MAGDALEN;
OR,
THE PENITENT OF GODSTOW.
VOL. I.
MAGDALEN;
OR,
THE PENITENT OF GODSTOW.
AN HISTORICAL NOVEL.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
BY ELIZABETH HELME,
AUTHOR OF
ST. MARGARET’S CAVE, OR THE NUN’S STORY,
THE PILGRIM OF THE CROSS, &c. &c.
VOL. I.
BRENTFORD:
PRINTED BY AND FOR P. NORBURY;
AND SOLD BY
C. CRADOCK AND W. JOY, NO. 32, PATER-NOSTER-ROW,
1812.
THE
PENITENT OF GODSTOW.
CHAPTER I.
ON the banks of the
river
The interior of the convent was spacious, and the
grounds extensive, the whole forming a dreary melancholy picture, being at a
considerable distance from any town or even habitation. The abbess was a woman
of high rank, and descended from Gualter de Evereaux, Earl of Rosmar, a
Norman, who attending William the Conqueror to England, gave first rise to the
noble family of Salisbury, by grants from his royal master in the county of
Wiltshire; which he bequeathed to his second son, Edward de Salisburie,
leaving to his eldest son, Walter, with the title of Earl of Rosmar, his extensive possessions in Normandy.
The nuns of St. Bertrand were most
of them in years, the boarders being only received in their infancy, and in
general such as were expected hereafter to take the veil; which if they
declined, they were never after admitted within the walls.
Vespers had just concluded in the
convent chapel—the abbess had retired to enjoy the comforts of a good
supper,—the novices were walking solitarily in the garden by moon-light,
lamenting the past, and, with melancholy, anticipating the future;—the devotees
were shut up in their cells,—and a few old nuns, whom even years had not cured
of gossiping, were seated on a bench at the entrance of the chapel, descanting
on the merits and narrow politics contained within the convent walls.
This party was augmented by two
boarders named Esther and Mary, of the age of fifteen, and who, weary of the
monotonous life of the convent, sought alternately in the different groups to
vary the scene.
“Heigh-ho!”
sighed sister Martha, an old nun, who was lean, yellow, withered, and dry as an
Egyptian mummy,—“what a savoury smell issues from the kitchen!” at the same
time distending her nostrils and snuffing the air with peculiar satisfaction.
“Yes,” replied another of the
antiquated group, “the lady abbess has a duck for supper; the abbot has granted
her a plenary indulgence, so she
eats and drinks what she pleases.—There is not a nun in the whole convent looks
half so hearty; why, she is as fat as a sucking pig, and her cheeks are as red
and as extended as those of a trumpeter.”
“No matter for that,” rejoined
another venerable vestal, “her fat, she says, arises from her sedentary life,
and passing so much time upon her knees.
Flatulency also deprives her of her appetite, for though she has every
delicacy in season prepared for her table, she constantly avers that she never
touches any thing but dry bread and a few raisins.”
“What wonderful forbearance amidst a
well furnished table,” answered sister Josephine. “But one thing I am at a loss
to account for; what becomes of the food? as I can swear the dishes always come
out empty, having constantly made that remark.”
“Oh,” said Martha, “what a simpleton
you must be; do not you know that she has four favourite dogs and two cats—they
eat up all, to be sure.”
“And drink up all, mayhap,” answered
Josephine; “for I am sure the store room is frequently replenished with wine.
Well, much good may it do her; but I hate hypocrisy. Do you remember the day I
was so troubled with the cholic, and only sent to her
for a cup of cordial, how she sighed, and turned up the whites of her eyes, and
bade me remember the sin of drinking strong waters in my next confession.”
“Hist! I
thought I heard steps,” said sister Anne, interrupting her in a low tone of
voice. “I hope no one has been listening, and overheard our discourse.”
A pause of a few moments ensued.—“It
is only fancy, I believe,” answered Josephine. “Yet, after the imperious order
which was given a fortnight since, for us all to retire to our cells
immediately after vespers, it is good to be cautious.”
“It is,” added Martha, “for though I
believe we all think alike, yet our Lady Abbess has great power. What all the
changes that have taken place bode I cannot conjecture; four nuns removed to
other convents, and what is still more extraordinary, without any fault
assigned, and you know our Lady Abbess is seldom at a loss in this particular
of accusation and penance.—Well, I will say no more, for the least said is the
soonest mended, and a still tongue betokens a wise head. I have heard the nuns
are sent to England; but I would not have it reported that I said so, for I do
not like defending and proving, and Martha said this, and Martha said that,
when it is well known, there is not a more taciturn nun in the whole convent
than I am; and if they are sent to England”——
“Let them be sent where they may,”
said the youthful Esther, “they cannot be sent to a more disagreeable place
than this is; for though I have been here almost as long as I can remember, so
far from use making me reconciled to the spot, I hate and detest it, and
consider myself as buried alive. For my part, I think convents ought only to be
allowed for such as are too deformed and ugly to appear in the world.”
“That is good indeed,” answered,
Martha, “and shews your ignorance, child, but even if
that was the case, need you exult on a supposition of being excluded on the
score of beauty; for my part, if I was his Holiness the Pope, beauties alone
should become nuns, as they cause the greatest mischief in the world. Lord, I
remember when I was a girl”——
“Do you, indeed,” interrupted Mary,
the second boarder, “that must have been a long time ago. I wonder that your
memory does not fail you; what a blessing!”
“A long time ago,” retorted the
enraged Martha, with a face reddening with rage, “not so long, neither, and, as
to my memory it is indeed a
blessing; for it reminds me of the difference between young people, in this
babbling impertinent age, and in those days that are past;—maids were then
seldom seen, and never heard, now they are continually exposing their unveiled
unblushing faces, and chattering like so many magpies, for fear their boldness
should not sufficiently bring them into notice.”
“I think I can answer for Mary, that
she did not wilfully mean to offend you. It must, indeed, appear to you a long
time since you were a girl, as the years of your youth were passed in a
convent,”—answered Esther, sighing.
This apology somewhat modified the
wrath of the time-stricken Martha, whose loud vociferous tones now softened
into a sanctified whine.
“Why, aye,” said she, “the time has
indeed sometimes appeared long; but we are all prone to sin, and apt to repine
after the pomps and vanities of this wicked world.
But, thank Heaven, I have now, in a great measure, subdued all worldly desires,
and am ready to acknowledge that youth and beauty are most safe in a convent.”
Esther and Mary both stifled a
laugh—“I think I have heard you say, Martha,” said the former, “that you were
placed in a convent merely to increase your brother’s revenues.”
“It is most true,” replied Martha,
“he used to say my pretty face would be best concealed in a nunnery. I remember
I was once at a masque, which followed a tournament, where a certain knight
laid his sword and spear at my feet, gallantly observing, that though he could
not see my face, he had no doubt it was equal to my shape.”
“And la, how could he be so rude,”
interrupted Mary.—
“Rude—rude,” echoed Martha, half choaked with rage.
“Yes,” answered Mary, “for you know
no one can help being ill made.”
“Ill made, indeed; and pray who told
you I was ill made?” interrogated Martha.
“No one,” replied Mary. “I sometimes require no other evidence
than—my own senses.”
“And sometimes you call in a little envy; do you not?”
“Never, where your beauty is
concerned.”
Esther, who delighted more in peace
than in raillery, and who saw a tempest was brewing in Martha’s bosom, now
endeavoured to allay the storm, by saying, “Mary, this is all nonsense. Dear
Martha, I want to ask you a question; pray, why did the knight lay his sword
and spear at your feet? Was he going to kill you?”
“Kill me, no, silly girl; he meant
to—to undermine my virtue, by fascinating my understanding. Oh, if I had
leisure, I could tell you of a thousand schemes made use of by those wicked
men, to delude us poor girls.—Yes, yes, I
know all their tricks, but thanks to my own chastity, and the
vigilance of the blessed saints, I sat them all at defiance.”
“I think,” replied Mary, “your
parents acted very wisely, in putting a stop to your studies of the arts of
those wicked men you speak of, by sending you to a convent; for, by your own
account, you appear to have attained a considerable stock of knowledge for so
young a maiden, as you say you was. What a mercy you escaped pure and
uncontaminated!”
“You forget, Mary,” replied one of
the sisterhood, “that Martha’s guardian saints were upon the alert.”
“True Bertha; their vigilance caught
her up in time, and conveyed her into this convent, where, Heaven knows, there
is no temptation, but plenty of mortification. I wish my guardian saints would
convey me out of it;—Monks and nuns may preach till doomsday, but they never
can persuade me but that human creatures, endowed with health and
understanding, were meant for active agents in life.—I call Heaven to be my
witness, that I had rather possess a clean cottage, and live under the
protection of a good husband, as I have read of them, than be the most renowned
devotee in the whole world; nay even if I was sure they would do me the favour
to canonize my old bones after my death.”
“And I am perfectly of the same
mind,” replied Bertha, “a light heart and a rosy cheek for me. None of your
hypocritical voluntary mortification—no sunken eyes and sallow complexion, if I
can avoid them.”
Esther was too mild and timid to
express a similar sentiment in any other manner, than by a heavy sigh, which
was profoundly re-echoed by all the sisterhood present; though the more old and
professed nuns devoutly crossed their bosoms, as it were to preserve themselves
from the contagion of evil example.
“You, Mary and Bertha,” said Martha,
“are enough to corrupt the whole convent, and ought to be reported to our Lady
Abbess; who, by enjoining penance and abstinence, might, in time, overcome
these wicked propensities of light talking, and railing against sacred
institutions, and I shall take the earliest opportunity to acquaint her of it.”
“Not forgetting the duck, and the
wine, and the four dogs and two cats, that kindly lent the abbess their
assistance,” interrupted Mary; “for should these anecdotes escape your memory,
I shall then also come forward, and, like your knight in days of yore, lay my
weapons at your feet.”
An old nun, by the name of Ursula,
now took up the contest by saying, “Well, well, how times are altered! formerly
there used to be some subordination within these walls; the seniors were wont
to be treated with respect.—Lack-a-day, lack-a-day! Ten or fifteen years ago,
when you and I were girls, Martha.”—
Mary now, in spite of every effort,
laughed outright, saying, “Why I thought you and Martha had been forty years at
least in this convent.”
Martha, stretching out her meagre
neck, with the crimson of anger overcoming the saffron of her complexion,
scowling a look of stifled rage upon her, replied only by the word
“Impertinent!”
The peaceful Esther endeavoured to
soothe her, by observing to Mary, “That the wan complexion and spare form of
Martha, only arose from ill health and austere habits, which made her appear
older than she really was.”
“That is truly observed, child,”
answered the old nun; “delicate and fragile forms, like mine, like the gay and
sweet-scented flowers of the garden, fade the soonest.”
“Your’s
then must have been delicate, indeed,” replied Mary.
Martha construed this into a
compliment, for she replied, “You say truly; indeed I did not enter this
convent at the very infantile age that is now required, but such has been the
purity of my life, even in the world, that it may put guilt to the blush.”
“Perhaps you never met temptation,”
said Mary.
“What do you mean?” returned Martha,
bridling. “Are you ever upon the watch to affront me? I never met temptations!
Do you take me for a stick or a stone? Pray, what young woman with a good
person can be in the public haunts of men, and not be exposed to temptation?
Were even you, Mary, to quit these hallowed walls, though you are not handsome,
I should tremble for your danger.”
“And that is more than I should for
my own,” said Mary aside to Esther; then turning to the old nun she added, “But
do not you think the greater the allurement the more virtue is required to
resist it; for example, in this convent we have nothing to excite temptation,
and therefore we have few sins to confess, except those of envy, malice, and uncharitableness, and Heaven knows they are heinous enough
of all conscience; but amidst the dissipation of the world, my books tell me,
we have to pass a kind of fiery ordeal, from which, if we escape unsullied and
pure, our virtue deserves more commendation than it can possibly deserve, in
the inactive and unassailed routine of monastic
seclusion.”
The nuns having nothing to answer,
at least to the purpose, had again recourse to their usual silent rhetoric,
that of crossing themselves; only Martha, whose volubility was seldom
exhausted, entered into a long dissertation of the hair-breadth escapes which she might have encountered, had not the
saints kindly interfered and snatched her from those embryo trials that
doubtless were hatching into perfection in the womb of time. Having partly
exhausted the topic of what might have been, she began comparing herself to the
young women of that period, losing nothing by her own praise, except the
attention of her auditors, who were universally beginning to yawn, when
suddenly they were aroused by a loud ringing at the convent gate. Fearful of
being discovered and punished for a disobedience of orders, the nuns hastened
to their cells, while Esther and Mary, more bold, or more curious, retreated
behind some pillars, in a dark aisle of the chapel, where they considered
themselves secure from detection, should any one pass through to the interior
of the convent.
CHAPTER
II.
A
FEW minutes elapsed, when the portress hastily
crossed the chapel, and speedily returned with the abbess and an old nun named
Bridget, who was reputed to be admitted into her most secret councils.
“Are you sure,” interrogated the
abbess, “that all are retired to their apartments?”—Being answered in the
affirmative—“Then close the door that enters the convent, and let the portress unbar the outward portal, that the strangers may
enter,” continued she.
A silence now ensued, which
continued for the space of ten minutes, when the sound of distant footsteps
were heard, which slowly and gradually seemed to approach near to the spot
where Mary and Esther endeavoured to conceal themselves. Presently they
observed a man of a lofty demeanor enter the chapel,
followed by four others, wrapped in long cloaks, and bearing between them,
what, to the inexpressible terror of Esther and Mary, they conceived to be a
dead body, wrapped in a large mantle, which they deposited on the steps leading
to the altar, and at no great distance from the lamp, which burnt before the
image of the virgin.
Having thus far performed their
part, they retreated some paces, and appeared to await, in respectful silence,
the further commands of him, whose outward form denoted a personage of more
than common rank.
The abbess now approached, and with
her arms crossed on her bosom, stood on one side of the body, absorbed in
profound contemplation.
On the other side, with folded arms,
and with an aspect of severity, was placed the stranger. An awful pause ensued;
a deep sigh, which seemed to issue from the apparently lifeless body, at length
broke in upon the death-like solemnity of the scene, and which, in some
measure, recalled the almost fleeting spirits of the appalled Mary and Esther,
who, by this time, were near fainting, and mentally bewailing their ill-timed
curiosity.
“A cup of wine,” said the stranger,
in a deep commanding tone of voice, turning to Bridget. The old nun instantly
obeyed the command; the hitherto inanimate body was then raised, when the
mantle falling off, discovered a woman clothed in a white flowing dress—the
stranger supported her head with his arm, and with great difficulty at length
succeeded in forcing some wine within her lips. In a short space some heavy
moans, and a few inarticulate words, seemed to announce returning animation.
The stranger now addressed her in a
language unknown to either Mary or Esther; she, however, appeared not as yet
sufficiently recovered to reply, or even to support herself. Being immediately
within the beams of the lamp, her person was, in a great measure, discernible
to them. Her arms hung lifeless to her sides; the pallid hue of death was spread
over her countenance, which to them, nevertheless, appeared beautiful, and as
youthful as their own. Her eyes were half closed, and a profusion of
amber-coloured ringlets, in wild confusion, shaded her face and bosom.
“I did not expect you so soon,” said
the abbess to the principal stranger, addressing him in French.—“Though I have
all prepared, and you may depend on the exact performance of my duty.”
“I doubt it not,” replied he; “we
have letters for you from your noble lady.”—As he spoke, he made a sign to one
of his attendants, who immediately presented a large packet, which the abbess,
approaching the lamp, opened and read.
Esther and Mary, at the distance
where they were placed, could only discover a piece of parchment, to which a
large seal appeared to be affixed. Having perused it, she said to the
principal—
“Religion, as well as duty, command
obedience to this mandate. The lady shall be secure from danger; and I make no
doubt will, hereafter, bless the time when she was snatched from the commission
of the most deadly and heinous sin, and placed in the road of repentance.”
“We hope so,” answered the stranger,
in French.—“But say, holy mother, are these ancient sisters, whom you have
entrusted with our secret, to be depended upon?”
“I answer for them; myself, and the
Abbot of Pau, have witnessed their solemn oaths,
sworn and registered at the foot of the altar.”
“It is well—it is only necessary,
then, for me to inform them, that rewards attend their secrecy, and death,
should they divulge the trust reposed in them; and now my task, I think, is
nearly done.—Good sister,” addressing one of the nuns, “take my place in
supporting this weak woman, who sinks under the fatigues of a long and perilous
voyage, and sickens, even to death, to return to those sins that have proved
her destruction; but hope it not,” added he, turning to her, and still speaking
in French, “your scene of power and wickedness is fled, never to return.—Your
whole family think you dead; and so you would have been, but for the mercy of
her you have most injured. Your paramour will mourn his minion, till his fickle
heart fixes upon a new one, when you will be forgotten, as though you had never
been. What I would advise, is to repent, take the oaths required of you,
receive the veil, and renounce not only the vanities of the world, but also
endeavour to forget them; so shall you be at liberty in this convent, as the
other nuns—if you refuse, you are still a prisoner, and will be confined and
treated with rigour.”
Thus speaking, he left his pale and
trembling victim, and drawing aside, held a long and apparently earnest
discourse with the abbess; after which, bidding her farewel,
he, with his companions, left the chapel, and soon after, Esther and Mary heard
the heavy gates of the convent close after them.
On the return of the portress, the abbess commanded her and the old nun, sister
Bridget, to raise the stranger, and bear her into the interior of her own
apartments, where all was prepared for her reception. They obeyed, and, in a
few minutes, Esther and Mary were left alone in the chapel.
They viewed each other with dread,
fearful even of breaking silence, lest they should be overheard. At length,
grasping Mary’s hand, Esther said, in a low voice,—“Are we awake? Good
gracious! is it possible such atrocities can be acted, even at the altar, and
in the presence of Heaven! Were this poor sufferer guilty, there would be no
need of so much secrecy. Did you hear the tall stranger threaten death, in case
the secret was divulged?”
“I did, with horror,” answered
Mary.—“I would we had been in our apartments; for Heaven’s sake, let us steal
away as softly as possible, lest we be discovered—and for your life, Esther, do
not utter a word relative to any thing that has passed to night in the chapel.”
“Be you equally as careful; let us
separate in the cloisters.—Good night.”
CHAPTER
III.
ON
the ensuing morning, Esther and Mary were early stirring, and silently
attentive to all that passed; but no circumstance transpired to announce publicly
that a stranger was in the convent Some
days after, the Abbot of Pau was admitted, and
remained for several hours in the apartment of the abbess; but still the
subject was enveloped in secrecy and mystery. Weeks and even months elapsed,
without any change taking place; and Esther and Mary, when, with dread, they
conversed cautiously in the most retired parts of the garden, on the events
which they had witnessed, were inclined to think that the stranger had been
removed in the dead of night, or yet, more probably, had been released by
death.—Time, however, could never efface from their memory the discourse which
had passed, the features of the lady, nor of those of the person who brought
her. The remembrance redoubled their aversion to a monastic life, and with
tears they frequently deplored the cruelty of their fate, which made it
impossible for them to avoid it.
