"P.S.--My poor friend is still in trouble. Although not a
religious woman, she has taken to saying a 'Hail Mary' every night
on going to bed, and if it wasn't for that I'm afraid she would
commit suicide, so frightful are the visions that enter her head
sometimes. I've told her how wrong it would be to do away with
herself, if only for the sake of her husband, who is away. Didn't
I tell you he was away at present? It would hurt you dreadfully if
I were to die before you return, wouldn't it? But I'm dying
already to hear what you think of her. Write! Write! Write!"
X
When the King of Terrors could no longer be beaten back the Countess
sent for the priest. Before he arrived she insisted on making her toilet
and receiving him in the dressing-gown which she used to wear when
people made ante-camera to her in the days of her gaiety and strength.
During the time of the Countess's confession Roma sat in her own room
with a tremor of the heart which she had never felt before. Something
personal and very intimate was creeping over her soul. She heard the
indistinct murmur of the priest's voice at intervals, followed by a
sibilant sound as of whispers and sobs.
The confession lasted fifteen minutes and then the priest came out of
the room. "Now that your relative has made her peace with God," he said,
"she must receive the Blessed Sacrament, Extreme Unction, and the
Apostolic Blessing."
He went away to prepare for these offices, and the English Sister came
to see Roma. "The Countess is like another woman already," she said, but
Roma did not go into the sickroom.
The priest returned in half-an-hour. He had now two assistants, one
carrying the cross and banner, the other a vessel of holy water and the
volume of the Roman ritual. The Sister and Felice met them at the door
with lighted candles.
"Peace be to this house!" said the priest.
And the assistants said, "And to all dwelling in it."
Then the priest took off an outer cloak, revealing his white surplice
and violet stole, and followed the candles into the Countess's room. The
little card-table had been covered with a damask napkin and laid out as
an altar. All the dainty articles of the dying woman's dressing-table,
her scent-flasks, rouge pots and puffs, were huddled together with
various medicine bottles on a chest of drawers at the back. It was two
o'clock in the afternoon and the sun was shining, so the curtains were
drawn and the shutters closed. In the darkened room the candles burned
like stars.