“Dear cousin,” Clement continued, “I have one request to make before I close, and this not in my own name, but on the part of my mother: Return, Gabrielle; if possible, return at once; at all events come soon. The sacrifice you imposed on yourself is no longer necessary, and your presence here is indispensable. My poor father is continually asking for you, and cannot be made to understand your absence. No wish to convince you, my dear cousin, would make me think deception excusable. You may believe me, then, when I repeat that the aid you so generously afforded us is now superfluous. You can without any scruple return home—your home, unless, which God forbid! your own choice leads you to prefer another. Poor Mademoiselle Josephine has but one wish—to see you again. She says it is the only consolation she looks forward to. Hilda is now with us; it is unnecessary to say she desires your return, and equally so to tell you your brothers beg and expect it.—”
Fleurange no longer needed a pretext. She would neither be obliged to reveal nor conceal anything—everything was arranged for her by the overruling force of circumstances, and her letter to the Princess Catherine became all at once easy to write. It was despatched that very day, and as soon as the sun began to gild the mountain-tops the next day but one, Madre Maddalena for the second time saw the child she so truly loved cross the threshold of her convent home to encounter once more the dangers of the world.
Would she again return?—return like the dove, beaten by the tempest, who has found no rest for the sole of her foot, to take refuge once more in this asylum of peace? Or was she gone to return no more? and would she now find the world smiling, and its freshness renewed, and her pathway smoothed before her and strewn with flowers? She did not seek to know. Mother Maddalena, as we are aware, did not consider such anticipations very important. She only hoped her feet might be guided by light from on high, and her courage in pursuing life’s journey unfaltering. She asked no more.
Besides, the ardor of the sun has its dangers as well as the storm, and the clearness of the soul’s heaven may be obscured in pleasant as well as in tempestuous weather. Let us, therefore, leave to God the appointment of every incident of our lives, and be solely solicitous of fulfilling our course well, without being anxious as to the way.
“And then—the way is short, however long it may seem, and it leads to that true life where we shall for ever live together, dear Gabrielle—where all your poor heart has vainly wished, sought, and hoped for here below will be given in full measure, pressed down, and running over; where all it has suffered here will bear no comparison with the radiant joys of eternal life! God is faithful. Let us wait. And what is it to wait—to wait thus, with sure faith in his promises for eternal reunion with God?”
Such were the last words of Mother Maddalena. She gave her blessing to Fleurange, who knelt to receive it, closed the convent gate behind her, and ascended to the terrace to follow her as long as she could with her eyes. Then she went down to the chapel, and there on her knees tenderly wept and prayed for her. For there is no affection equal to that of such large hearts expanded and filled with the love of God. And we shall be convinced of this if we recall the excessive devotedness of which they are capable—and they alone—through love for the most unknown of their brethren. Then we shall see what such hearts are to the objects of their affection, that they are kindled with a flame which purifies and tempers all that is noble and worthy of being developed, but prompt to extinguish and consume all that is frail, frivolous, impure, and of no permanent value.
XXXIII.
The Princess Catherine, in an elegant morning négligé, was alone with the Marquis Adelardi in her small salon when a letter was brought her on a silver salver. She glanced at the address.
“Ah! from Gabrielle,” she exclaimed. “The very letter I was expecting to-day.”