Six months had thus passed, when one
morning, about the hour of vespers, two visitors were announced to the abbess,
and were conducted through the aisle of the chapel to her audience chamber. The
one was in pontifical robes, and the other a man in mourning weeds, and in
whom, to the horror of Esther and Mary, they recognized the tall stranger, who
had conducted the unhappy woman, who had given them so much concern.—Vespers
were no sooner concluded, than the abbess retired, while Esther and Mary,
curious to see the strangers return, entered into a vague conversation with
some of the nuns. They had thus been engaged about half an hour, when a loud
and piercing scream reached their ears. The nuns looked at each other with
amazement; and, after a short pause, some retired to enquire from whence the
alarm had proceeded.—Esther and Mary, however, attributed it to a cause, secret
to all but themselves, except the parties concerned; they judged the young
female, whom they had seen brought into the chapel, was still alive, and
concealed in the abbess’s apartment, and dreaded she was enduring some fresh
persecution, in consequence of the tall stranger’s arrival.
They instinctively grasped each
other’s hands, and fearful of betraying their emotion, walked into the
cloisters. A few moments after, they heard the voice of the old portress, by the command of the abbess, ordering all to
retire to their cells.
Esther and Mary, however their
curiosity was excited, found no means to satisfy it for near three months, when
one morning the abbess, with apparent carelessness, informed some of the elder
nuns, that she had, some short time before, admitted a young novice on her
probation, but who, from ill health, she had been induced to keep entirely
within her own chamber, that she might superintend the instructions bestowed
upon her. Nuns, as well as those more actively situated in life, understood
that flattery was a ready road to favour, they therefore did not fail to extol
their superior’s humanity and devotion, offering their assistance in the pious
undertaking; she however declined their proffered aid, and the conversation
ceased.
Some few days after, the portress and sister Bridget, led from the apartment of the
abbess, the stranger, whom she had announced as a new comer; but in whom Esther
and Mary both immediately recognized the unhappy victim, whose secret arrival
they had witnessed, while concealed behind the pillars of the chapel. The nuns
supported her to the foot of the altar, where, after remaining some time, they
led her into the outward cloisters for air, for she was too weak to conduct
herself.
Esther and Mary both considered with
pity, the change which had taken place in her person. Her face was wan, and
much reduced—her eyes wild and sunken—her lips livid, and her whole form of
such shadowy thinness, that had any of the inhabitants of the convent seen her
unexpectedly, and unsupported, they would have deemed her to have been a
wandering spirit. She was passive and silent; and, after having remained some
time in the air, they reconducted her to the
apartments she had left.
From this period she was seen daily,
but never unattended; though, by slow degrees, her person appeared to gain
strength.—She entered into no conversation, not even observing the accustomed
salutations, when passing any of the inmates of the convent, being strictly
enjoined silence; and the nuns and novices were forbidden, on pain of
punishment, to address her. She passed much time at the altar of the Virgin,
apparently in fervent prayer, and deep depression; for her tears were observed
to flow abundantly, and her sighs were so heavy, that they appeared to shake
her fragile form almost to dissolution.
The Abbot of Pau
frequently visited her, but his counsels, if he bestowed them, appeared to
afford her no comfort, for she was usually more depressed after his visits.
The comments respecting her were
various, according to the different tempers and dispositions of the inmates of
the convent—the younger members pitied her, and insisted that she was a paragon
of beauty, and not more than sixteen, and, at the most, seventeen years old;
that they had no doubt she was in love, by her melancholy, but that innocence
was depicted in every feature.—Some of the elders, on the contrary, at the head
of which was old Martha, insisted she was nineteen or twenty, at the least;
that to be sure, she had a fair complexion, tolerable features, and good eyes,
considering they were blue, but, upon the whole, her person wanted dignity, and
could not, by any means, claim pretensions to beauty.—“For my part,” continued
Martha, “I say nothing, for comparisons are odious; and swans have no right to
set themselves in competition with geese. But this I will say,—I have known
those that would have put her out of countenance.”
“Of that I make no doubt,” replied
Mary; “for Heaven knows, there are shameless
women enough in the world, who are ever on the watch to depreciate
beauty, and put innocence to the blush.”
“Shameless women!” echoed Martha;
“you are a pert chattering baggage, and would provoke a saint, but I am not to
be moved.”
“Is that because you are only a
sinner?” returned Mary.
“There, there, do you hear,”
spluttered Martha, almost choaked with passion.—“She
calls me sinner! the abbess shall be told that I am a sinner; and——”
“Why, did not you acknowledge just
now,” answered Mary, calmly, “that you knew those that would put our young
novice out of countenance? and, if you are acquainted with such miscreants, who
would attempt to insult a broken spirit like her’s?
You must, at least, allow that they are the worst of sinners.”
“I did not mean any such thing, I
only spoke in regard to beauty; and I still maintain, that I have seen (one at
least) that, according to the old saying, your beautiful novice is not worthy
to be compared to.”
“And that one, I suppose,” replied
Mary, “was either yourself, in days of yore, or else Queen Guineuar,
wife of the renowned King Arthur.—Though, on second thoughts, I do not think
you can be quite so ancient as to remember her.”
“You have nothing to do with my age;
but if I am old, good manners, at least, should teach you to pay me some
respect.”
“Where wisdom keeps pace with
declining years, our reverence is justly excited; not so when envy, malice, and
detraction, deform the hoary brow, even more than the wrinkles of a thousand
ages.”
“I think Mary much to blame,” said
Ursula. “Sister Martha did not give her opinion; and, for my own part, I must
own, I think the young novices’ features are too regular to be striking,”
continued she.—“In my mind, prominent features are necessary, for they give an
expression and grandeur to the countenance.”
“A long nose and chin are the
characteristics of beauty,” replied Mary, significantly, fixing her eyes on
Ursula.
“I understand your impertinent
insinuation, child,” answered Ursula, angrily, “but you are too insignificant
to vex me; my thoughts are not placed on such transitory toys as my beauty or
person.”
“I am glad to hear that,” replied
Mary, “with all my heart.”
“You are glad; and why so, I pray?”
“Why, because then you will not
grieve at your homeliness.”
“Notwithstanding your insolence,”
resumed Ursula, “and though I have done with the vanities of the world, there
are many who can remember what I was.”
“They, doubtless, must be very wise
people then; for I have been told, that wisdom increaseth
with years,” answered Mary.
“I cannot say any thing about wisdom,”
replied Ursula, “for I was never vain of Heaven’s gifts; indeed I always
thought my chin too prominent for perfect beauty, though I can remember a
handsome knight once telling me, a full chin was a mark of wisdom.—However, of
that I do not pretend to judge, but then my nose was of the perfect shape was
allowed by painters.”
“Lord! Lord!” exclaimed Mary—“how it
must have grown since that time; perhaps it has increased so for a punishment
of your sins.”
Ursula’s passion to hear this favorite feature spoken thus lightly of, exceeded all
bounds; she raised her hand to strike Mary, but, probably reflecting that this
might bring on a disagreeable discussion, she contented herself with stamping
with her foot, grinning horribly in her face, and, in a rage, hobbling away
from the place of contention.
A silence for some minutes succeeded
her departure, the elder sisterhood, who formed the majority, being doubtless
not more pleased, at the sarcastic ebullitions of the young novice, in regard
to Ursula. Not that either their respect, or affection, operated in her favour,
for, as an individual, they did not care a whit what vexation she received; but
it was a common cause—out of the dull routine of the conventual
life, they had no other mode of filling up the intervening hours, than by
recounting to each other what their persons had
been, before the austerities of the order, and not their age, had marred their
charms. These agreeable conversations, intermingled with a portion of scandal,
for the moment, appeared to unknit even the gloomy
rigid brow of age, and gave to the antiquated sisterhood the only degree of
complacency towards each other, that their contracted minds were capable of
feeling; but thus to be broken upon, by a few young novices, in the flower of youth
and beauty, was an intolerance much to be dreaded, as it left them no
resource—no relaxation.
While the elders were ruminating on
this new grievance, their meditations were interrupted by Esther, saying, “I
considered the young stranger’s face attentively this morning, and compared it
with the paintings round the chapel, but not one of them is half so
beautiful—the expression of her countenance is most like that of St. Catharine,
but the painting is far inferior, in point of beauty, to the reality.”
The nuns appeared shocked at
Esther’s comparing the stranger to St. Catharine, and, after a general concert
of sighing and groaning, they retired to their cells.
CHAPTER
IV.
THE
stranger had assumed the dress of a novice, and though youth and strength
appeared to struggle against a fixed and deadly grief, she still continued
silent; and, as at first, never appeared out of her chamber, unless accompanied
by either the abbess, the portress, or Bridget.—Thus
passed a year from her first admission, when the abbess informed the nuns that
the Abbot of Pau had, for weighty and powerful,
though private reasons, ordered that the young novice should enter immediately
the holy pale,—that henceforward they would know her by the name of sister Magdalen,—and that the sacred ceremony of her renouncing
the world would take place in a few days.
The old nuns highly applauded the
goodness of the abbot who had kindly shortened the probation of the novice,
while the young boarders sighed at the prospect of a sacrifice which might soon
be their own lot.
At length the day arrived, but the
ceremony, contrary to general custom, was private; no one being present but the
inmates of the convent, the Abbot of Pau, and some
monks devoted to his service.—All prepared, the victim was led forth, but had
refused the ornaments usual on such occasions.—The solemn music resounded, high
mass was performed, and the agitation of the pale and trembling victim made it
requisite to support her till the moment approached for her to take the vows
which separated her for ever from the world.
As the ceremony proceeded she seemed
to gain strength, and raising her eyes to Heaven she approached the altar;—the
abbot attended to administer the vows, and with indecent celerity appeared in
haste to conclude the sacrifice.
No one but those immediately
attending the abbess had yet heard the young stranger speak, and all felt a
lively interest to hear her voice.—On the abbot asking her whether she
willingly renounced the vanities of the world, she replied, in a soft but firm
accent,—“Aye, the vanities I willingly relinquish, but I dare not lie at the
foot of the altar and in the face of Heaven.—There are objects in the world
which can never cease to be dear to me;—if the vows I take are sinful, Heaven
remove the weight from my soul, fatal necessity compels, and I obey.”
The abbot affected to take her words
in a sense which were evidently not their true meaning.—“Daughter,” replied he,
“while we are enveloped in frail mortality, our hearts, in spite of our firmest
resolutions, will partake in worldly things.—In renouncing the allurements and
temptations to err, you take the first step towards repentance; and I commend
the candour which prompts you boldly to confess your sins.”
“Purity alone, father, should be
offered to Heaven, and the unhappy woman before you, as you well know, hath not
purity to offer.”
“Alas! daughter, none are pure!—your
sins are indeed great, but not, I trust, beyond the reach of mercy.”—Then, as
if fearful she should reply, he turned hastily, and requested the nuns to sing Misericordia; which performed, he hurried through the
remainder of the ceremony like a man who was in haste to conclude a business at
once disagreeable and disgraceful to him, but which he was obliged to accomplish.
On her beautiful ringlets being cut
off, according to the custom of assuming the veil, both Esther and Mary, in
spite of their utmost endeavours, burst into tears, and were severely
reprimanded by the abbess.
Their emotion was not lost upon the
votary,—“Alas!” said she, “is pity then a crime within these walls dedicated to
Heaven?—Humanity and mercy are the attributes of Holy Spirits,—crush not,
therefore, the divine emanation in these young maids.”
The high swollen spirit of the
abbess could ill bear this public reproof, but it was no time to resent it; and
the ceremony being concluded, the priests returned to their monastery, and the
nuns to their cells.
Though Magdalen,
as she was now called, had taken the veil, and was for ever secluded from the
world, yet sister Bridget, or the old portress, as
usual, attended her steps for several months; when, finding that she formed no
particular acquaintance, nor held much conversation with any one, their cares
began to relax, and she was suffered to walk in the garden alone, from whence,
however, it was next to impossible to escape.
In one of these melancholy
recreations she was met by Esther and Mary, who seeing her alone, ran to her,
and each taking one of her hands, with the warmth of youthful feeling, pressed
it to their lips,—“Dear, dear sister,” said Mary, “we have long wished to tell
you that we love you, that we commiserate your misfortunes, and, though we
never before dared avow it, witnessed the cruel and unjust manner in which you
were brought into the convent.”
Magdalen
started, trembled, turned pale, and appeared oppressed almost to fainting,—“For
Heaven’s sake, peace!” said she,—at length looking round and being convinced no
one was near, she added,—“Come with me into the more retired part of the
garden, where we may speak with greater freedom,—here we are in momentary
danger.”
So saying, Magdalen
led the way in silence to a part of the ground particularly shunned by the
inhabitants of the convent. It was a deep dell, at the extremity of the
enclosed land, thickly planted with trees; and which, from the underwood, and neglect, were almost in some parts
impenetrable. A brook separated it from the cultivated part of the garden, to
which it only was united by a rustic bridge, in so decayed and neglected a
state, that a short time only appeared to be requisite to cut off all
communication.
Though Esther and Mary had resided
in the convent from their infancy, they never had ventured to cross this
bridge, at the foot of which stood the image of St. Bertrand; being placed
there as a kind of centinel, to prevent the evil
spirit, which was reported to haunt the wood, from straying beyond its
precincts. The story handed down by tradition, and firmly believed in the
convent, was, that near a century before, one of the Dukes of Guienne, having seduced a maid of inferior degree, named
Agatha, his wife, in his absence, caused her to be seized and forced into St.
Bertrand’s, where she was delivered of a son, who was immediately taken from
her, and placed she knew not where,—or perhaps destroyed.—The latter
supposition preyed upon her spirits, until her intellects gave way, and she
became raving mad.—After a time her malady settled into a desponding
melancholy, notwithstanding which, she was suffered to stray by herself to any
part of the extensive inclosure. The wood, though
gloomy, was then cultivated, and was her almost constant retreat; in the
deepest recess she constructed, with her own hands, a kind of cell, or rather
hut, by first interweaving the branches of the trees, upon which she spread
clay, until she rendered it proof against the weather. This employment she was
suffered to enjoy, as it injured no one, and to keep her in a quiet state was
far more desirable than to venture a relapse into the furious ravings that had
before afflicted her. She even passed her nights in this retreat, and
frequently, had not food been brought her, would have remained till too weak to
come forth to seek it. After one of these absences, two of the sisters, as was
their usual custom, carrying her a basket of food, to their great terror found
her dead, and lying upon the earth with a dagger in her side. This act was, by
the then superior of the convent and her partizans,
denominated suicide; and the effects of her crime first madness, then
self-murder, which last they seemed to have no doubt would plunge her into
everlasting perdition, their charity making no allowance for insanity.
Some of the inmates of the convent,
however, dared to think otherwise, though they were fearful to express their
thoughts;—nay, some few thought it might even be possible, that her own hands
did not direct the fatal blow.
The Duke of Guienne
was just returned from Constantinople, where he had been for two years, and it
appeared not impossible but that the jealousy of the duchess might have
impelled her to remove for ever a dreaded rival, who was already dead to the
world, and to effect which was no difficult matter, as Agatha was often at such
a distance from the convent, that no alarm could reach them. The walls that
enclosed the grounds were indeed high, yet not to that degree, as not to be
scaled on the outside by determined ruffians.
To corroborate this opinion, one of
the nuns had, on the first discovery of the unfortunate Agatha, started a very
formidable objection against the act of suicide, namely,—“how she could obtain
a dagger?” such a weapon not being within the sacred walls.
The vindictive spirit of the
superior, however, soon crushed this kind of argument, upon pain of the most rigid
penance being inflicted upon those who should dare to be contumacious, where
the honour and profit of her house were so intimately concerned.—She likewise
recapitulated and exaggerated the errors of the simple Agatha, whose madness
she affirmed was nothing more nor less than an actual possession of her sinful
frame by the evil spirit, who first tempted her to sin, and then, doubtless,
furnished her with the means to accomplish her dreadful purpose.
“This opinion, though as before
mentioned, not implicitly believed by all, at least, came from too high an
authority to be disputed. Consecrated ground was, therefore, out of the
question, and a hole was dug in poor Agatha’s cell,
where her body was deposited; the act, sanctified by no holy rite, nor hallowed
by one friendly tear!
The murderous dagger was cast into
the Garonne, and the nuns prohibited from frequenting
the wood where so foul a deed had taken place, and where there was no doubt the
perturbed spirit of the frail Agatha would wander and hover, in painful penance
for her earthly crimes, until time should be no more.
As tales of horror seldom lose by
frequent repetition, it was soon reported that Agatha, with a dagger in her
hand, had been in reality seen; and caused such terror, that the superior found
it necessary to place the image of St. Bertrand at the foot of the bridge,
holding a crucifix, to prevent the wandering spirit passing into the garden.
It was at first in contemplation, to
destroy the bridge, but as it was composed of timber, that had grown on
consecrated ground, it was suffered to remain; leaving to time to interrupt the
communication between the garden and the wood.
Magdalen,
fearlessly, passed the bridge—Esther started and drew back—but the strong mind
of Mary needed no more than example; and, taking Esther’s hand, she said, “Come
on, we have never injured any one; and if the spirit does not molest Magdalen, it will surely not hurt us.”—
Esther, thus encouraged, crossed the
brook, and entered the wood, where Magdalen, turning
round, said,—“Fear nothing, this is my daily haunt, I have forced a rude path,
with great difficulty, through the underwood, and
visited poor Agatha’s grave; all there is quiet, and
I trust her guilty, but persecuted spirit, rests from its labours in the bosom
of peace and infinite mercy.”
Esther and Mary acquired fresh
courage as they advanced; when Magdalen addressing
them, with great emotion, said,—“We are now, I think, safe, tell me therefore,
I conjure you, by my soul’s peace, and in the name of the Holy Virgin, tell me
all you know respecting me.”
“Sweet lady,” answered Esther, “we
would not injure you for worlds, for well do we know that you have been cruelly
oppressed.”
“I believe you, but again conjure
you to disclose all you know, and relieve my anxiety—never will I betray your
confidence.”
Mary then related their concealment
in the chapel,—the bringing in of what they thought, at first, a dead body—the
tall stranger, speaking to Magdalen in a language
unknown to them—his addressing the abbess, in French, and the same afterwards
to Magdalen,—his giving the abbess a letter, with a
large seal—his caution respecting secrecy—and his threats in case of the
secret’s being developed.
Magdalen
listened to the relation with trembling anxiety, which, when concluded, she
said,—“Tell me, I pray you, for my memory retains few of the occurrences which
then passed. What did the tall stranger name me? From whence did he say he
brought me? And what said he were my connexions?”
“He did not name you, lady; it was
evident that the abbess had, for some days, expected your arrival, by her
orders for all to retire early to their cells.—Other changes had also taken
place in the convent, but whether on your account, we know not.—The brutal
stranger, who came with you, said to the abbess, that he brought her letters
from her noble mistress, and she respectfully replied, that she would be
careful to execute her commands with the greatest punctuality. He also spoke of
you, lady, in a manner which I am convinced you do not deserve; for, if virtue
and goodness dwell not in so sweet a form, where shall we seek them?”
