Three weeks from that day Augustine Percival sailed for Europe to enter upon his theological course in Rome. And two faithful hearts daily begged for him of Almighty God grace and fortitude with that happy confidence which seems almost a presage of answered prayer.
And five years passed away—long and often weary in the passing, but short and with abundant blessings in the retrospect—five uneventful years, and yet leaving a lasting impress upon the individual soul. Assunta's home was still with her friend, Mary Lee—an arrangement to which she most gratefully consented, on condition that she might, from her ample income, contribute her share towards the ease and comfort of the family. It thus became a mutual benefit, as well as pleasure; for Capt. Lee's pay as a naval officer was small and their only dependence. Assunta had won the hearts of all, even down to Mary's two little ones, who came bringing plenty of love with them, as well as adding much to the care and solicitude of the young mother and her younger friend.
They saw but little of Mrs. Sinclair during those years. She had [pg 479] become a thorough woman of the world—a leader of fashion in her own circle. She had lost much of the simplicity and naïveté of character and manner which had made her charming in the old Roman days. Her laugh had not the genuine ring which her own light heart used to give it. She was still beautiful—very beautiful as queen of the ball-room. But Mary Lee always insisted that she had the unmistakable look of one who has an interior closet somewhere which might reveal a skeleton; and Assunta thought—but her thoughts she kept to herself—that it was not very difficult to divine what that skeleton might be. She understood her, and pitied her from her heart; and she loved her, too, with the old affection. But their life-paths, once seemingly parallel, had now diverged so widely that she felt she could not help her. The consolation Clara sought was very different from anything her brother's ward could supply.
And that brother, Mr. Carlisle—did Assunta never think of him? Daily, before God, she remembered him; but it was not for her peace to allow him a place in her memory at other times. They were entire strangers now, and she had long since given up the hope of any return to the old friendship. He had dropped out of her life, and God alone could fill the place left vacant by the surrender of this human love. She prayed for him, however, still, but as one might pray for the dead. Her days glided quietly by, each one bearing a record of deeds of love and kindness; while the consciousness of duty fulfilled gave her a peace that it is not in the power of mere human happiness to bestow. The blessings of the poor followed her, and the blessing of God rested upon her soul.
Mary sometimes protested against this “waste of life,” as she called it.
“My darling,” she said one day, as she was rocking her baby to sleep in her arms, “you will be a nun yet.”
“I fear not,” replied Assunta. “I might have wished to enter religion, but it seems that God does not call me to that life.”
“Then, Assunta, why don't you marry? It would break my heart to lose you, darling; but, truly, it grieves me to have you settle yourself down to our stupid life and ways, and you so young and rich and beautiful. It is contrary to nature and reason.”
“Be patient with me, dear,” said Assunta. “I do not believe that you want to be rid of me. Some time we shall know what it all means. I am sorry to disappoint my friends, but my life is just as I would have it.”
“Well, you are a saint,” said Mary with a sigh; “and as I am the gainer, I am the last one to complain. But I wish you had a dear little bother of your own like my Harry,” And the maternal kiss had in it such a strength of maternal love that the baby-eyes opened wide again, and refused to shut.