CHAPTER V.
CARNA.
When AElius had come, some eighteen years before the beginning of ourstory, to take up his command on the coast of Britain, he had brought withhim his young wife. This lady, always delicate in health, had not longsurvived her transplantation to a northern climate. Six months after herarrival in Britain she had died in giving birth to a daughter. The childwas entrusted to the care of a British woman, wife of the sailing masterof one of the Roman ships, who had reared her together with her owndaughter. When little AElia was but a few weeks old her foster-mother hadbecome a widow, her husband having met with his death in a desperateencounter with one of the Saxon cruisers. This misfortune had beenfollowed by another, the loss of her two elder children, who had beencarried off by a malarious fever. The widow, thus doubly bereaved, hadthankfully accepted the Count's offer that she should take the post ofmother of the maids in his household. Her foster-daughter, a feeble littlething, whom she had the greatest difficulty in rearing, was as dear to heras was her own child, and the new arrangement ensured that she should notbe separated from her. For ten years she was as happy as a woman who hadlost so much could hope to be. She had the pleasure of seeing her delicatenursling pass safely through childhood, and grow into a handsome, vigorousgirl. Then her own call came; and feeling that her earthly work was done,she had been glad to meet it. The Count, who was a frequent visitor to herdeathbed, had no difficulty in promising her that the two children shouldnever be separated. Indeed he could not have divided the pair even had hewished. Every wish of the ten-year-old AElia was as a law to him, and AEliawould have simply broken her heart to lose her playmate and sister Carna.
The two friends were curiously unlike in person and disposition. AElia wasa Roman of the Romans. Her hair was of a shining blue-black hue, and soabundant that when unbound it fell almost to her knees. Her black eyes,soft and lustrous in repose, and shaded with lashes of the very longest,could give an almost formidable flash when anything had roused her toanger. Her complexion was a rich brown, relieved by a slight ruddy tinge;her features regular, less delicately carved, indeed, than the Greek type,but full of expression, which was tender or fiery, according to her mood.Her figure was somewhat small, but beautifully formed. If AElia wasunmistakably Roman, Carna showed equally clearly one of the finest Britishtypes. She was tall, overtopping her companion by at least a head; herhair, which fell in curls about her shoulders, was of a glossy chestnut;her eyes of the very deepest blue; her complexion, half-way between blondeand brunette, mantled with a delicate colour, which deepened, when heremotions were touched, into an exquisite blush; her forehead was somewhatlow, but broad, and with a rare promise both of artistic power and ofintelligence; her nose would have been pronounced by a casual observer tobe the most faulty feature in her face; and it is true that its outlinewas not perfect. But the same observer, after a brief acquaintance, wouldprobably have retracted his censure, and owned that this feature suitedthe rest of her face, and would have been less charming if it had beenmore perfect. AElia was impulsive and quick of temper, honest andaffectionate, but not caring to go below the surface of things, andwithout a particle of imagination. Carna, on the other hand, seemed thegentlest of women. Those blue eyes of hers were ready to express affectionand pity; but no one--not even AElia, who could be exceedingly provoking attimes--had ever seen a flash of anger in them. But her nature had depths init that none suspected to be there; it was richly endowed with all thebest gifts of her Celtic race. She had a world of her own with which thegay Roman girl, whom she loved so dearly, and with whom she seemed toshare all her thoughts, had nothing to do. Music touched her soul in a wayof which AElia, who could sing very charmingly, and play with no littleexpression on the _cithara_, had no conception. And though she had neverwritten, or even composed, a verse, and possibly would never write orcompose one, she was a poetess. At present all her soul was given toreligion, religion full of the imagination and enthusiasm which has madesaints of so many women of her race. The good British priest, to whoseflock she belonged, a worthy man who eked out his scanty income(18) byworking a small farm, was perplexed by her enthusiasm. She was notsatisfied with the duties of adorning the little church where heministered, and its humble altar-cloths and vestments, by the skill of hernimble fingers, of aiding the chants with the rich tones of her beautifulvoice, of ministering to the sick. She performed these, indeed, withdevotion, but she demanded more, and the good man did not know how tosatisfy her. In addition to her other gifts Carna had that of being a bornnurse. It was her first impulse to fly to the help of anything--whether itwas man, or beast, or bird--that was sick or hurt, just as it was AElia'simpulse, though she mastered it at any strong call of duty, to avoid thesight of suffering. She had now heard that a prisoner had been brought indesperately wounded, and she could not rest till she knew whether shecould do anything for the poor creature's soul or body. AElia was asscornful as her love for her foster-sister allowed her to be.
"My dearest Carna," she cried, "what on earth can make you troubleyourself in this fashion about this miserable creature? They are the worstplagues in this world, these Saxons, and it would be a blessing to theworld if it were well quit of the whole race of them! A set of pagandogs!"
"Oh, sister," said Carna, her eyes brimming with tears, "that is the worstof it. A pagan, who has never heard of the Blessed Lord, and now, theysay, he is dying! What shall we do for him?"
"But surely," returned the other, "he is no worse off than his threescorecompanions who went to the bottom the other day."