“My good girls, your innocence
misleads you; the fairest bodies do not always contain the purest minds—this
unhappy form hath wrought my destruction. Mark me well! so shall ye save me
from renewed sorrow,—those dearer to me than life, from ruin, and yourselves
from bodily danger; nay, perhaps, from death.”
Esther and Martha were much
affected, trembled exceedingly, and requested an explanation of her words.
“Should you ever reveal what you
have witnessed, my kind girls, my death, or perpetual imprisonment, and, in all
probability, yours’ would be the consequence. Not only so, but the innocent,
who never injured human soul, would bleed, and for whose safety, behold me
buried in this living grave.—Swear, then, my young friends, here, in the face
of Heaven, unseen but by the saints, never to disclose, to any one, what you
saw or heard on that eventful night; and, in return, I swear to you an
inviolable love and friendship, if you will accept it from one so lost as I
am.”
Shocked and alarmed, they both
knelt, and called upon the Holy Virgin to witness the oath of secrecy which Magdalen required; after which, kneeling by their side, she
took a hand of each, and, raising her beautiful eyes to Heaven, exclaimed with
fervour,—“Ye holy saints, who are never deaf to the supplications of the
sorrowful, hear and witness the friendship I vow to these young maids.—Oh,
guard them with a watchful eye, direct their youth, protect them from the
beguiling snares of greatness; deliver them from this prison where chastity is
the punishment, not the glory of woman—if single, make them examples of purity
in a corrupt world—or, if wedded, make them virtuous wives and happy mothers.”
The young maids hung round her, and,
with youthful enthusiasm said, they would share her fate.—“Heaven forbid,”
replied she. “My oaths, though in some measure constrained, are sacred, and
bind me ever in oblivion. For you I will not despair, but let us now separate;
for should our intercourse be discovered, it would ruin all, and redouble the
rigour of my situation—we can occasionally meet here, and communicate our
thoughts.”
The party now separated and retired
to the convent, where their trepidation insensibly subsided, and in a little
time their meetings, though cautiously conducted, became frequent; as from a
similarity of situation and disposition they were soon warmly attached to each
other.
Mary, in the course of one of their
conversations ventured to ask Magdalen the events of
her life, but received an answer which precluded all further inquiry.—“Mary,”
replied she, “repeat that question no more, or we must separate for ever.—A
sacred and everlasting silence closes my lips; nor can even the hour of death
release me from my vow of making no verbal disclosure.”
Thus passed above a year after Magdalen had taken the veil;—her health gradually returned,
but the depression of her spirits remained the same.—She seldom conversed with
any one except Esther and Mary, and then only in their secret meetings; for it
was evident she was careful to give no rise to suspicion.
At one of those meetings, observing
that Magdalen was even more heavily depressed than
usual, and that her eyes were swollen with weeping, Esther and Mary pressed her
to disclose the cause.
“My kind girls,” replied she, “this
is my unhappy birth day,—this morn I compleated my
nineteenth year. Alas! what complicated miseries have darkened the morning of
my days!—the retrospect is dreadful!—my heart sickens, and my head grows giddy
at the remembrance!—Oh! my sainted mother, if you be permitted to witness the
sorrows of your wretched daughter, supplicate that her earthly miseries may be
shortened!—Ah! no,” continued she, after a pause, “rather entreat that her
corporeal anguish may be prolonged, until her spirit, purified by suffering,
may be more worthy to join with your’s in bliss!”
Esther and Mary wept with
her.—“Alas!” said the former, “Mary and I, confined to this convent from the
age of seven years, have drawn nothing but flattering presages, and formed
perhaps false pictures of the world;—I much fear our imaginations have beguiled
us.”
“A certain portion of suffering is
attached to all human creatures,” replied Magdalen,
“but virtue is a shield against which the arrows of shame, malice, slander, and
disgrace strike harmless;—their barbed points fix and rankle only in the guilty
breast, and leave wounds no earthly medicine can cure.”
Fearful of causing suspicion by too
long an absence, they soon after crossed the bridge, and by different ways
returned to the convent.
CHAPTER
V.
ESTHER
was of the family of the Count de Maltravers, not
particularly rich, but honorable; and who, anxious to
increase the revenues of an elder son, doomed his young and unoffending
daughter to perpetual celibacy in a convent. He was, however, saved from the
atrocity of this act by an accident which human knowledge could not foresee,
nor paternal prudence prevent.
The darling son, who was to transmit
his boasted honours to posterity, and for whom Esther was to be sacrificed, was
himself slain in a licentious quarrel respecting a courtezan.
Secluded from the world, this news
was unknown to Esther, who seldom saw her parents above once in two years, and
then only in the presence of the abbess, and at the grate of the convent. The
death of the son left Esther sole heiress of their possessions, and as they had
no inclination to enrich the convent, at the expence
of the extinction of their boasted pedigree, they now became as anxious to see
her married, as they had been before to doom her to a single life.
They therefore informed the abbess
of their intention of removing her, which however she divulged to no one till
the moment the count came to claim his daughter; and even then she did not
suffer her to leave her presence till she quitted the convent.
Esther, at the first intelligence,
appeared wild with joy; but looking round, and fixing her eyes on Mary and
sister Magdalen, she burst into tears. Mary threw her
arms round her for a last embrace, while Magdalen,
viewing her at once with a smile of congratulation and a starting tear, hastily
left the chapel where they were assembled, lest either their feelings or her
own should betray them.
“Away with this folly!” said the
abbess, haughtily;—“your parents wait, Esther.—I pity their delusion, which
snatches you from peace and safety, to plunge you into the allurements of the
world.—Look round for the last time, for no more will you be permitted to defile
these walls by your presence.”
Esther made no reply, but pressing
Mary once more to her bosom, followed the portress
who waited to conduct her to the gates.
Mary de Vavasour
was not so highly born as Esther, but her father, the Sieur
de Vavasour, was immensely rich;—he had three sons
and only one daughter, whose maternal aunt had left her a considerable
property. To enrich his sons with this wealth, and to ennoble his family, he
resolved to provide for her in a convent; and for that purpose had carefully
confined her, from her early youth, in St. Bertrand’s.
An old nun, who had been a
particular friend of her aunt’s, insensibly became attached to her, and Mary
returning her affection, her infancy scarcely missed the attention of a parent.
When she was thirteen, sister Adeline, as she was called, died, and Mary having
ever decidedly shewn a dislike to a conventual life, being of a cheerful and giddy temper,
sister Adeline, at once impelled by rectitude and affection, considered it a
point of duty to inform her of every particular respecting herself and family;
at the same time advising her to conceal what she had thus divulged, till
necessity obliged her to reveal it, as it might make her situation yet more
disagreeable in the convent, and, she feared, would not be able to preserve her
from taking the vows, should her father persist in forcing her to make the
sacrifice.—“Three or four years,” continued the old nun, “may, my dear child,
give you more serious thoughts, and a life of retirement may lose its
horrors;—for, believe me, the world is full of sorrows.—Your father was in
England when your aunt died, and as they had not been on terms of friendship
for many years, he did not even know of our acquaintance. She died when you
were only two years old, and that same year I retired to this convent, and
candidly confess, that when I saw you here, and learned your family, I judged
the reason was the enriching of your brother.—I, however, kept my suspicions to
myself, for a disclosure would only have procured me ill-will, and you, to whom
I have ever been warmly attached, would have been separated from me, for the
abbess doubtless knows every circumstance; and though she would willingly have
the whole of your wealth settled upon the convent, yet she had rather take a
part than lose all.”
Three days after this communication
the sister died, and Mary first experienced sorrow. The words of her friend she
treasured in her memory, and to no one but Esther had ever mentioned the
circumstance.—Days and nights did she pass, as her years increased, in devising
means for her release, but all appeared vague and uncertain; she resolved,
however, to make the trial before she entered upon her noviciate, and was
strengthened in her resolution by the departure of Esther, since when the
convent had become detestable to her, the private meetings she had with Magdalen being her only consolation.
In the mean time the abbess, vexed
at losing Esther, whose seclusion would have brought money to her coffers,
resolved that no delay should take place in Mary’s entering upon her noviciate,
lest some unlucky chance should deprive the convent of her also. She,
therefore, sent the Sieur de Vavasour
word of her intentions, and in return received his entire consent and
approbation.
Ordering Mary to be sent into her
apartment, she informed her of her father’s resolution, and desired her to
enter on her noviciate immediately. Well aware of her temper, she expected
tears and resistance, but to her great surprise observed she received the information
with apparent calmness, and without any marked reluctance.—“I have long
expected this command, Madam,” replied she, “and rejoice at it, as it enables
me to disclose a secret which has been very painful to me.—All I request is, to
see my parents, and in their presence to make the necessary communication,
after which I am at their command and your’s.”
The abbess would fain have persuaded
her to give up this request, saying, that if she thought to persuade her
parents from their determined purpose,—a plan which had been settled on the
most mature deliberation, it would be vain. Mary replied, that she had no such
intention, and not only requested the presence of her parents, but that also of
some of the elders of the convent; as what she had to say was of the utmost
moment to the whole house.
“To whom does it relate?” demanded
the abbess, in a quick tone of voice,—“the affairs of this community have no
right to be discussed with any one but myself.”
“It relates only to myself, Lady, and the enriching this
establishment,” answered Mary, “which a minor, like me, has no power to do,
however I may have the inclination.”
The abbess viewed her with some
surprise, then replied,—“True, child, and you gain my good will by the
remark.—Your parents, though not rich, will give a respectable sum on your
entering our holy community, and the pious intention must be received as it
merits.”
“Yet, Lady, could I make it more——”
“It would be most praise-worthy; but
it is impossible, you are dependant on your parents.”
“Undoubtedly, you will therefore
please to grant my request of seeing them, when I shall relieve my conscience,
and all will be arranged, I hope, for the best.”
So saying, she left the abbess, who
had hitherto regarded her only as a giddy girl, and now felt extreme surprise
at her serious and determined conduct.—She well knew that Mary was heiress to
some estates, but was not aware of their great value; and, convinced that no
one in the convent knew ought on the subject, had no suspicion that she, who
had been an inmate since the age of seven years, could have gained any
information. She, however, resolved to write to her parents, and request their
presence as a preliminary step to her entering on her noviciate. At the first
moment of Mary’s demand, a suspicion of Magdalen’s
being concerned pressed her thoughts; but the improbability of the surmise, and
the subsequent behaviour of Mary, completely banished the idea.
On the other hand, when the abbess’s
letter was received by the Vavasours, Mary’s request
was far from affording them any satisfaction.—Not that they feared being moved
from their determined purpose by natural affection, or by her tears and
entreaties, but knowing they were acting wrong, their consciences, for the
first time, presented a fear of they knew not what.—However, being unable to
form any plausible excuse for their non-attendance, they appointed a day, and
in the presence of the abbess, two priests, sister Bridget, the portress, and two other nuns greatly devoted to the abbess,
prepared to take a final farewel of their devoted
child.
Mary threw herself at the feet of
her parents, but the contracted brow of her father repelled tenderness; while
her mother, in spite of her efforts, burst into tears and pressed her to her
bosom.—Mary’s heart beat too high too admit of words, but her eyes plainly
spoke to her maternal feelings, and accused her of cruelty.—“And was it for
this I was summoned here?” said the Sieur de Vavasour, sternly.—“You, holy mother,” addressing the
abbess,—“I think said, Mary had something her conscience required her to
disclose, previous to her taking the veil.”
The harshness of the Sieur de Vavasour, at once
recalled Mary’s courage.—“It is most true, Sir,” replied she. “The business on
which I requested your presence should not be a secondary consideration; for I
well perceive, that sordid interests hold a primary place, and unnaturally
banish that affection, which even brutes, instinctively,
feel towards their progeny.—You have chosen St. Bertrand for my patron, and are
determined to seclude me for ever from the world. I appeal to your own
conscience, whether your motive is dictated by piety; for, in that case,
justice must also influence your conduct. At the age of eighteen, I might
naturally expect to enter the world, or, at least, to see my parents entertain
some compunction at sacrificing a child to their ambition.—Say, holy mother,
and you reverend fathers, had I been suffered to wed a mortal husband, would he
not have been entitled to those estates, which at twenty-one I inherit in
Normandy.”
The Sieur
de Vavasour startled, turned pale, and endeavoured to
interrupt her, as did also the abbess; but, regardless of their efforts, she
continued with encreased energy.—
“Peace, I pray you, this time I will
speak, whatever may befal.—If I relinquish the world,
and devote myself to Heaven, St. Bertrand then becomes my spouse, nor shall he
be defrauded of my patrimony. My resolution is not sudden; it is the effect of
reflection, nor shall death itself force me to retract it. Three years will I
remain on my noviciate, and when I attain the age of twenty-one, settle my
whole wealth on the convent, and take the vows. This is my demand, and the
business for which I required your presence.”
The Sieur
de Vavasour was enraged beyond his patience; he
almost cursed his daughter, and accused the abbess of filling her mind with
vain thoughts of enriching her convent.—The abbess, in her turn, not being
gifted with the most patient disposition, replied with acrimony to his unjust
charge, till the spirit of discord made one party forget prudence, and the
other almost the assumed appearance of sanctity.—Hypocrisy, however, was too
habitual to be easily overcome; and, with a face crimsoned with rage, and eyes
sparkling with malignity, the abbess replied—“Your accusation is unjust; wicked
man that you are, to dare insult the peace and holiness of this retreat. I had
indeed heard that Mary had some estates, but neither knew their extent, nor
where they are situated; to wish to give what is justly her’s
to the convent, can be no sin, but is doubtless the inspiration of the holy
saint, and in which I will support her to the utmost of my power.”
Mary, charmed to find her plan
succeed beyond her hopes, was sufficiently shrewd to lose no advantage.—“My
aunt,” said she, “possessed a diamond cross of great value, it was attached to
her neck at the hour of death; that cross, I pray you, on the first
opportunity, good father, present to my guardian saint, it may incline him to
be propitious to me.”
“The maid speaks nobly,” said one of
the fathers, “and her piety merits praise; such a daughter is a treasure to a
family, for how efficacious must be her prayers in their behalf.”
“My aunt had many jewels,” resumed
Mary, “those, please to present to my mother; and the large bag of broad gold
pieces, preserved in her ebony cabinet, I beg you to accept yourself. But for
the estates at Rouen, and in Poictou, together with
their accumulating revenues, if I espouse a holy life, they belong to my convent.”
“Impudent wench! You are well
tutored,” said the Sieur de Vavasour,
almost inarticulate with passion—“but you have no claim, till you attain the
age of twenty-one.”
“I know it well, and therefore defer
my vows till that period. Had you, Sir, possessed more nature, I might have shewn more affection; as it is, if my will is not granted,
through these fathers will I appeal to the Pope, and he will do me justice.”
Awed by her courage, and the lure
she held out to the convent of inheriting her wealth, the abbess and the
priests both took her part, and threatened her father with the anathema of the
church, should he endeavour to use force or cruelty to so exemplary a child,
who was, doubtless, inspired by St. Bertrand himself; or how could she be informed
of particulars totally unknown to any one else in the convent, as where her
aunt’s estates were situated, the knowledge of her jewels, the diamond cross,
so nobly offered to the saint, and particularly the broad pieces of gold in the
cabinet.
The mention of these valuables had
astonished Vavasour himself, for he thought them
secure from all mortal knowledge; as indeed they were, except to sister
Adeline, who, soon after her friend’s death, left that part of the country
where Mary’s aunt resided, and retired to St. Bertrand’s.—In the conversation
previous to her death, she had mentioned these effects to Mary, which now
served to strengthen her claim.
“I will remove you from this
convent,” said Vavasour, “and place you in one where
you will learn your duty.”
“She shall not quit our house,”
replied the abbess, “unless with her own consent; you yourself placed her under
the patronage of St. Bertand, and as I have every
reason to think your motives are not for the maid’s benefit, you must assign a
better reason for her removal than that of her great devotion to our holy
patron.”
Mary, who was now convinced she
should gain nothing by a removal, but, on the contrary, expected to experience
redoubled severity in another convent, or, perhaps, be at the mercy of a parent
devoid of natural affection, espoused the opinion of the abbess, and insisted
on staying where she was. Much time was spent in contention, neither party
being inclined to give way. At length the Sieur de Vavasour, finding that he had those to contend with, who
were to the full as obstinate and as interested as himself, with the addition
of being more powerful, quitted the convent; muttering curses on a child whose
only crime was wishing not to be sacrificed to unnatural avarice.
Though the abbess was deeply skilled
in hypocrisy and art, yet, unable to account for Mary’s conduct, she suffered
her own interested motives to blind her judgment; and hoping to grasp all,
however unwillingly, resolved to wait the full time when Mary could, legally, endow
the convent with her wealth, and, if possible, to detain her within the walls,
until that event should take place.
Mary had, in some measure, attained
her end. At first she had hoped to interest her parents, and to induce her
father to relax his intentions; his severity undeceived her, and, emboldened by
despair, she put in practice a scheme of revenge which she had frequently
meditated, namely, that of making the whole of her wealth accompany the
sacrifice of herself.
By this line of conduct there was
also some hopes of superior advantages ultimately accruing. In the first place,
she gained a respite of three years; and, secondly, a probability, at least,
that in that space of time something might occur, by the means of which she
might be totally freed from a thraldom so repugnant to her wishes.
On the departure of Vavasour, Mary received the congratulations of the fathers,
and the abbess; the latter of whom remarked, that she had, for some time past,
observed a great change in the character of Mary, which afforded her peculiar
pleasure, as she judged it proceeded from pious motives, by which she had been
latterly influenced, under the particular care and protection of St. Bertrand.
Mary did not attempt to undeceive
her, and made no reflections on what had passed, for the cruelty of her father
wrung her heart;—besides, she was conscious that the change of her temper from
liveliness to gravity, arose from the deprivation of Esther’s company only, and
not from any miraculous interposition of holy St. Bertrand in her favour.
CHAPTER
VI.
THE
conduct and resolution of Mary, for some time afforded conversation for the
whole convent;—some applauded and others condemned her spirit. The abbess’s
party affirmed it proceeded from inspiration, while the opposite faction, at
the head of whom was Martha, heard of her boldness with dismay and
wonder.—“Well, Heaven bless me,” cried the old nun, turning up the whites of
her eyes, “how different are the girls of these days to what they were in
mine!—all then was retiring modesty, submission, delicacy, and
acquiescence!—Now they stand forth with unblushing effrontery, and plead like
lawyers!—I should not wonder, if, hereafter, they were to run wild about the
world, usurp the rights of men, and claim the same independence!—When I took
the veil, my father’s word was law,—though I had, I must confess, a stronger cause for reluctance than Mary
can possibly have,—for there was a knight.——But such thoughts are now
vanity,—yet he was as fine a man as ever wore armour; and though his modesty
never suffered him to disclose his passion for me, yet his eyes have declared
it a thousand times. But I was never vain, nor given to boast of my
attractions.—You, sister Ursula, remember my coming into the convent;—you had
taken the vows some years, and had overcome those tumultuous feelings so hard
to be suppressed when young people first leave the world.”
