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wait so long to send for me? All this would have been different." [Pg 40]With a kind of stare, she looked at me. "I can't remember why I didn't send," she said, her hand to her head, and added: "I seemed to die, too, and forget, till they brought a coffin. Then I knew it all." The undertaker came and bustled about. He looked at myself and Parepa, as if to say: "It's time to go." The wretched funeral service was over. Without a word Parepa rose and walked to the head of the coffin. She laid her white scarf on an empty chair, threw her cloak back from her shoulders, where it fell in long, soft, black lines from her noble figure like the drapery of mourning. She laid her soft, fair hand on the cold forehead, passed it tenderly over the wasted delicate face, looked down at the dead girl a moment, and moved my Easter lilies from the stained box to the thin fingers, then lifted up her head, and with illumined eyes sang the glorious melody: "Angels, ever bright and fair, Take, oh! take her to thy care." Her magnificent voice rose and fell in all its richness and power and pity and beauty! She looked above the dingy room and the tired faces of men and women, the hard hands and the struggling hearts. She threw back her head and sang till the choirs of paradise must have paused to listen to the Easter music of that day. She passed her hand caressingly over the girl's soft dark hair, and sang on--and on--"Take--oh! take her to thy care!" The mother's face grew rapt and white. I held her hands and watched her eyes. Suddenly she threw my hand off and knelt at Parepa's feet, close to the wooden trestles. She locked her fingers together, tears and sobs breaking forth. She prayed aloud that God would bless the angel singing for Annie. A patient smile settled about her lips, the light came back into her poor, dulled eyes, and she kissed her daughter's face with a love[Pg 41] beyond all interpretation or human speech. I led her back to her seat as the last glorious notes of Parepa's voice rose triumphant over all earthly pain and sorrow. And I thought that no queen ever went to her grave with a greater ceremony than this young daughter of poverty and toil, committed to the care of the angels. That same night thousands listened to Parepa's matchless voice. Applause rose to the skies, and Parepa's own face was gloriously swept with emotion. I joined in the enthusiasm, but above the glitter and shimmering of jewels and dress, and the heavy odors of Easter flowers, the sea of smiling faces, and the murmur of voices, I could only behold by the dim light of a tenement window the singer's uplifted face, the wondering countenance of the poor on-lookers, and the mother's wide, startled, tearful eyes; I could only hear above the sleet on the roof and the storm outside Parepa's voice singing up to heaven: "Take, oh! take her to thy care!" THOSE EVENING BELLS 25 Thomas Moore Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth, and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime. Those joyous hours are passed away; And many a heart that then was gay Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells. And so 'twill be when I am gone; That tuneful peal will still ring on, While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. [Pg 42] GINEVRA Susan Coolidge So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head, Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without, As, slowly creeping, he went down the stair. Were they afraid that I should be afraid? I, who have died once and been laid in tomb? They need not. Little one, look not so pale. I am not raving. Ah! you never heard The story. Climb up there upon the bed: Sit close and listen. After this one day I shall not tell you stories any more. How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve? Almost a woman! scarcely more than that Was your fair mother when she bore her bud; And scarcely more was I when, long years since, I left my father's house, a bride in May. You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church, Gloomy and rich, which stands and seems to frown On the Mercato, humming at its base. That was my play-place ever as a child; And with me used to play a kinsman's son, Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days! Two happy things we were, with none to chide, Or hint that life was anything but play. Sudden the play-time ended. All at once "You must wed," they told me. "What is wed?" I asked; but with the word I bent my brow, Let them put on the garland, smiled to see[Pg 43] The glancing jewels tied about my neck; And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forth By my grave husband, older than my sire. O the long years that followed! It would seem That the sun never shone in all those years, Or only with a sudden, troubled glint Flashed on Antonio's curls, as he went by Doffing his cap, with eyes of wistful love Raised to