"God be good to them," said Carna, "but then we did not know them, andthat seems to make a difference. And to think that this poor creatureshould be so near to the way and not find it. But I must go and see him."
"It will only tear your poor, tender heart for no purpose. You had farbetter come and talk to father."
Carna was not to be persuaded, but hurried to the chamber to which thewounded man had been borne.
It was evident at first sight that the end was not far off. The dyingSaxon lay stretched on a rude pallet. He was a young man, who couldscarcely have seen as many as twenty summers, for the down was hardly tobe seen on his upper lip and chin. His face, which was curiously fair forone who had followed from infancy an outdoor life, was deadly pale, apathetic contrast with the red-gold hair which fell in curly profusionabout it. His eyes, in which the fire was almost quenched, were wide open,and fixed with an unchanging gaze upon a figure that stood motionless atthe foot of the bed. This was his brother, who had been permitted by thehumanity of the Count to be present. They had been exchanging a fewsentences, but the dying man was now too far gone to speak, and the twocould only look their last farewell to each other. It was a pitiful thingto see the twins, so like in feature and form, but now so different, theone, prisoner as he was, full of life and strength, the other on the verythreshold of death.
By the side of the wounded man stood the household physician, avenerable-looking slave, who had acquired such knowledge of medicine andsurgery as sufficed for the treatment of the commoner ailments andaccidents. This case was beyond his skill, or indeed the skill of any man.He could do nothing but from time to time put a few drops of cordialbetween the sufferer's lips. Next to the physician stood the priest, andhis skill, too, seemed to be at fault. A messenger, sent by Carna, hadwarned him that a dying man required his ministrations, but had added nofurther particulars, and the worthy man, who was busy at the time inlittering down his cattle, had hastily changed his working dress for hispriestly habiliments, and had come ready, as he thought, to administer thelast consolations of the Church to a dying Christian. The case utterlyperplexed him. He had tried the two languages with which he was familiar,and found them useless. No one had been able to understand a single wordof the dialogue which had passed between the brothers. The dying strangerwas as hopelessly separated from him and the means of grace that he couldcommand as if he had been a thousand miles away.
He could not evenventure--for his theology was of the narrowest type--to commend to the mercyof God the passing soul of this unbaptized heathen.
Carna understood the situation at a glance. She saw death in the Saxon'sface; she saw the hopeless perplexity in the expression of the priest.
"Father," she cried, "can you do nothing, nothing at all for this poorsoul?"
"My daughter," said the priest, "I am helpless. He knows nothing; heunderstands nothing."
"Can you not baptize him?"
"Baptize him without a profession of repentance, without a confession offaith! Impossible!"
"Will you let him perish before your eyes without an effort to save him?"
"Child," said the priest, with some impatience in his tone, "I have toldyou that I am helpless. It was not I that brought these things about."
The girl cast an agonized look about the room, as of one that appealed forhelp, and seized a crucifix that hung upon the wall. She threw herselfupon her knees by the bedside, and after pressing the symbol of Redemptionpassionately to her lips, held it to the mouth of the dying man. TheSaxon, on his first entrance into the room, had removed his look from hisbrother and fixed it steadfastly on this beautiful apparition. Clad inwhite from head to foot, with a golden girdle about her waist, her eyesshining with excitement, her whole face transfigured by a passion of pity,she seemed to him a vision from another world, one of the Walhalla maidensof whom his mother had talked to him in days gone by. His lips closedfeebly on the crucifix which she held to them; a smile lighted up hisfading eyes, and he muttered with his last breath "Valkyria." The girlheard the word and remembered without understanding it. The next moment hewas dead, and one of the women standing by stepped forward and closed hiseyes.
Carna burst into a passion of tears.
"He is gone," she cried, amidst her sobs, "he is gone, and we could nothelp him."
The priest was silent. He had no consolation to offer. Indeed, but that herecognized the girl's saintliness--a saintliness to which he, worthy man ashe was, had no pretensions--he would have thought her grief foolish. Butthe old physician could not keep silence.
"Pardon me, lady," he said, "if I seem to reprove you. I pray you not tosuffer your zeal for the salvation of souls to overpower your faith. Doyou think that the All-Father does not love this poor stranger as well asyou, nay, better than you can love him? that He cannot care for him aswell? that you, forsooth, must save him out of His hands? Nay, mydaughter--pardon an old man for the word--do not so distrust Him."
"You are right, father, as always," said the girl. "I have been selfishand faithless. I was angry, I suppose, to find myself baffled andhelpless. You must set me a penance, father," she added, turning to thepriest.
The Saxon meanwhile had contrived by his gestures to make his guardsunderstand that he wished to take his farewell of his dead brother. Theyallowed him to approach the bed. He stooped and kissed the lips of thedead, and then, choking down the sobs which convulsed his breast, turnedaway, seemingly calm and unmoved. But as he passed Carna he contrived tocatch with his manacled hands one of the flowing sleeves of her whiterobe, and to lift the hem to his lips.
The Count of the Saxon Shore; or The Villa in Vectis. Page 7