“I thank you for that,” replied
Ursula, with evident pique, “I had not professed two months when you entered
the convent,—though, I thank Heaven, I
had no vicious propensities to overcome; and for knights or ’squires, I was too
young for any such filthy trash to enter my thoughts. I can just remember, for
as I said before, I was very young,—you looked old enough to be my mother.—But
age is no sin, however vanity may be one.”
“Old enough to be your mother,”
exclaimed Martha, “that’s good indeed;—why I could not be more than——”
“Thirty, at least,” interrupted
Ursula, “and that is now thirty-one years ago.”
“It is a spiteful falsehood,”
vociferated Martha, scarcely articulate from anger,—“I was nearer thirteen than
thirty, though it is now of no consequence.—But I am sorry to see, at your age, Ursula, and in spite of your
holy calling, that you are given to envy, and addicted to depreciate the merits
of others.”
“Holy St. Bertrand be my witness,
that I never envied you,”
answered Ursula,—“nay, I believe all the good sisters can vouch for me, that I
had no occasion in regard to person; and then, as to depreciating your virtues, I fancy you are not overstocked,
any more than your neighbours.”
“Why surely you will not dare to
call my virtue in question in this holy place.—To be sure, in the world I was surrounded with temptation that
required the prudence——”
“Of thirteen years of age to protect
it,” interrupted Ursula, “but you have now a trustier safeguard, Martha,—Time,
from whose withered clutches no one will attempt to assail it.”
This reply increased Martha’s
anger,—“I defy your malice,” exclaimed she, “my virtue——”
“Is very secure,” again interrupted
Ursula, “so let it rest in quiet, as doubtless it will;—for beauty being its
greatest bane, that, you may
thank Heaven, you never possessed.”
“Not beauty!” hastily replied
Martha, struggling to overcome her passion.—“Age, Ursula, strangely impairs the
memory.”
“So it appears,” returned Ursula,
“for me, my memory is as good as ever it was in my life;—for example, I
remember your person on the day you took the veil, as well as if it was but
yesterday,—I perfectly recollect that your hair——”
“Ah, those raven locks, as a young
knight used to call them,” interrupted Martha, with great self complacency.
“Were as grizzled as those of a
badger,” exclaimed Ursula, “your skin was as yellow as a kite’s foot, and your
teeth as black as ebony.—Marry, it was no great sacrifice to devote you to St.
Bertrand.”
Martha stamped with passion, and for
a few moments was unable to reply;—she then hastily shook sister Anne, whom
even the violence of the altercation could not keep waking, and by whose
auxiliary aid she hoped to combat with more success.—But here too Martha was
unsuccessful, for Anne was so cross at being disturbed, that she absolutely
refused even to be umpire; and Martha was therefore obliged to defer the
vindication of her beauty until a more favourable opportunity presented itself.
“I surely heard the voice of
discord,” said Magdalen, entering from one of the
outward cloisters;—what is amiss, I pray ye, good sisters?”
Fearful of injuring their reputation
for sanctity before a young sister, the old nuns immediately resumed their
accustomed hypocrisy.—“Nay, nothing was amiss, kind Magdalen,”
replied Ursula, “Martha and I were only discoursing on the dangers of beauty,
and the difficulty of forgetting those allurements which were most dear to us
in life.”
“Difficult, indeed,” replied Magdalen; “to pluck up pleasures by the root, to throw down
the self-built castle of worldly happiness, and to forego those affections on
which the heart was fixed, require, alas! time, reason, reflection, and
prayer.”
“Aye, and mortification,”
interrupted Martha, “fast, and punish your pampered body, sister.—That fair
face, roseate cheek, and bright eye, are ill tokens of a contrite heart.”
“Is it by outward tokens, Martha,”
replied Magdalen, “that you judge your fellow
sinners?—Is there, then, no feeling that passeth shew, and that like a vulture preys upon the heart instead
of the countenance.”
“None without injuring the
complexion, that ever I saw or heard of,” answered Martha.—“Look at me, and
behold a change which penitence hath wrought for only venial errors; for, I
thank God, that I never was prone to sin.”
“Aye, aye, age and convent
discipline are sad enemies to the complexion,” said Ursula.
“To judge, indeed, by your
countenance,” replied Magdalen, without noticing
Ursula’s remark, “your sufferings must have been severe, nay, dreadful;—and
they may serve as a beacon to terrify the young and unwary from sin, if such be
its direful effects in the hour of repentance.—But Heaven is gracious, good
Martha, therefore, I pray you, be merciful to yourself, for you have already
more the aspect of a spectre than of a human being; and should you die from the
severity of your mortification it would surely be sinful.”
“A spectre, quotha!”
retorted Martha, forgetting her usual hypocrisy, and grinning horribly in her
face,—“no more a spectre than yourself.—I wonder at your matchless
insolence;—you have affected silence and meekness a long time, but I thought
such prudent conduct could not last for ever.—No, no, I am seldom deceived, I
thought the mild lamb would turn out a very tyger.—Mercy
on me, I wonder the world stands, when even the retreat of holy St. Bertrand is
a cloak for hypocrisy, affected meekness, boasting, and vanity.”
“I grieve to see it,” answered Magdalen, mildly, “but be patient, good sister, if my
countenance offends you, could you look into my heart you would be amply
revenged.”
So saying, Magdalen
left them, and repaired to the garden, in hopes of meeting Mary, of whose conduct
she had heard both from the abbess and Bridget, mixed with great encomiums on
her devotion and love to St. Bertrand. Magdalen heard
the account with surprise, well knowing her young friend’s detestation to a
convent, and could attribute the change to no cause but some sinister motive
which impelled her to assume an appearance of hypocrisy which was totally
opposite to her real character.
Not far from the accustomed spot
they encountered each other, and after, as usual, looking round to see if any
one was within hearing, Magdalen asked for an
explanation of what she had heard.—“I cannot injure you, even for a moment, to
suppose you a hypocrite,” said she, “but surely, dear girl, it is sinful to
jest on sacred subjects.”
“Then on their heads be the sin who
forced me to assume a character so opposite to my natural disposition,” replied
Mary. “I will acknowledge that a parent who acts from real affection, is the
best judge of what is befitting a child, and in its nonage
has a right to its disposal;—but neither reason nor duty can sanction an
acquiescence to an act influenced by motives so cruel and unjust as those by
which my father is governed.—Heaven pardon him,” continued she, after a short
pause, “and inspire him with sentiments of affection and pity to a child that
never offended him willingly.—Dear Magdalen, how I
could love my parents would they permit me!—I want not wealth, let them dispose
of that as they please, but let me not be immured for life in a gloomy
sepulchre, haunted by mortal fiends.—Hypocrisy, no my dear Magdalen,
I detest the very name, for within these walls we see nothing else;—my conduct
is the offspring of fatal necessity, by which I have gained at least time, and
if at last I am obliged to take the vows, I will endeavour to insure myself
some privileges superior to those possessed by the sordid grovelling phantoms
of this convent,—creatures who think snuffling through their Ave Marias an expiation for every crime—and with the sacred
name of religion in their mouths, wear a diabolical mask, under the cover of
which they defile the holy altars with falsehood, vanity, slander, and every
degenerate passion that can disgrace the human heart.”
“For Heaven’s sake be prudent, dear
Mary;—consider the consequence should your real motive be discovered.”
“I could but die, Magdalen; I have long considered this subject, and my
resolution is fixed. I have a bold spirit, and am rendered desperate by
tyranny.—Say, my dear Magdalen, should I find the
means to accomplish my escape, would you accompany my flight?”
“Never! The most sacred vows bind me
to this spot; nothing but force, or the most fatal necessity, shall ever remove
me. Here must I live, and here must I die.”
“Then here, alas! must I die too,
for I cannot call it living. I had thought of a scheme, a desperate one
perhaps, but liberty is worth a hazard—it was to steal the keys while the portress was asleep.”
“A desperate one, indeed; I tremble
at the bare idea of the danger, and am unable to counsel you. But, never, Mary,
shall you repent your confidence in me.”
“I know it well, dear Magdalen; but what resource can I now have; or to what spot
can I direct my steps alone? A stranger in the world, without money,
unacquainted with the manners and customs of mankind—alas! alas! if you are
fixed here, then so must I—doomed never to escape these detested walls—never to
range at large in those delightful plains; for, even from my childhood, whensoever I could find an opportunity, I have stolen up to
the turrets of the convent, and gazed with wonder and admiration at the open
country, where I have seen numbers walking free and unrestrained. Oh, how
delightful did the fertile fields, and the majestic trees of the forest appear?
Then the great and boundless ocean! I once beheld a storm, and saw the ships,
for such I judged them to be from what I had read, tossed to the clouds, and
the next moment lost to my view. Tears insensibly stole from my eyes, and my
heart grew sick at their danger. Yet then, even then, Magdalen,
I wished I was in one of them; for I considered I should either be buried in
the fathomless deep, or reach some happy land of peace and freedom.”
Magdalen
endeavoured to soothe the strong emotion that accompanied her words, though, at
the same time, she was grieved to see that she had imbibed so decided a hatred
to a conventual life, as not a shadow of an
alternative presented itself.—“My dear girl,” said she, “your ardent fancy
paints the world in more fascinating colours than it merits; should you tempt
its dangers, never may it beguile you.”
“Often have I wished that I had been
the daughter of the meanest hind,” resumed Mary, “so that I had enjoyed the
affections of my parents; I then would have laboured for them, and endeavoured
to soften the infirmities of declining age, seeking no other recompense than
parental love. How have I watched and envied the tender attention of the birds
to their young brood! Oh would I had been formed like them, for then could I
have flown away from this hateful prison, and far distant from this detested
country!”
“You would encounter the same degree
of intolerance in the spiritual government of all countries that are
denominated Christian; and, behold the hearts of parents, and ghostly
directors, equally steeled to natural affection, and as prone to self interest
as in this,” answered Magdalen. “Believe me, Mary,
you would often meet danger where you least expected it; and find treachery
cloaked under the specious guise of probity and honour. Young, fair, and
innocent as you are in the world, you would meet with many enemies.”
“Enemies, dear Magdalen,
I would injure no one; but love all who would let me. Why, therefore, should
they be my enemies?”
“It is under the semblance of love
that maids are most beguiled, Mary. Men are arrant deceivers, and consider it
no violation of their honour to falsify the oaths they make us, and plunge us
into destruction.”
“Yet, Magdalen,
they look noble and honest.”
“Trust not too implicitly to the
countenance, Mary; you have seen few, except those in the convent, and religion
has, or ought to have, tempered their passions into peace.”
“Dear Magdalen,
I once saw such a gallant troop of soldiers, I have thought of them ever since;
nay, I have even dreamed of them, particularly of the horseman who led them. He,
I judge, was the master or captain, for the rest appeared to imitate his
actions; and when he spoke, though I could not hear what he said, yet his
followers rent the air with shouts of applause. He did not appear to be young,
but his carriage was noble, and his features bespoke command.”
“How was it possible you could
witness such a sight,” demanded Magdalen.
“I will tell you. Esther and myself,
accustomed to the convent from our early childhood, had, in our playful hours,
explored every corner; and, in one of our researches, had mounted the turrets,
which, from that time, became our favourite retreat, though we carefully
concealed it from all the inmates of the house, fearful of not only meeting
reproof, but being restrained from those excursions in future. As our years
increased, the view it afforded made it doubly pleasant to us; and, in one of
these visits, we saw the sight I mentioned. At first, the sound of loud and
strange music, such as we had never heard before, struck our ears; for unlike
the soft music in the chapel, this appeared to bespeak discord, wrath, and
defiance—and though we could not but admire it, we both trembled, gazing with
wonder from whence it came. We saw a numberless multitude of men, whose armour
glittered in the sun, and dazzled our sight; the noble horseman, whom I
mentioned, unsheathed his sword, and by his action appeared to breathe
defiance, his men followed his example, and at once, scared, alarmed, yet
delighted. I know not when our admiration would have ceased, had not the great
bell of the convent rang hastily, as a summons for every one to attend. We
reluctantly obeyed the call, and found all assembled in the chapel, appearing
much alarmed. The priests said mass, and the greater part of the afternoon was
passed in prayer. After the service, I heard one of the fathers inform the
abbess that the army of England had passed forward towards Bourdeaux.”
“When was this, dear Mary?” demanded
Magdalen, hastily.
“About three months before you came
to the convent,” replied Mary.
“Dreadful, never to be forgotten
period!” said Magdalen, in a low voice, but with an
agitation which attracted Mary’s attention.
“You are not well,—your face has the
appearance of death,” cried she, supporting her.
“I am faint.—I pray you let us part,
a few moments will restore me.”
“Nay, not so, be seated,—I will run
and fetch you water from the fountain.”
“I pray you take no notice of this,
I shall speedily recover.”
A silence of some minutes ensued,
when Magdalen, shedding a flood of tears which
appeared to recal her scattered senses,
affectionately embraced Mary, and said,—“What you have witnessed,
my young friend, is a tribute which sin demands.—Your mind is pure, long, long
may it continue so; for then, neither the malice of men, nor of devils, can
inflict the torments which I endure. Oh! how have my trespasses bowed my soul
to the earth, and marred every happy prospect!”
Mary attempted to soothe her
sorrows, but finding the effort did but increase them, ceased; and, after some
short conversation, fearing their longer absence might be noticed, they
returned to the house; in their way to which, Magdalen
endeavoured, and in some measure regained her accustomed serenity.
CHAPTER
VII.
THAT
cunning people often outwit themselves, and that avarice frequently defeats its
own purpose, was most truly verified in the abbess, who, allured by grasping
all Mary’s wealth in three years, readily yielded to her not taking the vows
till that period; and, to render all secure, resolved to call in the power of
the church, should her parents attempt to remove her during that interval. In
the mean time, she determined to treat her with distinguished kindness, and, as
an honour rarely granted to any one, frequently invited her to her table.
Mary had too much discernment to be
so easily deceived, but willing to take advantage of the present disposition in
her favour, frequently lamented the loss of Esther; and one day that the
superior was in a more than usual good humour, ventured to ask permission to cultivate
the acquaintance of Magdalen, whom, she observed, was
peculiarly reserved and melancholy,—that she had taken a particular fancy to
her,—and as all the other nuns were in years, should be happy to have a
companion more suited to her own age.
The abbess paused, and for some
moments appeared irresolute, but aware of Mary’s warm and determined temper,
and fearful of exasperating or disgusting her at so critical a juncture, at
length replied,—“Well may Magdalen be sorrowful,—she
has many sins to answer for. However, as she appears penitent, you have my
permission to converse with her; but, I charge you, let no idle vain discourse,
relating to the allurements of the world, pass between you.—I shall give her
the same caution, and be sure, as you value my favour, and wish to have this
indulgence continued, be strictly obedient to my commands.”
Mary, on her part did not scruple to
promise a due observance, and on the following day the superior was a
considerable time shut up in her apartment with Magdalen,
from whence, when she came forth, she introduced the young nun to Mary, who
cautiously received her as a new acquaintance,—simply (and without letting her
great satisfaction be too apparent) returning the abbess thanks for her
compliance with her request. Magdalen, on her part,
was wholly silent until the abbess had withdrawn; she then hastily demanded of
Mary how it was possible she could bring her to agree to such a concession in
her favour?
“By that which governs every thing
in this house,” replied Mary.
“I do not understand you.”
“Why, Lord how dull you are, dear Magdalen, you must have made but little observation for the
time you have been doing penance in this earthly purgatory;—do not you see that
every thing is carried on here by art and hypocrisy, so in this instance I have
turned my lady abbess’s weapons against herself.”
“I am truly sorry that such things
are practised within the precincts of a place set apart for pious meditation
and holy worship.”
“And I am sorry, on my part, to use
such deception;—but in this case, I trust, it is pardonable, for it has been
carried on for no ill purpose.—In your bosom I can now, without fear, pour out
my sorrows; and though you will not, or cannot have equal confidence in me, yet
will I be your true and sincere friend.”
From this time they conversed
publicly, but were careful of appearing intimate beyond the common conversation
of the convent; an intercourse which in some measure soothed the melancholy of Magdalen, and rendered Mary’s aversion to a life of
seclusion less painful.
While Mary was arranging her plans
within the walls of the convent, the Sieur de Vavasour was no less busy to defeat them from without, for
which purpose he had recourse to the law, by the potent aid of which, he was
for some time flattered by its professors, that he would be able to rescue his
daughter’s fortune from the strong gripe of St. Bertrand, who, they nothing
doubted, would then willingly relinquish her person.—The latter, it is true,
would not have operated violently on his parental feelings, otherwise than that
he knew it was essentially necessary to place her in some other mansion of
security; in default of which, the ultimate object of his wishes would be as
difficult to be achieved as ever. This, however, could he but once get her out
of the hands of the abbess, did not appear to him an insurmountable bar to the
completion of the business; for he was sure that a sum of money would at any
time influence other superiors, as well as the abbess of St. Bertrand’s, and
make them glad to receive a refractory daughter.
But this happened to be a more
troublesome business than he was aware of; for though mandate after mandate was
issued by the secular courts, which enjoined the abbess to deliver up her
charge to parental authority, she was too strict a disciple of Thomas a Becket
to acknowledge any other than an ecclesiastical order; the citations,
therefore, of the law, which summoned her personally to answer for her
disobedience, were totally disregarded. To enforce an appearance was out of the
question, for no officer would be found hardy enough to encounter the dreadful
anathemas of holy mother church.
To such a man as the Sieur de Vavasour, this fatal
termination of his long fostered schemes appeared worse than death;—already had
large sums been expended for his daughter’s pension, and in law expences, the reflection of which preyed on his vitals like
a vulture, and he secretly cursed both law and church.—What could be done?—To
lose the estates,—to pay up their arrears,—to give up the diamond cross, was
not to be borne;—the very idea drove him to madness.
In this wild perturbation of mind a
sudden thought spread an instantaneous gleam of hope through all his frame.—The
abbess, no doubt, was as interested as himself,—“Yes,” cried he, starting up in
a transport of joy,—“I will offer her a bribe that shall do the business at
once—not for St. Bertrand but for herself!”
Elate with this idea, he sent a
trusty messenger to demand a private audience, which being granted, he with
very little ceremony proposed to present to the abbess three thousand marks,
provided she delivered up his daughter to his custody, and relinquished all
claims on the part of St. Bertrand to her property.
