and have kept it ever since. I do not know whether I had any right to do so, but the only person to whom I could have committed it, it was impossible to insult by reminding of her. In fact, he would not permit it; he left Cecilia after she was buried, and never returned."
Clara here raised her eyes, bright and liquid, and yet all-searching; I had not seen them so.
"I feel for him all that my heart can feel. Has he never ceased to suffer? Was she all to him?"
"He will never cease to suffer until he ceases to breathe, and then he will, perhaps, be fit to bear the bliss that was withdrawn from him as too great for any mortal heart; that is his feeling, I believe, for he is still now, and uncomplaining,—ever proud, but only proud about his sorrow. Some day you will, I trust, hear him play, and you will agree with me how that grief must have grown into a soul so passionate."
"You mean, when you say he is proud, he will not be comforted, I suppose? There are persons like that, I know; but I do not understand it."
"I hope you never will, Miss Benette. You must suffer with your whole nature to refuse comfort."
"To any one so suffering I should say, the comfort is that all those who suffer are reserved for joy."