my face--my conscious, woeful face. Were we so much to blame? Our lives had twined 26 Together, none forbidding, for so long. They let our childish fingers drop the seed, Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain; They let the firm, small roots tangle and grow, Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant. I loved Antonio, and he loved me. Life was all shadow, but it was not sin! I loved Antonio; but I kept me pure, Not for my husband's sake, but for the sake Of him, my first-born child, my little child, Mine for a few short weeks, whose touch, whose look Thrilled all my soul and thrills it to this day. I loved: but, hear me swear, I kept me pure! It was hard To sit in darkness while the rest had light, To move to discords when the rest had song, To be so young and never to have lived. I bore, as women bear, until one day Soul said to flesh, "This I endure no more," And with the word uprose, tore clay apart, And what was blank before grew blanker still.[Pg 44] It was a fever, so the leeches said. I had been dead so long, I did not know The difference or heed. Oil on my breast, The garments of the grave about me wrapped, They bore me forth and laid me in the tomb. Open the curtain, child. Yes, it is night. It was night then, when I awoke to feel That deadly chill, and see by ghostly gleams Of moonlight, creeping through the grated door, The coffins of my fathers all about. Strange, hollow clamors rang and echoed back, As, struggling out of mine, I dropped and fell. With frantic strength I beat upon the grate; It yielded to my touch. Some careless hand Had left the bolt half-slipped. My father swore Afterward, with a curse, he would make sure Next time. Next time! That hurts me even now! Dead or alive I issued, scarce sure which, And down the darkling street I wildly fled, Led by a little, cold, and wandering moon, Which seemed as lonely and as lost as I. I had no aim, save to reach warmth and light And human touch; but still my witless steps Led to my husband's door, and there I stopped, By instinct, knocked, and called. A window oped. A voice--'twas his--demanded: "Who is there?" "'Tis I, Ginevra." Then I heard the tone Change into horror, and he prayed aloud And called upon the saints, the while I urged, "O, let me in, Francesco; let me in! I am so cold, so frightened, let me in!"[Pg 45] Then with a crash, the window was shut fast: And, though I cried and beat upon the door And wailed aloud, no other answer came. Weeping, I turned away, and feebly strove Down the hard distance toward my father's house. 27 "They will have pity and will let me in," I thought. "They loved me and will let me in." Cowards! At the high window overhead They stood and trembled, while I plead and prayed. "I am your child, Ginevra. Let me in! I am not dead. In mercy, let me in!" "The holy saints forbid!" declared my sire. My mother sobbed and vowed whole pounds of wax To St. Eustachio, would he but remove This fearful presence from her door. Then sharp Came click of lock, and a long tube was thrust From out the window, and my brother cried, "Spirit or devil, go! or else I fire!" Where should I go? Back to the ghastly tomb And the cold coffined ones! Up the long street, Wringing my hands and sobbing low, I went. My feet were bare and bleeding from the stones; My hands were bleeding too; my hair hung loose Over my shroud. So wild and strange a shape Saw never Florence since. At last I saw a flickering point of light High overhead, in a dim window set. I had lain down to die: but at the sight I rose, crawled on, and with expiring strength Knocked, sank again, and knew not even then It was Antonio's door by which I lay. A window opened, and a voice called out:[Pg 46] "Qui e?" "I am Ginevra." And I thought, "Now he will fall to trembling, like the rest, And bid me hence." But, lo, a moment more The bolts were drawn, and arms whose very touch Was life, lifted and clasped and bore me in. "O ghost or angel of my buried love, I know not, I care not which, be welcome here! Welcome, thrice welcome, to this heart of mine!" I heard him say, and then I heard no more. It was high noontide when I woke again, To hear fierce voices wrangling by my bed-- My father's and my husband's; for, with dawn, Gathering up valor, they had sought the tomb, Had found me gone, and tracked my bleeding feet, Over the pavement to Antonio's door. Dead, they cared nothing; living, I was theirs. Hot raged the quarrel: then came Justice in, And to the court we swept--I in my shroud-- To try the cause. This was the verdict given: "A woman who has been to burial borne, Made fast and left and locked in with the dead; Who at her husband's door has stood and plead For entrance, and has heard her prayer denied; Who from her father's house is urged and chased, Must be adjudged as dead in law and fact. The Court pronounces the defendant--dead! She can resume her former ties at will, Or may renounce them, if such be her will. She