The Sieur
de Vavasour was not out in his conjecture when he
supposed the superior of St. Bertrand to be as interested as himself; but his
sagacity had not yet learnt, that she was far beyond him in cunning, and would
therefore prefer a large fortune to a small part. She was well aware, that
though St. Bertrand’s name would stand forward in the title deeds, yet that in
fact he would be a mere nonentity—a kind of sleeping
partner, while she alone would be his active agent, and receive and disburse at
pleasure, without any apprehension of St. Bertrand’s appearing to call her to
an account. This being the case, no wonder that the Sieur
de Vavasour’s proposal was received with every
visible mark of pious horror and astonishment;—thrice were her eyes raised
upwards, as if imploring vengeance on the wicked wretch who could
sacrilegiously dare to bribe her to cheat holy St. Bertrand—thrice did she
reverently cross herself, by way of exorcism, while her lips moved with
inarticulate and, no doubt, pious ejaculation.
“Begone,”
at length vociferated the abbess, “thou unnatural father, and monster of
impiety!—Begone, nor longer pollute this sacred
retreat with thy unhallowed presence and demon like temptations; lest holy St.
Bertrand should annihilate thy body, and plunge thy sinful soul into endless
torment!”
So saying, the abbess, with more
haste, and consequently less dignity than became the superior of St.
Bertrand’s, quitted the grate that interposed between her and the Sieur de Vavasour; closing in her
retreat the massy door of the interior with such violence, that the whole
cloister shook and trembled in unison with the appalled heart of Vavasour, who now retired, in no very pleasant frame of
mind,—for he would almost have compounded for the threatened annihilation of
his body, so that he could have escaped his own feelings.
Mary, though the principal person in
the contest, was entrusted by neither party, and therefore remained ignorant of
all that passed; it being deemed politic by the abbess to keep her mind easy,
and prevent her, if possible, from having any communication with her parents,
till she was effectually beyond their power, and it was also impossible for her
to retract.
Thus the time passed insensibly
away, until Magdalen had entered the twenty-third
year of her age, at which period she had been near five years in the convent.
Mary was now in her twentieth year, and began to look forward with horror, when
she reflected that another year would determine her fate, and forever fix her
within those hated walls.—Sometimes giving way to anger, when alone with Magdalen, she would severely deprecate the avarice of her
parents; at other times she would only weep and deplore their cruelty, that
could banish an unoffending child from their sight, and bury her alive in a
cloister.
At the period above mentioned, an
infant of between four and five years old became an inmate of the convent; her
name was Ela, she was daughter of William, second
Earl of Salisbury, her mother was lately dead, and the earl being engaged in
the wars which at that time involved both England and Normandy in the unnatural
contentions raised by Queen Eleanor between King Henry and his sons, he
resolved to place his infant daughter with his great aunt, Sibella
de Rosmar, the Abbess of St. Bertrand’s.
The Earldom of Rosmar
had been long extinct, and the Norman possessions, in consequence, devolved to
the younger branch of the family resident in England, where the earldom was
first bestowed upon Patrick; who, being slain by Guy de Lusignan,
on his return from a pilgrimage to St. James of Compostela,
in Spain, in the year 1169, left his son William to succeed him, and who was
father to the infant Ela.
Though so nearly allied to the
abbess, the Earl of Salisbury was not admitted further than the grate, when he
came to deliver his child to her care.—“To your tenderness, holy mother,” said
he, “I commit my Ela. Devoted to the service of my
country, my absence from England may be long, I therefore consider my little
treasure safer in your care than left behind me; for sole heiress to our family,
I dread that her wealth may tempt the avarice of those that might profit by her
death, and her childhood and innocence render her an easy prey to their
designs.”
The abbess promised that her young
charge should want no care nor attention, but would not suffer any attendant to
accompany her; at the same time she did not fail to remind the Earl of the
concession she made in his favour of admitting an inmate, whose residence was
only temporary.
The Earl gratefully acknowledged the
sense he had of her condescension, and took an affectionate leave of little Ela, and a most respectful one of the abbess; while the
former did not appear at all sensible of the obligation she had incurred, by
being permitted to be a resident of St. Bertrand’s,—for she continued to weep
bitterly when separated from her father and her nurse, until she passed with
the abbess from the grate to the chapel, where all were assembled to evening
prayers. Here the little Ela’s curiosity was so much
attracted, that she gave over crying; and suddenly fixing her eyes on Magdalen, snatched her hand from the abbess, and running
towards her, exclaimed, in her infantile accents,—“Are you an angel? if you
are, I know you; you are my mother!”
Magdalen
clasped the infant to her bosom, and, overpowered by stifled feelings, and
bitter remembrances, sunk down senseless on the steps before the altar. Mary
and some of the nuns hastened to raise her, while Ela,
bursting into a flood of tears, again exclaimed,—“Oh, now I know you are my
mother, and you are again going to Heaven, to leave me. Ah, dear mother, take
your own Ela with you.”
Tears at length relieved the
suffering nun; Ela hung round her neck and repeatedly
kissed her, still calling her by the name of mother, and tenderly chiding her
for remaining so long absent from her.—Magdalen
returned her caresses, while Mary turned aside and wept, as she considered what
satisfaction she herself should feel in being mother to such a lovely child,—a
blessing that, in all human probability, she must never experience.—Tears now
filled her eyes, and her overcharged heart swelled near unto bursting.
“Alas!” said she, mentally repining,
“how hard is my fate; never have I experienced the transports of maternal
affection! never shall I communicate them, but, like a tree blighted in the
bud, wither, unnoticed and unlamented.”
The abbess viewed the scene with a
frown; her bosom was unacquainted with those tender ties which mothers only can
properly estimate. Some of the nuns beheld the child with grinning malignity;
while the novices, like Mary, plainly shewed by their sighs, and starting
tears, that their virgin hearts were formed by nature to have entered warmly
into the sympathies and duties of the matron.
Ela was at
length restored to silence, but still holding Magdalen’s
hand. The evening duty was performed, after which, when the abbess attempted to
give her to the care of Bridget, the chapel resounded with her cries. Magdalen, with great gentleness, soothed her, and at length
prevailed on the superior to let her have the care of her for a few days, till
she was accustomed to the convent.
The liberal stipend allowed by the
Earl of Salisbury, for his daughter, was a circumstance strongly in favour of
the little Ela, as the abbess by no means wished to
render the convent hateful to her. She flattered herself with being able to
keep her some years under her care; and should the Earl at any time visit the
house, and find her disgusted with the society, he might, from his extreme
fondness, remove her.
Magdalen,
at a proper hour, put her young charge to rest, placing her own head on her
pillow till she was asleep. She would fain have taken her for her companion
during the night, but that indulgence the abbess refused, saying, that when
once asleep, sister Bridget would, if she awoke, pay her all proper attention.
Magdalen,
on retiring from the presence of the abbess, walked into the outward cloisters,
and meeting Mary, proceeded to the garden, where they entered into a more
particular conversation, than the publicity of the house would allow.
“Magdalen,”
said Mary, “I never saw you appear so interesting, as while you caressed that
infant to day; your arm was placed so tenderly round her, and your eyes gazed
so fondly on her. Ah, how I envy children who enjoy such comforts, and how I
pity those who know not the tenderness of a mother!”
“Alas, alas!” exclaimed Magdalen, in an agony of grief, wringing her hands, “My
punishment is greater than I can bear.”
“Holy Virgin!” cried Mary, “how have
I unintentionally distressed you.—Your parents, I now know, were cruel; but
behold me, dear Magdalen, your sister in affliction,
we will comfort each other.”
“Ah, Mary, there the barbed dart
sticks fast in my heart. I dare not turn my eyes inward; my punishment, though
severe, is just.—I was an ingrate to the best of mothers, and at my great and
final account, her mild and suffering spirit will doom me to perdition.”
“Say not so, Magdalen;
though you should be faulty, a good mother will plead for mercy for her child,
and at the judgment seat of Heaven, the prayers of the virtuous find place.”
“Then, indeed, Mary, will her’s be heard, and once more may we meet.—Oh, in mercy, if
that be granted, I am content to suffer here. But I pray you, dear Mary, let us
change the subject; for, though I feel confident in my own resolutions never
wilfully to falsify the vows which confine my sorrows to my own breast, yet in
a moment of unguarded agonized feeling, I may utter some expressions not
strictly according with their solemn purport.”
The affectionate Mary immediately
began a conversation on her own affairs.—She expressed her wonder that she had
received no news of her parents, and speaking of her fate as fixed, said,—that
now she was grieved she had endeavoured to protract it.—That in truth her
brothers, though she had never seen them, were more dear to her than St.
Bertrand, and therefore she wished they had possessed her wealth;—that she
pitied her parents for not knowing how sincerely she was capable of loving
them,—and finally, condemned herself for her hasty resolution of revenging
herself on their want of affection.
Thus conversing they returned to the
convent, and in heaviness of heart retired to rest,—or rather to reflect,
during the solitary hours of night, on the bitterness of their fate.
CHAPTER
VIII.
WHILE
Magdalen and Mary were commiserating each other’s
misfortunes, the usual group of scandal retailers, with Martha at their head,
had assembled in a corner of the chapel; where Ursula began by very
significantly inquiring whose child it was that had been admitted into the
convent that afternoon?
“The abbess,” said Anne, “announced
her as the only child of the Earl of Salisbury, an orphan, and committed to her
care, as the earl was about being engaged in the wars.”
“That is likely enough,” replied
Martha, “but can you tell me who is the mother?”
“That I did not hear,” answered
Anne.
“You did not hear,” replied Martha,—“well but though
you did not hear, could not you see—or at least understand?—But mayhap you
wilfully shut the eyes and ears of your senses.—I did not hear
neither, but though I did not hear it is as plain——”
“Aye, aye, Martha,” interrupted
Ursula, “it is as plain as the nose on your face.”
“I do not know what my nose has to
do in the business,” replied Martha, pettishly.
“Nor I neither,” said Anne, “for it
appears to be a scandalous one, and therefore unbecoming an aged devotee.”
“Aged!—Marry come up;—and scandal
too!—and pray where can there be any scandal in truth?—I say the mystery is now
solved.”
“Mystery,” replied Anne, “what
mystery?”
“Why Magdalen’s
silence and sickness, and weeping and wailing.—The abbess too, I suppose, did
not wish to expose the errors of her nephew, and so kept her within the
purlieus of her own apartments until——well, for my part, I say it is a shame
that we chaste virgins should be constrained to mix with such impure
women.—Heaven preserve me from the effects of evil example, for poor human
nature, without its protection, is never infallible.”
“Amen!” replied Anne, “though I hope
your danger, Martha, from the
passions you allude to, is pretty well over.—But,” continued she, after a
pause, “Magdalen’s child it cannot be, for by its age
it must have been born since she was in the convent.”
“Some children appear younger than
they really are,—as for Magdalen, I dare say she is
older than she looks;—to be sure, there are many girls that are very forward.—I
must own, from her first coming into the convent I always suspected something, and now my suspicions are fully
verified;—indeed, for that matter, no one can be mistaken, for the child is the
very picture of her,—and did not you note how she ran to her and called her
mother,—and how Magdalen pressed her to her bosom,
and wept over her!”
“What a wise child she must be to
know her mother by instinct!” replied Anne, “for we are all well assured it can
be by no personal communication; as no child has passed the grate of the
convent into the interior part for many years, until the day that little Ela was introduced by the abbess.”
Sister Josephine, who at times took
a particular pleasure in thwarting the old nun, under an appearance of being on
her side of the question, now remarked, that she had likewise taken notice of
the child’s behaviour, and should not hesitate a moment in being of the same
opinion with Martha,—“only, perhaps,” continued she, “Magdalen
might resemble Ela’s mother, and that will account
for the child’s behaviour.”
“Resemble a fiddlestick,” replied
the disappointed nun, who at first was flattered into an assurance that she had
made Josephine a proselyte to her opinion,—“I say, and will maintain it, that
it was sympathy;—the power of sympathy is great, as I myself have experienced.”
“What then have you had a child?” demanded Josephine.
Martha apparently started with
horror, and with a voice broken and almost inarticulate through rage,
exclaimed,—“A child!—I a child!—I defy your malice.—Satan himself could not
tempt me to—to have a child.—No, were even his Holiness the Pope to release me from
my vows, no man should tempt me to sin,—even though kings and princes knelt at
my feet.”
“You may as well withhold your
protestations till you find them there,” replied Josephine; “though I think it
would be truly laughable to see all that are left out of the grave, of the
kings and princes of your youth, come hobbling on their crutches, swathed in
flannels, kneeling at your feet.”
“Malignant wicked woman,” exclaimed
Martha, passionately, “were it not that St. Bertrand himself has gifted me with
more than common patience, you would make me guilty of the sin of anger.”
“There is no cause for anger,” said
sister Anne, “I thought you were speaking of Magdalen,
but you have strangely varied from the subject.”
“Josephine ever does so,” replied
Martha, “her greatest delight is to affront and insult me, and cast reflections
on my chastity.”
“Not I, in truth, for I am well
assured your chastity is very secure. ’Tis your own
vanity beguiles you.—Had you been young and beautiful, and left to the
temptations of the great world, I know not what might have happened;—but as it
was providentially settled otherwise, the danger has been prevented.—To be
sure, I have heard poor old sister Joanna say, that when you were both girls
together, you was dreadfully
forward; and that your greatest delight was in romping with your father’s
lackeys, who were in continual disgrace on your account.”
“It is false, and all a vile lie
from beginning to end,” exclaimed Martha; “and as for that wicked slanderer,
Joanna, who, I make no doubt, is now in purgatory for propagating such scandal,
she was a woman when I was a child—a mere infant.”
“Good lack! good lack! how
wonderfully you both must have changed situations,” replied Josephine, “for in
the register of your births, you have somehow or other contrived to hop full
three years before her.—Ah, I doubt not but sister Joanna was right, as you
appear, even from your nativity, to have been a very forward chicken.”
“Your slander, Josephine,” returned
Martha, assuming a look of composure, “moves no other passion than pity.—Indeed
I do not wonder much—but you should endeavour to overcome that unfortunate
propensity which ever betrays itself, and makes even the novices say,—‘Sister
Josephine looks pure and rosy to-day, it is not for nothing that Bridget and
she are so intimate.’—‘No, no,’ replies another, ‘she keeps the key of the
abbess’s store room.’”
Martha had now touched a key that
was not likely to produce harmony in the mind of Josephine.—Conscious of her
own failing, like a galled jade, she became peculiarly sore and restive, till
one vindictive word producing another their mutual rage knew no bounds; every
thing that malicious spirits could invent, or narrow minds could utter, was
repeated.
Sister Anne, and the other nuns, now
thought it high time to interfere, and to make peace between them, or at least
to endeavour to restore quiet, on their own accounts; being fearful of the
disturbance reaching the abbess’s ear, in which case, the least they had to
expect would be a curtailment of their meetings in future, a punishment, in
their sequestered state, much to be dreaded. After some little time their
efforts proved successful, the angry nuns retiring to their cells vowing never
more to hold intercourse or conversation with each other.
This vow they had made at least a
hundred times before, and had as often broken, notwithstanding they had jointly
called upon St. Bertrand to ratify the agreement; for it frequently happened,
that some fresh news, or some secret scandal occurred, and as no congenial mind
at the moment presented, they were per force obliged, like the great
politicians of the world, to wave their rancour, and form a close alliance.
Such were the women who professed to
lead a life of holiness!—who had foresworn the vanities of these earthly
regions, but who impiously insulted Heaven with a specious hypocrisy, under the
mask of what they termed religion.
Ela on the
ensuing day ran again to Magdalen, and threw herself
into her arms; from the time she awoke, she had not ceased crying until she saw
her. As before, she clung about her, as if fearful of being removed;—again she
called her, her dear, dear mother, nor could the anger or persuasion of the
abbess cause her to desist.—“Sister Magdalen is not
your mother,” said the abbess, “and I will not have you call her so.”
“She is my own dear, dear mother,
and I will call her so,” replied Ela, with the
petulant spirit of a spoiled child;—“though it is so long since I saw her,”
continued she, her eyes filling with tears, “ah! she was then so ill, and so
pale, and as she kissed me her face was so cold!—and then they forced me away,
and would not let me see her again, but told me she was gone to Heaven, to be
an angel.—Oh! I am glad I have found her again!—and though you call her sister Magdalen, I am sure her name is not sister Magdalen, and you shall not call her so, for I will tell my
father if you do.”
“You are an obstinate perverse
child,” replied the abbess; “I am your mother now.”
“You my mother,” repeated Ela, with a
saucy toss of her head, and a smile dimpling her cheek, still wet with tears,—“You, no, I know better than that; you are
too big, too fat, too old, and too ugly, to be my mother.”
The holy abbess of the pious
sisterhood of St. Bertrand forgot herself so far, as to give the young Ela a violent shake, at the same time threatening her with
being severely punished.
For a minute, Ela
could not speak; but when she did, sobbing with passion, she replied,—“See,
naughty woman, how you have made my dear mother cry?” then kissing Magdalen, she added,—“Do not cry, I do not mind her, my
father promised to come and see me soon, and then I will tell him all, and that
you are here, and that he shall see you, and take you home again; for I do not
believe this is Heaven.”
The words of Ela,
childish as they were, appeared to confuse the abbess; her ruby cheeks, for a
moment, became pale, and she remained silent. Magdalen,
in some measure, appeared to share her embarrassment, and addressing the child,
said,—“Indeed I am not your mother; but if you are good, I will love you
dearly.”
The entrance of the priest, who
performed the morning duties, put a stop to the conversation; and prayers being
concluded, the abbess, after a long and particular private discourse with Magdalen, either from some secret cause, or that she
relaxed in her first intentions respecting Ela,
consented that the child should be placed under her care during the day, but
that she should still sleep within her own apartment during the night.
The first part of this arrangement
was highly gratifying to little Ela, and not
otherwise to Magdalen, whose melancholy was
frequently beguiled by her innocent conversation, and infantile caresses. Ela was equally a favourite with Mary; and between both
these friends, she speedily became reconciled to the convent, night only
operating as a drawback on her daily happiness, as she then was obliged to
sleep in the same apartment (to use her own words) “with the old ill-natured
Bridget.”
The petulant effervescence of Ela’s temper was never checked by Mary, whose active spirit
and firm character appeared more formed to support her through the cares and turmoils of the world, than suited to the dull, inactive,
and monotonous routine of a conventual life. Magdalen, on the contrary, never failed to reprove her
young charge, when she found her giving way to the natural warmth of her
temper, which had still been encreased by excessive
indulgence.
To these gentle lectures, which bore
the marks of maternal solicitude, more than of chiding, Ela
would listen with attentive silence; and when Magdalen
had concluded, she would throw her arms about her neck, and promise obedience,
provided her dear mother, (for so she ever called her,) would not be angry, nor
look sad.
Thus passed several months, and the
time fast approached that was to fix Mary’s fate for ever.
CHAPTER
IX.
WITHIN
a month of Mary’s completing the age of twenty-one, which was the time
specified for her inheriting her estates, the abbess informed her, it was expected
she should be professed as speedily as possible, after her minority had passed.
Mary replied,—“That she first
required to see her mother, as she had considered on the sin of disobedience,
and wished to entreat her pardon.”
