MAGDALEN;
OR,
THE PENITENT OF GODSTOW.
VOL. II.
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. II.
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 XIV.
“I HAD not, however, time
for much reflection,” continued the fair nun, “for the man recovering, as it
were from a trance, sprang to the door, and in a voice that made me tremble,
furiously exclaimed,—“Villains!—fools!—where are you?—come forth and behold the
effects of your boasted skill and sagacity.—Here, look and anticipate your
future reward—your limbs quivering on the wheel, or reeking at the stake.”
“The next moment the apartment was
filled with ruffians, and he that I had before denominated their chief,
exclaimed,—“What mean you?”
“That you have ruined yourselves and
“There!—there!” exclaimed he, in an
agony, “and what have I to expect but the merciless fangs of the inquisition?”
“And yet there is one way to escape,” said the chief of the ruffians, darting a
fierce look at me that harrowed up my soul.—“What way?” demanded de
Vavasour.—“The answer demands privacy,” returned the other.—They then sullenly
quitted the apartment, leaving me in no pleasant frame of mind; nothing
doubting but the way of safety hinted at was by my death, and that they were
now retired to deliberate on the means, and the mode of concealment.
“About two hours more passed when I
heard the door again open, and one of the men entered, who having placed a cup
of wine and some viands upon the table, he, without speaking, withdrew. “By
poisoned food,” said I then to myself, “I suppose they mean to end me,—but I
will endure the want of nourishment as long as frail nature will permit, and
then the will of God be done!”—A further time elapsed, and the same man
returned to trim the lamp;—passing the table,—“You have not touched your food,”
said he, in a low voice. “No,” answered I, “for I would not be an accessary in
my own murder.” Without reply, the man went cautiously to the door and looked
out, then hastily returning, addressing me again in a low voice, he said,—“Be
under no apprehensions, I have not time for words,—but see, you may take some
refreshment without dread,” at the same time eating of the food and drinking
some of the wine;—“that you are not in danger I will not say,—at a proper
opportunity you shall know more,—but, if possible, I will save you,—farewel.”
He then closed the door and withdrew,—after which, commending myself to the
protection of God, and the Holy Virgin, being faint, I took some of the food
and wine, and nature being worn out and exhausted, I sunk into a sound sleep.
“How long I remained in this state I
know not,” continued Magdalen, “for as no other light than what the lamp
afforded entered the apartment, I could only ascertain time by guess, and knew
not when it was day or night; I should, however, suppose that I slept six or
eight hours, for I found myself greatly refreshed.—I then continued alone a
considerable length of time, after which the same man brought me more
refreshment, and said hastily,—“What is your name?”—“Magdalen,” answered
“So saying he left me, much
comforted with the thought that I had once more a prospect of liberty. But the
interval between this time and
“We now, softly and in silence,
groped our way, until we came to the steps by which, I suppose, we before
descended, at the top of which the man unbarred what appeared to me a small
wicket, and once more I breathed the pure air. He now left me for the space of
ten minutes, to see if any one was near, and on his return,—“We must lose no
time,” whispered he, and taking me by the arm, we walked at a great rate until
I could go no further, being much fatigued from the unusual exercise.—“We must
rest then,” said he, “but this is not a proper place,—about a short mile from
hence is a ruined castle, where you may remain till dawn of day, exert
yourself, and we will walk slowly thither; there we can also take refreshment,
for I contrived, though with much difficulty, to procure some.”
“Is that in our way to the convent?”
said
“I made no answer, but stopped, and
appeared irresolute and fearful.—“Come, come,” said the man, “I guess your
thoughts,—you think me a greater villain than I am.—Bad enough, indeed, I have
been,—but I dare not harm you.—This is not a proper place to say more, or to
explain why I now stand forth your avowed defender from injury, even at the
hazard of my life.—Bear witness, great God, to the truth of my words,” said he,
dropping on his knees and solemnly lifting his hands and eyes to Heaven, “so
may I be blessed or cursed for ever!”
“I have no doubts remaining,”
returned I, “so let us away,” at the same time taking hold of his arm, “and may
God be our guide!”—“Amen!” replied he.
“I felt my spirits revive after this
conversation, and we again walked forward until we reached a large desolated
building, vast fragments of which frequently interrupted our walk, even at some
distance before we arrived at the outer court. As we approached the gloomy
walls overspread with ivy, in which time and war had made several breaches, my
heart sunk within me, so that when I stepped on the fallen portcullis, and
attempted to pass the arched entrance, I stopped, shuddered, and drew back.—The
man, finding I did not proceed, turned round,—“What fear you,” said he, “have I
not sworn to protect you?—There is nothing to dread here but mouldering walls.”
