The young man looked at her with affectionate reverence. The fair complexion and shining ringlets of childhood were gone, but a serene and deep expression of soul imparted a more elevated beauty to her countenance. He parted from her with a blessing, simply and fervently uttered; but he entered the adjoining fields, and as he walked along he kept her within sight until she arrived safely at the place of meeting. While he thus watched her unseen, he recollected how often his taste had been offended by the quaint awkwardness of the Quaker garb; and uttering aloud the sequel to his thoughts, he said, “But beautiful and graceful will her garments be in heaven.”
Soon after this interview, he departed with a strong escort to convey his mother and other Catholic women into a less turbulent district. Alice bade them farewell with undisguised sadness; for we learn to love those whom we serve, and there seemed little probability that they would ever return to reside in that troubled neighborhood.
The next time she saw Camillo, he was brought into her father’s house on a litter, senseless, and wounded, as it was supposed, unto death. All the restoratives they could think of were applied, and at last, as Alice bent over him, bathing his temples, he opened his eyes with a dull unconscious stare, which gradually relaxed into a feeble smile, as he whispered, “My Quaker lady-bird.” Some hours afterward, when she brought him drink, he gently pressed her hand, and said, “Thank you, dear Alice.” The words were simple, but the expression of his eyes and the pressure of his hand sent a thrill through the maiden, which she had never before experienced. That night, she dreamed of winged children seen through flowering vines, and Camillo laughed when the parrot called her “Lady-bird.”
Sorrow, like love, levels all distinctions, and melts all forms in its fiery furnace. In the midst of sickness and suffering, and every-day familiarity with death, there was small attention paid to customary proprieties. No one heeded whether Camillo were tended by Alice or her mother; but if Alice were long absent, he complained that she came so seldom. As his health improved, they talked together of the flowers they used to plant on the mossy rock, and the little boats they launched on the rippling brook. Sometimes, in their merriest moods, they mocked the laughing of the old green parrot, and the cooing of the fan-tailed doves. Thus walking through the green lanes of their childhood, they came unconsciously into the fairy-land of love! All was bright and golden there, and but one shadow rested on the sunshine. When Camillo spoke of the “little meeting-house in the garden,” and the image of “My donny,” she grew very thoughtful; and he said with a sigh, “I wish, dear Alice, that we were of one religion.” She smiled sweetly as she answered, “Are we not both of the religion of Jesus?”
He kissed her hand, and said, “Your soul is always large and liberal, and noble and kind; but others are not like you, dear Alice.”
And truly, when the war had ceased, and Camillo Campbell began to rebuild his demolished dwelling, and the young couple spoke of marriage, great was the consternation in both families. Even the liberal-minded Joseph was deeply-pained to have his daughter “marry out of Society,” as their phrase is; but he strove to console Rachel, who was far more afflicted than himself. “The young people love each other,” he said, “and it does not seem to be right to put any constraint on their affection. Camillo is a goodly youth; and I think the dreadful scenes he has lately witnessed have exercised his mind powerfully on the subject of war. I have observed that he is thoughtful and candid; and if he does but act up to his own light, it is all I ask of him. He promises never to interfere with the freedom of Alice; and as she has adopted most of our principles from her own conviction, I do not fear she will ever depart from them.”
“Don’t comfort thyself with any such idea,” replied Rachel. “She will have pictures of the Virgin Mary in her house, and priests will come there to say over their mummery; and small beginnings make great endings. At all events, one thing is certain. Alice will lose her membership in our Society; and that it is which mainly grieves me. She is such a serious, sensible girl, that I always hoped to see her an esteemed minister among us.”
“It is a disappointment to me also,” replied Joseph; “but we must bear it cheerfully. It certainly is better to have our child go out of the Society and keep her principles, than it would be to have her stay in Society and depart from her principles, as many do.”
Mary Campbell was more disturbed than Rachel Goodman. In the first paroxysm of her distress, she said she wished she had been killed in the war, rather than live to see her only son married to a black Protestant.
“Not a black Protestant, dear mother, only a dove-colored one,” rejoined Camillo, playfully. Then he kissed her, and reminded her of the story of the crucifix, and told her how noble and gentle, and good and sensible, his Alice was. As he talked, a vision rose before her of the little bedroom in the Quaker’s farm-house; she saw Rachel and Alice supporting the drooping-heads of poor homeless Catholics, while they offered drink to their feverish lips; and memory melted bigotry. She threw herself weeping into Camillo’s arms and said, “Truly they did treat us like disciples of Jesus. I once said to Alice, ‘May the Holy Virgin bless thee;’ and I now say, from my heart, May the Holy Virgin bless you both, my son.”