The abbess appeared much provoked at
this request, which she said was nothing but a subterfuge, and peremptorily
gave her a denial; at the same time palliating her refusal, by saying it was
impossible, after what had passed. That, in regard to herself, she had met with
every indulgence the convent could afford, and it was now full time to prove
her sincerity to St. Bertrand, and her devotion to Heaven; in which, if she
failed, her duplicity would not be overlooked, but would draw down upon her the
severest punishment in this world, as well as eternal condemnation hereafter.
The high spirit of Mary rose
contemptuously at this threat.—“I have done nothing to deserve punishment,”
said she; “it rather belongs to those, who, in defiance of all laws, human and
divine, attempt to violate and subvert the dearest ties of nature. But if I am
to suffer, I will meet it not like a criminal, but with that fortitude which my
oppressers may, probably, want, when the hour of
retribution comes;—kindness may influence me, restraint I will repel by
firmness. But why, Madam, need there be any dispute on account of so trivial a
request? I only entreat to see my mother; there surely can be no guilt in this.
You will perhaps say, to what purpose can it lead? Simply, then, for no other,
than for once to indulge the
painful feelings of nature and filial love; those tender ties which, alas! I
have never been allowed to experience. Perhaps, too, I might be enabled to
awaken dormant affection in her heart, and make her acquainted with the child
she relinquishes for ever.”
“Away with these earthly
weaknesses,” interrupted the abbess, “which enervate and corrupt the
mind—prepare to embrace another and a better mother, holy religion, who rejects
none that truly seek her; in her fostering arms you will learn to forget your
worldly parents, and those things which now bow your soul to dust.”
“Stern rugged nurse!” emphatically
replied Mary. “Yet not so—surely religion doth not destroy all the social
affections of the mind, for it strictly enjoins us to love, honour, and succour
our parents; and never will I forget or cease to pray for mine, though, cruel
reflection! they have abandoned their poor unoffending child.”
“Were you as truly devoted to a
religious life, as I had flattered myself,” answered the abbess, “this request
had never been made, and which now convinces me, that you have for near three
years been deceiving not only me, but also the holy devotees of our house; but
I warn you not to urge my kindness too far, for not even the Sieur de Vavasour himself, were
he now so disposed, could remove you. His Holiness the Pope has been informed
of your first resolve; and should you retract, will give me full authority to
act as I think proper.”
“At your pleasure, Madam,” replied
Mary. “I have already informed you, that threats will not influence me; bind my
body with fetters of iron, my mind will still be free,—force cannot compel me
to assign my property.—You will
please also to remember, that were even
my life to be the sacrifice to a non-compliance, my family alone would be the gainers.”
“Deceitful, abominable hypocrite,”
exclaimed the abbess, “would you be impious enough to falsify the offer you
formerly made?—would you defraud holy St. Bertrand of what is now his just
right?—and do you not tremble at the vengeance which he will doubtless, by the
hands of his ministers, inflict, if you continue thus obstinate? But I will not
longer contaminate myself by holding conversation with one so lost and
depraved, lest your sinful breath should prove infectious.—I shall forthwith
summon the holy fathers of this diocese, who, unless you speedily repent, will
deliver you over to that awful tribunal from whose sentence there is no appeal.
Once more I warn you,—repent, I say, or tremble at the fate which awaits you,
if you persist, and once incur the anathema of holy mother church.”
With these words the abbess left
her, and overwhelmed with melancholy at the dangers which were now drawing to a
crisis, her wonted spirits almost forsook her. Willingly would she have retired
from her own painful reflections to seek consolation from Magdalen,
but that she feared involving that tender hearted friend in her own
disgrace.—Painful retrospection was alone in her power,—bitterly did she regret
the step she had taken, and sincerely did she repent her thwarting her father’s
views; for the mild affections of her heart severely accused her, when she
reflected, that had she acquiesced in his desires, by taking the vows, her
fortune would have made her family happy, which now would only be expended in
pampering the pride of the fat abbess, and assist her in extending her
hypocrisy. Though, as before observed, Mary was totally unacquainted with what
had passed between the Sieur de Vavasour
and the abbess, yet the latter, in order to make every thing as secure as
possible, had spared no pains to render all the endeavours of the father to
remove his daughter ineffectual; and for that purpose she had sufficient
interest to procure an extraordinary convocation of the priesthood of the
diocese, who had recourse to their accustomed fulminating doctrine of
threatening the father of Mary, if he dared to persist in her removal, to lay
him under the pains and penalties of excommunication,—a threat which obliged
him to desist, and left him only to deplore his own cruelty and avarice, from
the fruits of which he was now so justly deprived.
Mary had not continued alone more
than an hour, when she was joined by sister Bridget and the portress;—they
brought the commands of the abbess for her to retire to a cell in the
penitentiary, where, as they expressed, the abbess hoped St. Bertrand would
inspire her with better thoughts, and expel the evil spirit which had so
fatally wrought on her youth and weakness.
Mary with determined courage
concealed the horror with which this command inspired her, and followed the
nuns, without reply, to the place appointed. It was a cell in the outward
cloisters, of about six feet square, faintly enlightened by a small grated
window at a considerable height from the ground. The whole furniture of this
gloomy apartment consisted of an old table, the feet of which were fixed in the
ground; it stood before a recess in the wall, near six feet in length and two
in breadth, in this a straw mattress had been deposited. As the wretched hole
was raised a convenient height from the ground, it served a double purpose of
both chair and bed.—On the table a large crucifix was erected, and underneath
was placed a skull upon some crossed bones; and for fear these solemn insignias
should not render the mind sufficiently gloomy, a large book lay open at a
particular passage, which set forth the heavy punishments, both in this world
and that to come, attending different crimes, particularly that of offending
the saints by speaking evil of them, or attempting to deceive them by
protestations or false promises,—which crime, without exemplary repentance, and
a life of severe mortification, was doomed to be expiated by fire in this
world, and the offender’s ashes scattered by the wind.
Mary glanced her eye over the
dreadful page, and shuddered with wild dismay.—In a few minutes she collected
her almost fleeting senses, and said mournfully,—“Am I then in truth such a
sinner as is here pourtrayed?—Oh, righteous Power, if
such be the punishments threatened to those who unintentionally offend the
saints, what will be their lot who wilfully sin against thee by vile hypocrisy, and for the sake
of filthy lucre. I have indeed acted deceitfully, for which may I obtain
forgiveness; but my unhappy situation will, I trust, in some measure plead in
my behalf. Gross as I feel my error, would it not yet be more deadly to pollute
the altar with false vows?—else why should I feel a moment’s repugnance in
quitting a world in which I have no particular interest,—no tender parents,—no
affectionate brothers or sisters,—no friends.—Gracious Heaven! to what purpose
was I born, forlorn and deserted as I am?—My
very prosperity becomes my bane, and serves but for an instrument of
persecution.—I love Magdalen, and her company would
soothe the horrors of this living grave;—but should she die, to be for ever
confined within these hated walls, without a friend, and surrounded by vile
moping hypocrites—my heart revolts at the thought, and my constant murmurings
and discontent would increase my first error, which repentance may obliterate,
into the most deadly and fearful trespass.—How to determine I know not.—Heaven
protect and direct me!—Could I but once more see my dear Magdalen,
she should be the arbitress of my fate, and her voice at once direct and fix my
irresolute mind.”
Mary passed several hours, after
this soliloquy in sad and dreary silence, which was at length interrupted by
the door of her prison being unbarred, unbolted, and unlocked, and in a few
moments old Bridget entered, bearing a pitcher of water in one hand and a small
loaf in the other. Having placed these sparing aliments on the table in gloomy
silence, she solemnly stalked forth, and the same harsh noise of fastening the
huge portal occurred as grated the ear upon its opening.
Mary surveyed what had been brought
her with silent anguish, but her heart was too full to take any nourishment,
except a little water; after which, having commended herself to that Being
whose eye can pierce even into the deepest recess of a dungeon, she threw
herself upon the humble couch, and soon sunk to rest, if perturbed and broken
slumbers can be so called,—for the events of the day had made too strong an
impression to be easily erased from her mind, though sleep had closed her eyelids.
At one time, fancy pourtrayed the abbess, furious and
swollen with rage, threatening all the pains and penalties that human art could
inflict; and denouncing eternal vengeance, if she longer refused to take the
vows. Mary thought she was reduced to the most hopeless despair, and was for a
short space wavering and undetermined how to act, when suddenly a soft voice
whispered,—“Persevere!” Her spirits now appeared raised to an uncommon degree
of resolution, insomuch that she gave the abbess a firm denial.—“Die then,
wicked irreligious dissembler,” pronounced the enraged phantom, suddenly
darting a poniard at the breast of the trembling sleeper. Horror struck, and
anticipating instantaneous death, already she conceived she felt the dagger’s
point, when lo, a radiant form, with a motion quick as the lightning’s flash,
arrested the stroke, and the murderous weapon fell from her nerveless arm.—“Die
thou, wicked irreligious
dissembler,” pronounced the areal being, in a voice
that appeared to shake the building, a bright flame of fire at the same time
issuing from his mouth, expanding and spreading, until it completely encircled
the now terrified superior, whose loud scream betokened horror and dismay.—“Oh!
save me, Mary!” she seemed to say, “save me from the avenging flame!—I sink—I
die!—Mercy!—mercy!—mercy!”
The terrific sounds struck so
fearfully on the ear of Mary that they dissolved the bands of sleep and she
awoke under all the influence of a disturbed imagination. Starting from her
humble couch, she gazed wildly around, nor could she for a while persuade
herself that it was only an illusion proceeding from perturbed spirits, and a
more than usual abstinence.
After some little time she became
calm enough to reflect on the particular circumstances of her dream, with which
her mind was much impressed.—“The deeds of the wicked,” said she, “are a
consuming fire.—Persevere.—Yes, I will persevere, for surely it was the voice
of my guardian angel who pronounced that consolatory word.”—Mary’s mind now
felt more calm than it had been since her confinement, and she resolved to
await the event with a firm and patient resignation.
CHAPTER
X.
WE
shall leave Mary for a short space, and return to the superior, whose soft and
luxurious couch had by no means been a place of calm ease and quiet rest, for
her slumbers had also been broken and disturbed.—Numberless horrid forms
appeared flitting before her disturbed imagination, some reproaching and
severely censuring her hypocrisy,—others exhorting her to repentance; amongst the
latter, her disordered fancy distinguished two figures in winding sheets, who,
though pale and emaciated, yet bore the perfect resemblance of Magdalen and Mary.—Rising, as she thought, to correct their
bold intrusion, their forms suddenly were lost in air,—loud thunder shook the
walls,—vivid lightning encircled her on every side.—Her mental agitation now
burst the bonds of sleep, and in an indescribable agony of terror and dismay,
she shrieked so loud as to alarm old Martha, who, rushing into the apartment,
demanded the cause? Bereft of her usual cunning by the fright, Martha heard the
dreadful vision recounted.—Having crossed herself, in due form she then
comforted and soothed the abbess, and finally, that no efforts on her part might be wanting, in order to
strengthen the relaxed nerves of the superior, she filled up and presented her
a large cup of aqua vitæ; and as tales of terror
sometimes make a strong impression on sympathetic and feeling minds, Martha, to
avoid all bad consequences, followed the good example.
The cordial was truly reviving to
both parties, the tremulous nerves of the Lady Abbess soon regained their
former tone, and Martha was emboldened, partly by the liquor, and partly by the
confidence her superior had just reposed in her, to offer gratuitously, what
she called a bit of advice.—“My good Lady,” said the antiquated nun, “why will
you discomfort and terrify yourself about two sinful ungrateful creatures, when
you have the power to make them act as you see best befitting your own will and
pleasure.—If Mary’s perverseness blinds her to the interest you have, that is
to say, which you take for her soul’s health, let her pampered body be daily
scourged, and reduced by fasting and solitary meditation, and, my life upon it,
she will soon be brought to compliance; and as for her mincing demure friend Magdalen, who, by the bye, I take to be more hypocrite than
saint, it is my firm belief that she advises and upholds her in her
stubbornness.—Were I in your place, I would separate them entirely, for they
only corrupt each other with vain and idle discourse.”
“Good Martha,” returned the abbess,
“your counsel I partly approve, and if Mary does not speedily retract her
perverseness, she shall feel all the vengeance that our holy religion empowers
its ministers to inflict on obstinate and incorrigible offenders;—but first of
all I mean to try milder methods. After matins send Magdalen
to me, I will see how she is disposed to assist in this affair, for I know that
her power with the weak girl is great. She shall be commanded to visit Mary in
her cell, and to advise her to a speedy compliance;—if she refuses, she shall
partake of her punishment,—and that there may not be any deception, prepare
yourself to hear, unseen by them, what passes.—But hark! there is the matin bell—let devotion alone now be our care.”
With demure and solemn steps, the
arch hypocrites then repaired to the chapel, raising, with apparent sanctity,
their hands and eyes to Heaven; while their sordid and grovelling souls were
absorbed and chained to earth.
Matins being ended, these habitual
devotees, who changed according to time and place, put off the outward garb of
sanctity, and cloathed themselves with their usual
mammon of unrighteousness.
Martha was dispatched for Magdalen; while the superior, seating herself in state,
debated within herself whether she should receive her with all the awful
dignity of an arbitrary cloistered tyrant, or whether she should unbend the
accustomed severity of her features, and dress her face with the smiles of
mildness and benevolence.
The latter was just concluded upon,
and she had only time to adjust the proper muscles, as Magdalen
entered and kneeled at her feet.
The requested benediction was given
with much apparent sweetness and complacency. Magdalen
then arose, and the Lady Abbess having made a sign to her with her hand, to
take a seat, she addressed her in this manner:—“I am greatly pleased, daughter,
to see, for some time past, that melancholy which formerly clouded your brow,
give way to a calm serenity;—believe me, my dear child, the vain and gaudy
pleasures of sinful life, are not to be regretted, and will ever, on
reflection, sink as nothing, when brought in competition with holy
retirement.—We here pass our days unenvying and unenvied,
and peaceably await that great change which insures our eternal happiness.”
“Heaven grant, holy mother, that we
may be truly prepared,” replied Magdalen.—“I humbly
trust that I am at length weaned from all worldly allurements; and begin,
indeed, to find that inward peace which none can enjoy whose minds are divided
from their Creator by coveting precarious honours, fading riches, or fleeting
pleasures.”
“You talk this well,” interrupted
the abbess, dropping her assumed complacency, and reddening all over;—for the
latter part of Magdalen’s speech was, from innate
guilt, self applied.—“But are you sure,” continued she, “that—that you truly feel as you speak,—that you do not
deceive yourself,—or what is still more heinous, by attempting to deceive me,
you are false to——”
“My God!” wildly articulated Magdalen, rising and dropping on her knees.—“Oh,
never,—never dare I lie against the Holy Spirit!—Should I not then be another Saphira?—and might I not expect the awful thunder of
Almighty vengeance hurled at my guilty head, pronouncing—Die, wretch!”
“Hold!—Hold!” shrieked out the
abbess, “nor longer wound my ears, I charge you, with your shocking impieties!—Begone instantly!” waving her hand towards the entrance of
the portal. Magdalen obeyed the peremptory command,
and the conscience stricken abbess, in the utmost perturbation of spirit, sunk
upon her soft cushions gasping for breath; for Magdalen’s
words had awakened and renewed with redoubled horror the terrors of her dream.
Leaving the abbess to her own
reflections for a small space, we will return to Magdalen,
who, in her retreat, was accosted by Martha, with,—“So you have your lesson, I
suppose,—but i’faith it has been but a short one.—Why
what is to do now! you look as if you had seen the evil one.”
“Evil enough, indeed, I fear,”
returned Magdalen, with a sigh.
“Oh! oh! then it seems you do not
approve the part you are to take in the business;—but you had better comply, or
it will be worse for you.”
“What business, good Martha, and why
am I thus threatened?—Surely there is some strange insanity abroad!”
“Insanity, quotha!—Come,
leave this fooling, and haste to obey the abbess’s commands.”
“I have obeyed them.”
“You have obeyed them!—why this is
downright madness.—Which way did you get in and out then—through the latticed
bars?”
“I noticed no latticed bars; you
introduced me through the portal yourself, and I returned by the same way that
I entered.”
“Indeed!—Well—well, my jeering
companion,—we shall soon see who is to be the laughing stock.—I go to acquaint
the abbess that you have obeyed
her commands, though, to my certain knowledge you have not been near
Mary.—Never fear but she shall be told in what manner—for do not think that I
will be laughed at with impunity.” So saying, with an hysteric grin, which was
truly diabolical, from her countenance being distorted by passion, she hastily
quitted Magdalen to put her threats in execution.
The old nun’s rage threw her off her
guard, so that the usual ceremony of humbly tapping at the haughty superior’s
retired apartment door was omitted; in lieu of which she forced it open with
such a sudden jerk, that it rebounded with a noise that occasioned the abbess
to start and stand aghast,—doubly increasing the disorder in which Magdalen had left her.
For some moments each gazed wildly
on the other; at length the abbess broke silence, and with her lips quivering
with passion, exclaimed,—“What want ye, old fiend?—How dare you, thus
unceremoniously to break on my privacy?”
“Pardon me, good Lady, I was so
provoked that I scarce knew what I did, for Magdalen——”
“Well, what of her?”
“Why she says she has obeyed your command.”
“True.”
“But she has not visited Mary,—so
how can that be?”
“Because she knew nothing of the
matter—She obeyed my command of quitting my presence.—Her impertinence—but no
matter,—in short she displeased me, and—and I dismissed her somewhat hastily;
but summon her again, and hold yourself in readiness to give her access to
Mary, and to heed their conversation.”
Martha instantly obeyed, and in a
few minutes returned with Magdalen, in which time the
abbess had again brought her features to their former composure, and she
received the fair nun with a gracious nod, accompanied by a smile of
complacency.—“I am scrupulous, child,” said she, “perhaps I am over scrupulous, when sacred subjects are
the theme of conversation;—but I trust you did not mean to speak irreverently,
though your expressions were certainly not sufficiently guarded.—But enough of
this for the present,—for I wish to hold some conversation with you of the
utmost import, on which, perhaps, the salvation of an immortal soul
depends;—say, if through your means a wayward spirit could be reclaimed, would
it not be a glorious triumph over sin and Satan?—and would it not, think you,
plead in mitigation, when your offences are brought before the great tribunal?”
“Oh, teach me, dear Lady,”
interrupted Magdalen, with great energy, “teach me
how I may become the humble instrument in such a cause, and you shall find my
whole soul devoted to your pious wishes.”
“Why that is well,—and no doubt
conduct like this, and an implicit submission to your spiritual directors,
will, in time, obliterate your past misdeeds. Since I find you so disposed, I
shall instruct you in the way you can promote this holy work.—The perverseness
of the novice, Mary, is not unknown to you, and, mark me well, I am perfectly
aware of the power you have over her;—I expect, then, that you exert this
power, for her’s and your own soul’s salvation. This
business compleated, you may both, through life,
expect from me every mark of favour and indulgence.”
The abbess paused, and Magdalen was about to reply, but the superior, possibly
auguring no ready acquiescence to her will, from the nun’s countenance,
immediately rose up and led her to the portal, saying,—“Retire, I want no
reply,—Martha waits to conduct you.—Act in obedience to my commands, or dread
the vengeance of the holy fathers.”
Confused and astonished at what had
passed, Magdalen was too much agitated to form any
resolution.—Indeed she had no time for deliberation, for Martha immediately
accosted her with,—“Well, I suppose we are not at cross purposes this time, so
if you will condescend to tread in my footsteps, I shall lead you where you are
to go.”
So saying, she sullenly led the way
through a chain of dark and winding passages, at the termination of which their
course was interrupted by a ponderous door, secured on the outside by an iron
bar, a lock, and three bolts; the sonorous noise of which, while they were
separately removed, and the surrounding gloom, impressed an unusual terror on
the already alarmed mind of Magdalen. A cold dew
stood on her forehead, her lips opened to expostulate, but her tongue refused
its office.—Immediately the harsh grating of the hinges vibrated on her ear,
the portal was thrown wide, and Magdalen found
herself within the space it enclosed. Before she could collect her disordered
thoughts, she heard the dissonant fastenings again replaced, and the next
minute she found herself in the arms of the persecuted novice. For some time
their overcharged hearts would not permit any other communication than by their
mingled tears, and the reiterated exclamations of—“Dear Mary!”—“Dear, dear Magdalen!”
At length, being more composed, they
seated themselves on the humble couch, and Mary recounted all she had felt
since her confinement,—not forgetting to relate her dream, the impression it
had made on her mind, and her resolution to persist in refusing to take the
veil.
“Alas! dear Mary,” said Magdalen, “if that is your determination, I dread the
event;—what cannot cruel power inflict within these walls, where peace and
comfort never enter? Do not think that I am permitted to visit you out of
kindness,—I am sent for the express purpose of persuading you to accord with
their desires; nor would I fail to do so, were this indeed a sanctuary in which
the unhappy might find rest, in holy meditation and calm retirement,—for you
have no tender parent,—no affectionate brother,—no sympathizing friend!—The
whole world, to you, presents a blank,—one vast and dreary void!”
“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Mary, “for
what purpose was I born?—was it only to be rendered miserable?—Even the
offspring of wolves and tigers experience some affection from the creatures
that gave them being,—is it just that Providence should be more bountiful to
them than to me!”
“Forbear, my dear Mary, it is sinful
to repine,—but much more so, to arraign the wisdom of that Being, who, for a
time, permits injustice and oppression to flourish, in order that his own power
and might may be more clearly evinced to short sighted mortals, and that their
future happiness may be more complete. Did you not tell me, that in your dream,
when reduced to despair, your spirits were suddenly raised?—and again, that
when a form, like the abbess, raised the fatal poniard, a celestial Being
arrested the impending stroke? Believe me, my dear girl, I augur much from your
dream.—Put your whole trust in the Almighty, and humble yourself in lowly
reverence before him,—he alone can aid you in your distress;—for I will not
impose upon your understanding to say any help can be attained from mortals.”
“To him humbly will I submit, and
implore pardon for my fretful impatience,” said Mary.—“But, dear Magdalen, what account mean you to render of your
mission—for I know your soul too well to think you will advance a falsehood,
when the superior demands in what manner you have obeyed her?—Will it not be
best to say, you did not care to urge me too much in the first visit; that you
are not without hopes of my
compliance, for that I have no hold on which I can ground an affection, without
the walls of this dismal seclusion. This, alas! is a sad truth, and, to enjoy
your company, my dear friend, I would willingly submit, in any other real religious house;—but to be
continually surrounded by a parcel of wicked hypocrites, with that spiteful
ugly old harridan, Martha, at their head, is too much for human patience to
bear.”
“I grieve, Mary, to say, that I fear
there is too much justice in your remarks of the pretended sanctity of many
within these walls;—nor are you deceived in supposing, that I will not submit,
whatever may be the consequence to myself, to say that I have implicitly obeyed
the abbess’s arbitrary commands.—I however think it right, more on your account
than on my own, to soften the report, and it may be as well to do it in the
manner you have proposed; for without a miracle being wrought in your favour, I
at present can see no alternative to your taking the vows, or falling a
sacrifice to your non-compliance.”
“Act as you see best befitting the
circumstances that may occur, my dear Magdalen,” said
Mary, “and those, to my sorrow, will doubtless speedily be called into action,
for that abominable hag, Martha, will soon be here, and she——”
The door was now heard to unlock,unbar, and unbolt, and with a spiteful rigidity of
countenance, in stalked the much affronted old nun.—“Yes,” re-echoed Martha,
“She,—the abominable old hag and harridan is here, and will most faithfully
recount every syllable of your pious conversation.—Reviling your
superiors,—accusing them of hypocrisy,—casting an odium on holy religion,—if
this does not bring down punishment, impiety may rest secure.—But, thank
Heaven, we do not live in an age of paganism, and if the holy tribunal doth not
take cognizance of such misdeeds, Heaven itself would
avenge them. Old hag!—we shall see what a figure beauty will cut, when smoking
at a stake!”
“I know not what either have done to
deserve such a fate,” replied Magdalen, “if you
allude to us.”
“And, however good your will may be
to bring us thither,” continued Mary, “thank Heaven that power does not rest
with you.—It appears that you have been meanly endeavouring to overhear our
conversation, for what purpose is obvious; in doing this, the adage has been
verified,—‘Listeners never hear any good of themselves.’—Yet let me conjure
you, for your soul’s sake, not to aggravate what you have heard;—if you do not
choose to soften, let there be no malicious additions. I may, perhaps, be blamable for speaking of you in not the most respectful
manner;—but be assured, were it in my power, I would not do you the least
prejudice.”
“Oh, ho!—oh, ho!” horribly grinned
the old nun, at the same time sticking her arms a kimbo,
and waddling up to Mary, “what, you want to wheedle and soften the old hag, do
you;—but you may spare yourself the trouble, for——”
“Away with such mean derogatory
suppositions,” interrupted Mary, “nor dare to think my soul on a level with thine!—Make concession to one like thee!—Sooner will I
brave the utmost rigour my unjust enemies can inflict!—Farewel,
my dear Magdalen,” throwing herself into her arms,
and bursting into tears, “you shall be remembered in my prayers. Possibly this
may be our last embrace,—yet we shall one day meet in happier regions.—Farewel—Oh, farewel!”
The afflicted friends now tore
themselves from each other’s arms.—Mary threw herself upon her wretched couch,
covering her face with her hand and sobbing aloud; while Magdalen,
equally moved, slowly quitted the cell, followed by Martha, who failed not to
replace the massy fastenings which secured the hapless prisoner.—“My presence,
I suppose, can be dispensed with until you have made your report, I shall therefore,
for the present retire,” said Magdalen; “when the
abbess requires me to come forth, I shall obey her summons.”
Martha heard with sullen silence,
and pursued her way to the superior’s retired apartment, while the young nun,
with a heavy heart, sought her lonely cell, foreboding that much inquietude would arise from the late events.
CHAPTER
XI.
MAGDALEN
was not mistaken in her conjectures, for the irritated old woman, by her
relation, had incensed the superior into a perfect frenzy, under the influence
of which, she ordered Mary to be severely scourged, a command that Martha,
aided by Bridget, took care to see obeyed. This violence, however, had not the
effect of making the injured novice more compliant; on the contrary,—though
mild and susceptible by nature, even unto weakness, she was now roused into a
state little short of madness, and which terminated in a fever so violent, that
on the second day her life was despaired of.
The abbess, for the first time, now
began to think she had gone too far. Not that she felt any compunction for her
savage barbarity; but she feared to defeat her own projects by Mary’s death.
Her character, too, for sanctity and humanity, possibly would be called in
question; for, though the agents of her cruelty might be presumed to be her
creatures, yet she knew that caballing and whispering was not unfrequent, even within the walls of a convent.
As Magdalen
had also incurred the Superior’s displeasure, she also was thought a meet
object for punishment, though the abbess did not think it prudent to carry it
to the extent she had done with Mary; she therefore contented herself with only
restricting her of her usual liberty, and ordered her to keep close within her
cell. But this restraint was of no long continuance; for when Mary was supposed
to be in danger, it occurred to the sagacious abbess, that no one would be so
likely to soothe her perturbed mind as Magdalen. She
was, therefore, commanded forthwith to administer to the necessities of her
afflicted friend, and by every means in her power to endeavour to recal her wandering reason.
Magdalen
willingly obeyed, but was greatly shocked to see the ravages that the disorder
had made, in so short a period, on the person of the persecuted Mary; she
therefore lost no time in doing every thing in her power, not only to restore
her wandering senses, but also to repair her weakened frame, which was much
shaken and impaired by the violence of the fever. To aid both purposes, she
obtained of the abbess permission to exclude all those who had been Mary’s
persecutors, and to be herself the sole attendant; this the abbess willingly
acquiesced in, not from a desire to gratify either of the friends, but it was
too plain to admit of a doubt, that Mary’s derangement would never subside, while
Martha and Bridget were admitted, her irritation of mind constantly increasing
while they were present—nor would she take any medicine or nourishment from
their hands.
A very little time convinced the
abbess, that this was the only method to pursue, for Mary’s disorder gradually
abated, insomuch, that in a few days, she recognised the person of her friend,
and rejoiced at her presence. But nature had been too much exhausted to expect
an entire and speedy restoration, for which reason the crafty abbess forbore to
urge, for the present, the completion of her interested project; on the
contrary, her art and hypocrisy led her to assume an air of kindness and
affability—a behaviour too palpable to deceive either Mary or Magdalen. It however had one good effect, for it rendered
their situation more comfortable, by the liberty they enjoyed of a free and
uninterrupted communication, of which even little Ela
was now suffered to partake.
Some months thus passed, to the
mutual satisfaction of the friends, who, notwithstanding the dull monotonous
routine of a conventual life, thought themselves
happy that the abbess had abated her former persecution; and that she contented
herself with only daily recapitulating to Mary, the mild and calm satisfaction
that the professed devotee enjoyed, on these occasions, appealing to Magdalen, whether they were not superior to the turbulent
and guilty pleasures of the great world.
“Since the Almighty hath so willed
it,” replied Magdalen, one day, “I bow submissively;
and yet there are ties which busy memory will sometimes recal
to wound and lacerate poor human nature. Oh, reflection! Parents—a friend and
sister—and, alas! those still dearer ties of affection——”
“Magdalen,”
sternly interrupted that abbess,—“have you forgotten your solemn——the only
condition which preserved your wretched——”
“Ah, no!” articulated the distressed
nun, dropping on her knees, and wildly gazing around, “my terrified imagination
again presents the horrid scene;—again I behold the uplifted dagger pointed at
my breast by injured——”
“Forbear, frenzied woman,” exclaimed
the abbess, putting her hand before her mouth, “nor tempt your certain fate,
should you betray——Instantly retire, and recollect yourself.”
Magdalen
obeyed, and slowly rising sought her cell, to contemplate, in painful solitude,
over the misfortunes of her eventful life.
A silence of some minutes ensued,
which Mary did not venture to interrupt, in which interval the abbess
endeavoured, and in part succeeded, to regain her former smiling complacency;
after which she bestowed the accustomed benediction, and majestically withdrew.
Magdalen’s
meditations were soon interrupted by a message from the abbess, requiring her
immediate presence, a command which the fair nun instantly obeyed, though with
a heavy heart; foreboding not only a severe reprimand, but also some severe
penance being inflicted, for having inadvertently suffered her feelings to recal past images to her heated imagination.
But severity at this time did not
suit the abbess’s purpose.—Magdalen was therefore
agreeably disappointed when she found that the superior received her with a
serene countenance, and mildly cautioned her to be more guarded in her
expressions; as it might lead to dreadful consequences, from the effects of which
it would not be even in her, the superior’s power, to save her.
CHAPTER
XII.
SOME
little time now passed in a state of happiness, that is when compared with the
past, for the abbess ceased from her persecution;—in addition to which, the
health of Mary became completely established. Little Ela
was sometimes permitted to accompany them in their walks, and they again
wandered together in social converse; congratulating each other on the calm of
the present moment, and praying for its continuance.
When the child was with them they
confined their walks to the garden; at other times, they would wander beyond
the bridge, and not unfrequently the friends would
drop a tear of pity on the sod which covered the remains of poor Agatha.
One evening, Mary having complained
that she had a slight pain in her head, Magdalen
would have declined walking, and continued with her, but the young novice
knowing her friend’s fondness for her accustomed exercise, insisted that it
should be pursued; saying, that as the pain was but slight, she was well enough
to accompany her. Magdalen, however, would not admit
of this exertion,—at length it was agreed, that Magdalen
should take a walk by herself as far as the bridge, and then return, as by that
time it would be about the hour for vespers.—As this friendly altercation had
continued some time, it was nearly dusk, the sun having sunk beneath the
horizon, when the young friends separated.
The vesper bell tolled for prayer,
and the nuns were assembled, but Magdalen did not
appear. The abbess loudly exclaimed, and threatened a severe penance.—At that
moment a vivid flash of lightning, accompanied by a tremendous burst of
thunder, produced an instantaneous trepidation and silence in the whole
assembly;—all fell on their knees, and endeavoured, by fervent supplication, to
deprecate the wrath of Heaven.
For six hours the storm raged with
the utmost fury,—the lightning exhibited whole sheets of fire, which illumined
all around,—the thunder shook the building to its foundation,—the rain poured
in torrents,—and such furious gusts of wind howled around, that the affrighted
sisterhood, deeming all things in nature were going to wreck, had not leisure
to bestow a thought on ought but themselves; alternately shrieking, and each,
putting up prayers for her own individual safety. Poor Magdalen
was therefore forgotten by the abbess, and indeed by all except Mary, whose
anxiety getting the better of her terror, she attempted to bribe the old
gardener and the portress to accompany her in search of
her friend. But these personages declared, that the wealth of Christendom
should not tempt them near the unhallowed purlieus of Agatha’s
grave,—where, doubtless, the foul fiend that guided the fatal dagger, was
roaming, with more than common activity on such a ruthless night.
But a cessation of the storm, and a
fine morning, brought a quietus to the perturbed minds of the alarmed
fraternity;—their piety slackened as the hurricane subsided,—their vows to the
saints, particularly pecuniary ones, were no more remembered,—and the
extraordinary disappearance of Magdalen became the
natural substitute. Some of the sisters remarked, with a calm stoical gravity,
that doubtless she had perished in the storm; while others, amongst whom were
Martha and Bridget, gave it as their opinion, that the evil spirit over the
bridge, had not only destroyed her, but also had raised the late fearful
tempest concluding their charitable surmise with saying,—“Aye, aye, hypocrisy,
vanity, and pride will always meet with its deserved punishment.”
Whatever the superior’s
thoughts were, she however had the cunning to keep them to herself; and
commanding silence, said, that some of the nuns, accompanied by the old
gardener, should, at the first dawn of day, seek her. The latter did not dare
disobey, and Mary directly presented herself for this purpose; others excused
themselves, one having a violent cold, and could not therefore endanger her
life by walking on the wet ground,—another had the tooth ache,—a third would
have gone with a very good will, but then she must of course leave them at the
bridge, having made a vow never to pass it. The abbess then ordered Bridget and
Martha to accompany Mary and the gardener, saying,—that she would herself,
though their superior, have set them an example of charity and humiliation, by
heading the search, but that she had private devotions to perform, in gratitude
for the preservation of the community from the effects of the late tempest.
The
abbess having bestowed her benediction, majestically withdrew to her private
apartment, to await the result of the search. Mary also waited, but
impatiently, the return of light, which no sooner appeared than the whole posse
proceeded, and without experiencing much terror from an apprehension of
supernatural agency; it being a consequent conclusion, for weak understandings
to associate darkness with areal forms, whether
celestial or infernal.
This being the case, the gardener
now declared, that being in such good company, he should not much care whether
he, even for once, passed the dreaded bridge, should their search not be
terminated before. The two old nuns held their peace, only now and then by
significant winks, nods, and shrugs, gave each other to understand, they
expected as fatal a catastrophe, in the present instance, as that which befel poor Agatha.
As for Mary, her friendly feelings
for Magdalen, unsheltered, and exposed to all the
fury of the tempest, absorbed every other consideration; that she had fallen a
victim to its violence, she doubted not.—She would fain have consoled herself
with the idea, that Magdalen’s misfortunes and
sufferings had now terminated; yet, when she reflected that she herself would
be left without a single friend or adviser, her anguish was redoubled.—How
trifling did she now think were her late troubles, and how gladly would she
have compounded with acceding to the abbess’s views, provided she could have
regained her lost friend, and made her a partner in her seclusion.—“Ah!” said
she, mentally, “I shall never again behold the hapless Magdalen,
for doubtless she has perished.”
The thought was like the stroke of
death,—a cold chill came over her,—she groaned aloud,—vital animation was for a
time suspended,—and she fell motionless on the damp earth.
The old nuns shrieked and turned
round, their pallid wrinkled countenances assuming a cadaverous hue, from fear,
while the almost superannuated gardener’s long neck was stretched out to develope the sudden mystery;—his eye-balls were fixed on
vacancy, his short grey hairs became erect and bristling, his nostrils
distended, and his whole frame agitated and tremulous, from extreme terror.
“Lord have mercy upon us!” exclaimed
the nuns.
“Lord have mercy upon us!” roared
out the old man.
Immediately some underwood
in a thick coppice, close to the gardener, became violently agitated,—a rushing
noise was heard, accompanied by a fearful scream,—the old sisters again
shrieked, and measured their lengths by Mary.—Not so the gardener, for terror
at different periods gives power as well as inability;—such now nerved the
limbs of the old man, who suddenly starting from the horrid spot, ran, or
rather flew, till he regained the lodge of the convent, where, breathless with
his extraordinary exertion, and incoherent from fright, he presented himself
before the portress, who, not being able to make out
the cause of alarm herself, thought it expedient to repair forthwith to the
superior, and acquaint her with as much as she knew of the gardener’s return.
Some little time elapsed before she could
gain admittance, for the abbess being fatigued with watching during the storm,
had, after recruiting her spirits with some choice viands and exhilarating
cordials, quietly, now the danger was over, resigned herself to sleep, and was
not in the most pleasant humour to be thus disturbed; but, on hearing that the
gardener was returned alone, and much agitated, she thought it necessary to
descend to the lobby, and endeavour to gain what information she could into the
cause.
The old man was, by this time,
sufficiently recovered to recite, minutely and circumstantially, the order of
their march, until the terrific groan of Mary; her falling lifeless on the
earth, in consequence, as he supposed, of her seeing some frightful
apparition—the old nuns sharing the same fate—the goblin’s disappearance, and
loud scream, which shook the whole coppice—with divers other matters, which
either fear or fancy had impressed on his disturbed imagination.
“And what is become of Mary,
Bridget, and Martha?” enquired the abbess.
“Dead—stone dead,” replied the
gardener.
“Dead!” re-echoed the superior.
“Good Providence! And did you not see any thing of Magdalen?”
“Nothing! doubtless the evil spirit
hath borne her clean away with him.”
“Heaven preserve us!” ejaculated the
superior;—“but lose no time—haste to the dormitory belonging to the chapel, and
summon Friar Lawrence; tell him a pressing occasion requires his immediate
attendance, and do you accompany him hither.”
The old man obeyed, and speedily
returned with the friar, for his order not requiring the ornament of dress, he
needed but little time to array himself. The abbess, then, in few words,
explained the cause for requiring his presence, and having called for two more
of the older nuns, this company set forth, to renew the search for Magdalen, and to assist, if not already past assistance,
the fallen members of the late cavalcade.
The abbess and holy father led the
van, descanting on the disappearance of Magdalen, and
the succeeding occurrence, while the two grave sisters formed a corps of
reserve, and the gardener, at some little distance, and perfectly to his
satisfaction, brought up the rear; resolving, on the very first alarm, to make
his retreat, while the evil spirit was employed in carrying off, or otherwise
annoying, his superiors. But a little time convinced him, that this precaution
would be needless; for, on a nearer approach to the dreaded bridge, they all
saw—not the apparition of Agatha, but the corporeal substances of Martha,
Bridget, and Mary, sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, in grave and social
converse.
On perceiving the abbess and her
companions, the first party immediately arose, and approached to meet them;
when the superior lost no time in demanding an explanation of the gardener’s report.
Mary described her fainting as being caused by her concern for Magdalen; and the old nuns their’s, in consequence of the
supposed death of Mary.—“But the gardener,” rejoined the superior, reports,
“that after he supposed all three to be lifeles, there
was another loud scream, which proceeded from the coppice, accompanied by a
violent agitation of the leaves and branches.”
“I know not from whence that could
be produced, or by what means,” interrupted Mary, “unless it was occasioned by
a screech owl; for I remember, on my recovery, I saw a very large one enter the
coppice, making at the same time a fearful noise.”
“Doubtless it was nothing but this
bird that occasioned the silly old gardener’s terror,” replied the friar.
“But have you seen nothing of Magdalen?” said the abbess.
“No, good lady,” answered Bridget;
“though, indeed, we have not yet crossed the brook to search the wilderness.”
“We will then, so please you, direct
our steps that way,” said the friar, “and also examine the stream, least,
peradventure, accident, or design, may have precipitated her therein.”
“So be it,” replied the abbess; and
the whole party then moved forward, carefully exploring every brake, dell, or
cover; following also the course of the stream to its outlet, under the mossy
wall which surrounded the convent’s grounds, where a strong iron grating was
placed, in order to prevent any thing but water from passing.
But, notwithstanding the strictest
scrutiny took place, not the least vestige of Magdalen
appeared, and the whole groupe slowly returned to the
convent; the superior and the friar earnestly conversing, in a low voice, while
the rest silently followed.
Just as they were about to re-enter
the convent, they saw the Abbot of Pau, moving with
hasty steps towards them, who, addressing the abbess, exclaimed, in a hurried
tone of voice,—“Have you heard the rumour?”
“Of what tendency,” replied she.
“That Henry of England is incog, in this province.”
“Ha!” groaned out the abbess,
turning pale.
“Good heavens!” ejaculated the
abbot, “has any thing unpleasing?”——
“I—I was about sending for you,” faulteringly replied the superior,—“Magdalen
is missing!”
“Ha!” cried the abbot, his
countenance assuming as pallid a hue as that of the abbess, and the eyes of
both were now fixed on each other, in all the wildness of consternation and
dismay.
For a short space not a word more
was uttered; at length the abbess broke the awful silence, by commanding the
inmates of the convent to retire, when she and the abbot, after having
continued in conversation for about half an hour, the latter retired in much
seeming perturbation.
CHAPTER
XIII.
FOR
three whole days the abbess was not visible, and the gates of the convent were
kept closely shut and barricaded, but, as all remained quiet and unmolested,
the novices began to ridicule this more than usual precaution; when, to their
great terror and consternation, a little after midnight, on the fourth morning,
the whole community was disturbed by a loud and repeated beating at the front
portal, which not being answered, was renewed, with little intermission, at the
other entrances. Though all were greatly alarmed, having speedily assembled
together, yet the portress, Martha, and Bridget,
appeared in perfect agony, often exclaiming, that nothing could save their
lives. Mary, though young, and exceedingly terrified, asked the portress why she did not repair to the abbess, and counsel
her in this emergency.
“Oh,” exclaimed the old beldame, “she is not in the convent; she has taken care of
herself, and left us to the vengeance of the enraged.—Oh, Lord!
there—there—they are breaking in,” screamed the terrified portress,
the noise at this period being loudly repeated, at the same time throwing down
the keys, and quitting the assembled nuns, with as much speed as her limbs
would permit; in which act she was accompanied by Martha and Bridget.—In the
mean time the noise ceased not, and Mary, though every limb quaked through
fear, became collected enough to propose going up to a tower over the front
portal, and from a lattice, demand the meaning of this violence, provided any
of the sisters would accompany her. After some little hesitation, they agreed
to move together in as close and compact a body as the premises, through which
they were to pass, and the old winding staircase would permit. To encrease their courage, they carried with them a number of
lighted tapers, for darkness is no mean auxiliary to terror. In this manner
they began the procession, with Mary at their head; as they advanced, and the
light from the tapers glared through the iron-grated apertures of the tower,
the knocking ceased. Mary soon reached a small turret over the portal, and
demanded if any one was at the gate?—“It is I,” answered a feeble voice, “for
God’s sake admit me as speedily as possible.”
“Sure it is not Magdalen!”
exclaimed Mary, with joyful surprise, joined with a doubt of uncertainty.
“Magdalen
indeed, and I believe I speak to Mary.—But haste, for I am faint and
exhausted.”
Mary needed no more.—“It is Magdalen!—It is Magdalen
returned!” said she, endeavouring to get before the rest of the cavalcade; but
this was impossible, for the pass was narrow, and those that were behind in the
ascent, now, in their turn became leaders.—Besides, fear had given way to
curiosity;—the exit of Magdalen had been
wonderful,—her sudden return was no less strange, in their speed for
information it is therefore, not amazing, that they made a small
mistake,—namely, in repairing to the portal without the keys. This mistake was,
however, soon rectified, for they recollected the portress
throwing them down, in the refectory, when she made her exit. With some
difficulty they unclosed all the doors between the main entrance, and at length
reached the wicket of the grand portal, through which they admitted the
trembling and almost exhausted Magdalen; who had no
sooner gained the threshold, and found herself in safety, than sinking into the
arms of Mary she fainted away.
This was a mortifying drawback to
most of the members present, who had already vociferated in a breath,—“Where
have you been?”—“How came you here?”—“By what means did you quit the convent?”
&c. &c.—Mary, with much difficulty, at length prevailed on them to
restrain their inquiries until Magdalen was in a
better state to answer them, and to content themselves in the present instance
with endeavouring to restore and comfort her.
This requisition, after some little
demur, they thought proper to comply with, and for a two-fold reason,—in the
first place, these ladies had been carefully instructed to preserve an
appearance of humanity; added to which, they sagaciously concluded, that until Magdalen was recovered, their curiosity must remain
unsatisfied. They, therefore, by different applications, and by administering
cordials, at length restored and bore her into the interior of the convent;—she
was, however, as yet too weak and faint to indulge them with the much desired
recital, which being the case, some of the elder sisters thought it advisable
to search for Martha and Bridget, as representatives of the abbess, in order to
acquaint them with Magdalen’s reappearance.
This, for a time, was a task of some
difficulty,—for whatever was the particular reason that impressed them with a greater apprehension of danger
than the rest of the community, yet remained unknown; certain it was, they were
more anxious to withdraw themselves from it, had what they feared, namely, a
forcible entry into the convent, taken place.—However, some little time after
sunrise, the noise and confusion having completely subsided, these sage damsels
came forth from their hiding places, and received an explanation of the cause
of alarm, and of Magdalen’s return.—The latter report
appeared to give them much satisfaction, though to the great surprise of the
rest, they did not seem at all anxious for the fair nun’s recital,—saying, that
they must insist that Magdalen should not be
disturbed by any one, until the abbess arose.
“Arose!” replied one of the younger
nuns, “why did not the portress say that she was not
in the convent, and that——”
“I said no such thing,” gravely
interrupted the old beldame,—“did I, Martha and
Bridget?”
“No, to be sure you did not,”
replied the latter, “and whoever raises such false reports may rest assured
they will not fail to be severely punished.”—So saying, the grave triumvirate
stalked out of the assembly, leaving them not a little surprised at this
declaration.
A silence of some moments ensued,
which was at length interrupted by Josephine,—“Well, for my part,” exclaimed
she, “I think the wickedness and effrontery of some people—mind, I mention no
names—is beyond every thing;—what do you say, Ursula?”
“Say,” re-echoed Ursula, “why I say
nothing, for the least said is the soonest mended,—but this I will say,—that in
future I shall be careful how I trust to my own hearing, or give way to the
evidence of any of my senses. To be sure I thought the old cross grained portress said, when she threw down the keys, that——But I
will not repeat her words, for they say that walls have ears, and there is so
much mystery now-a-days in every thing;—indeed, there has been nothing but
mystery and confusion since this Magdalen came among
us.—I am afraid she is no great things for all her outward demureness.”
“I think,” interrupted Mary, “that
you give your tongue great latitude, notwithstanding your apparent
caution.—Suspend your judgment, however, if you possess any, for a little time,
and, my life on it, the character of Magdalen will
appear as unsullied as that of any one within the walls of this domain.”
“It ill becomes such a chit as you,”
returned Josephine, “and one who is only a novice, to address the language of
reproof to a professed sister; but impertinence and folly are as natural to
youth——”
“As scandal and malevolence to some
of riper age,” replied Mary, “when that age has been attained without acquiring
wisdom, or possessing humanity and good nature.”
“I am sure you want to be taught
wisdom and good manners to boot,” replied Josephine.
“And I would gladly learn,” retorted
Mary, “did I know where to apply for an instructor.”
“You may depend upon it that the
abbess shall hear this,” said Josephine.
“And then, you may depend upon it
that the abbess shall also hear what gave rise to it; and other matters which,
no doubt, she will be equally pleased with,” answered Mary.
“Come, Josephine,” said Ursula, “let
us leave this weak girl to herself,—the matin bell
will soon ring, when we will pray for her amendment.”
“Do,” replied Mary, “not forgetting
your own at the same time.”—Mary possibly might have added something equally as
flippant, but the piqued ladies gravely stalked away; contenting themselves
with bestowing only a spiteful glance at the young novice as they passed by
her.
In the mean time, Martha, Bridget, and
the portress had held a consultation together, the
result of which was, that Friar Lawrence was dispatched on an especial embassy;
these grave sisters then attended matins.—Some hours after which, about midday,
the Abbot of Pau was announced, and ushered into the
abbess’s private apartment, where he remained some time. The abbess then made a
public appearance, declaring, that for the last three days she had been greatly
indisposed and obliged to keep her apartment; she then retired, accompanied by
the abbot, having first dispatched Bridget to Magdalen
with an order for her forthwith to attend her.
The fair nun, though still very
weak, was yet sufficiently recovered to obey this summons, and was received by
the abbot and abbess with an appearance of much severe gravity; but seeing her
weak and trembling state, they pointed to a stool, and commanded her to sit. A
silence of some minutes then ensued, after which, the abbot addressing her,
said,—“Magdalen, you have, contrary to your solemn
oath, and against the rules of this house, clandestinely withdrawn yourself,
and been absent for some days;—you are now to declare, without any
prevarication or concealment, in what manner you contrived to surmount the high
walls of the convent—who were your advisers and assistants—where you have been
concealed during your absence,—and with whom you have had any communication?—It
is expected, in your answer, that you will be very explicit and open, not only
in regard to persons, but also in describing places, and the conversations that
passed in your presence, from the minute of your departure to that of your
return;—by so doing, we shall be the better able to decide, how far it may
plead in mitigation of the dreadful punishment attached to a breach of your
solemn oaths.”
A pause of some moments now ensued,
after which Magdalen, with great modesty, but equal
firmness, replied,—“If it be deemed necessary, most holy Father, that I should
be punished for what I could not help nor prevent, God’s will be done, and I
will endeavour humbly and submissively to bow with resignation beneath the
unjust sentence.”
“How, daughter!” interrupted the
abbot, “for such I will still call you,—did I hear aright?—was there then force
used to oblige you to leave these holy walls?—But sure it could not be!—who
dare be guilty of so much impiety? and what means could they contrive to
penetrate into a place where no expence has been
spared to render it secure?”
“Does not this circumstance, holy
father, plead in my behalf?” returned Magdalen;
“could a poor weak woman, unfriended and unaided,
penetrate through, or ascend such enclosures?—Means of communication also I
have none, nor doth a human being know that I exist, except those that are
hostile to my re-appearance in the world.—I have no wish, no desire to leave
this place, else why did I return, the minute that I was at liberty so to do?
Yet I must confess, there are some ties—some dear pledges, of whom,
nevertheless, could I but sometimes be assured, they were well and happy, I
need no more.—Here would I live—here die.”
“Dear daughter,” replied the abbot,
in a softened tone,—“your words have the appearance of artlessness, and I find
myself inclined to give them credence, their tenor still tends to confirm their
first import; proceed then minutely, and without interruption, with a narrative
of all that happened after you entered the garden on that eventful day, in
which you was missing.”
“An eventful day, indeed, holy
father,” replied Magdalen,—“and never to be forgotten
by me. You may remember, lady,” said she, addressing the abbess, “that Mary and
I had been accustomed to walk together in the convent garden; on that fearful
evening, I went forth by myself, for some faint flashes of lightning having
appeared, and of which Mary had great dread, having also a trifling
indisposition, she declined accompanying me, and would fain have dissuaded me
from walking, and fortunate would it have been had I taken her counsel. I,
however, only meant to proceed to the bridge, and from thence return to vespers.
I had gained the proposed termination of my walk, and for a few minutes leaned
on the old fence, seriously intent in viewing the reflection of the lightning
playing on the water, when suddenly I was aroused by a dreadful flash,
succeeded by a crash that nearly stunned me.—In the terror of the moment,
instead of hastening to the convent, I pursued a contrary direction, and
unknowing what I did, rushed over the bridge, and sought for refuge in a
thicket; meantime the rain descended in torrents, and returning recollection
prompted me to seek the convent, though certain of being drenched to the
skin.—On raising my eyes for this purpose, what was my increase of terror, to
behold the figures of two men, who barred my passage back to the bridge. I gave
a loud scream, and immediately two more rushed from the thicket where I stood,
who seized, and threw a large cloak over me—From this time I fainted, and
became senseless.
“How long I remained in this state I
cannot judge, I only know, that when I recovered, the storm had much abated,
and I found myself seated on a bench, in a kind of mud hovel, supported by two
of these men.—In a little time they were joined by a third; then all uniting,
they bore me in their arms to some little distance, where, under the spreading
branches of an immense large tree, there stood some horses, on one of these a
man was mounted, before whom I was placed; two other horsemen kept close on
each side, while one went on at a little distance before, and another rode
close behind. In this manner we travelled, I should suppose, for some hours,
though our track never appeared in a direct line, for sometimes, I have since
reflected, that it seemed as if we were approaching the same spot we had lately
quitted, which possibly was done to avoid habitations, and direct roads; this
also appears the more likely, as we frequently passed amongst clusters of
trees, and between such thick underwood, that the
horses with difficulty maintained their footing.
“Journeying for some miles in this
manner, sometimes slowly, and sometimes at a brisk pace, the leader at length
suddenly turned round, and, in the French language, commanded them to halt;
then approaching me, he said, in the same language,
“You must submit to have your eyes
covered for a short space; but rest assured, no other violence will be offered,
unless you endeavour to resist this necessary measure, or that you make any
outcry.”
“Fearing for my life, if I refused,
for they were all armed with daggers, I tremblingly acquiesced, and the man who
appeared their chief, affixed a bandage over my eyes, and that so effectually,
as to exclude all vision.—After this, we continued to move forward for about
another hour, in extreme silence, and at a very slow rate; then we suddenly
stopped for the space of about ten minutes. I now found myself lifted from the
horse, and led forward by two persons, each holding an arm; soon after we
descended a number of steps, and, by the sound of our feet, appeared to
traverse a long stone paved passage. Here our journey terminated, for in a few
minutes my bandage was removed, and I found myself in a small vaulted
apartment, without any casement, or other aperture, the only furniture of which
consisted of a lamp suspended from the roof, and an old couch and table. Here
the two ruffians, who introduced me into this dismal place, left me to my
torturing reflections; under which I should doubtless have speedily sunk, had I
not buoyed up my spirits with a suspicion, that is, I mean with a hope,
that——”—Magdalen here faultered
and paused.
“What was your suspicion and your hope?” hastily interrupted the
abbess, her colour changing to a deep red;—“I trust that you had no criminal
hope that the——”
“Oh, no,” interrupted Magdalen, in her turn—“my hope was—forgive me, lady—that
you yourself had, conceiving some danger, and fearing that my residence in the
convent was discovered, been the means of conveying me to a place of more
security.”
“Well,” rejoined the abbess, “and
during the time that you were absent from hence, did you meet with any thing to confirm your surmise?”
“Nothing, lady.”
“Well, go on,” impatiently replied
the abbess.
“I remained some hours in all the
cruel uncertainty of what was to be my future destination; at length I heard
the door unbarred, and drawing my veil close around me, I, tremblingly, and in
silence, endeavoured to resign myself to the will of Heaven, addressing my
prayers to that power alone that could afford me succour.”
“It was well done; but proceed,”
said the abbot.
“The door opened, and a tall man of
a noble port, but with much harshness and severity depicted in his countenance,
entered, and stood before me. For some moments he surveyed me with folded arms,
where I was seated, for I had not power to rise; at length he broke the awful
silence by saying—“Obstinate and perverse girl, at last you are in my power;
how long is the peace and prosperity of a noble family to be thwarted by your
non-compliance with our views?—Here, instantly, sign this deed, or tremble at
the certain vengeance of an incensed father?”
“The honoured name of father aroused
me from an almost state of torpor. I started from my seat, threw back my veil,
and endeavoured, with frantic ardour, to recal to my
memory the revered features of my much-loved parent, but without effect—not the
least similitude appeared.—But if my surprise was great, that of the man was
tenfold; he started back—gasped for breath—uttered a fearful oath—gnashed his
teeth, and exclaimed—“Undone! undone! This is not Mary de Vavasour!”—A
sudden light from those words now broke forth, for I was well assured that this
man could be no other than the unnatural parent of my dear Mary; and at the
instant I did not fail to rejoice that the mistake of his ruffians had, in all
probability, prevented her becoming a victim to his rapacious avarice.”
END OF VOL. I.
_______________________
Norbury, Printer, Brentford.