“This darkness is fearful,” returned
I.—“But that I can speedily remove,” replied he, “for I am provided with the
means, only let us first gain a place where you may rest in security, while I
watch the return of day.” So saying, he gave me his hand, and led, and
sometimes lifted me over ponderous masses of stone, until we reached an angle
of the main building, at the extremity of the inner court, when he stopped, and
looking wistfully for some time at a particular spot close to the wall, he
exclaimed,—“All is right,—no one has discovered this entrance!”—He then put on
a pair of thick gloves, and with much difficulty drew aside some long thorny shrubs,
which grew near, and perfectly covered a secret entrance. When these were put
aside, he lifted up an iron grating, and unfolded to my view a flight of steps
that were before concealed.—“We must descend here,” said he, “but first it is
necessary to procure a light,” he then unbuckled a wallet that was fastened
with straps across his shoulders, and taking out the necessary implements he
set light to two tapers, one of which he placed in my hand, and then assisted
me to descend until we reached a large vaulted stone chamber.
“Stay here awhile,” said he, “until
I make all secure by letting fall the trap.”—In a few minutes he returned,—“All
is safe,” said he, “and we will now explore a more convenient resting
place.”—He then led the way up a flight of narrow winding steps, that brought
us to a smaller apartment than the other, and in which there remained two or
three old settles, worm-eaten and nearly gone to decay. Placing his wallet on
one of them, he took from it a couple of manchets, some meat, and a leathern
bottle containing wine. Filling a small cup from the latter, he respectfully
withdrew to the extremity of the apartment, after having courteously entreated
me to take refreshment. Regaining courage and confidence from his behaviour, I
did not scruple to take some food, and desired that he would do the same.—“I
shall presently retire,” answered he, “to a recess upon the ruined walls, and
carry some food with me, leaving you to take some repose; for there I can,
myself unseen, behold every thing that approaches.”
“You appear to be well acquainted
with this place,” said I.—“I am,” returned he, “I resided here near eighteen
months, in which time I believe I left not a stone unexplored.”
“A silence of some minutes ensued,
which he at length broke, by saying—“I see astonishment in your countenance,
that any one should take up an abode in so desolate a place; but mine was an
act of necessity, not of choice, being surprised and made a prisoner, in the
first instance, by the banditti, who, some little time since, were masters of
these ruins.”
“You say, that during the time you
remained with them, you explored every part; did no opportunity then present to
escape?”
“None, until by the terror of being
put to death, I had been forced to become as guilty as themselves, for then
they knew I could not quit them, without danger of incurring the punishment
inflicted on robbers. When I say I became as guilty as themselves, I mean, as
far as assisting in their plundering parties, for, thanks to Providence! I have
never yet imbrued my hands in blood; nay, it is to an abhorrence of that crime,
and some other concurring circumstances, that your life is preserved, and that
you see me here. You appear surprised; I will explain myself, but for this
purpose it may be necessary to go back to some occurrences, which lead to the
present time.
“My parents were vassals to an
English baron, whom my father, following to the wars, here in Guyenne, lost his
life; some months after his death, my mother, being at the time he was killed,
pregnant with me, was appointed to suckle a new born female child, of which the
baroness was delivered. It will be needless to dwell on the events of my youth,
as they are trivial, and of no import; suffice it to say, that my mother
brought me up with such a due reverence for our holy religion, that, though
guilty of great enormities, I have never yet intirely lost sight of it.
“About five years since, my mother
died, and I engaged myself as page to a Norman gentleman, who left England, and
came hither, on account of some property that fell to him in this province.—My
master having settled his affairs, was about to return to Normandy; and
travelling over this barren heath, with no other servant than myself, he was
attracted by the appearance of these ruins, when, both alighting from our
horses, we entered the inner court, to take a nearer view. Fatal curiosity! for
in an instant, and before we could remount our horses, we were surrounded by a
number of well-armed ruffians, who laid my master dead by a stroke from a
pole-axe, and made me an easy prey.
“For some hours I was confined in a
dungeon, beneath the main building, where I had nothing to disturb my own
horrid reflections, for all was darkness and solitude; at length I beheld a
gleam of light appear through a fissure of the massy wall, and presently I
heard the rusty bolts of my prison harshly grate, as they were drawn back; the
door opened, and two armed ruffians entered, one bearing some coarse bread, and
the other a pitcher of water. Having set down what they brought, one pointed to
some rushes that lay in a corner of my dungeon, and then silently retired,
taking care to replace the bolts on the outside.
“This scene took place, with no
variation, for about a week, when one night my usual visitors appeared, and
told me to follow them. I per force obeyed, and was conducted into a large
hall, where about twenty horrid looking fellows sat round a large oaken table,
or rather before some rough hewn planks, put awkwardly together, to answer that
purpose. One, about the age of twenty-five, who appeared to be their chief, sat
at the head of the table, and who was no other than the man that commanded the
party which forced you from the Convent of the Benedictines; he demanded my
name and country—that of my master—from whence we came—whither we were
going,—and where his property lay. I answered these interrogatories as well as
I could, he, at the same time, consulting some papers which lay open before
him, to see if he could detect me in a falsity; for I was given to understand,
after my examination, that those papers belonged to my late master.
“Well,” said he, after he had
finished “I believe you have not attempted to deceive me, for if you had, we
should have hanged you up immediately. It appears, that your master died rich,
and we, by the law of arms, are his heirs, though possibly the chicane of other
courts may endeavour to cheat us. I see here among his papers, a letter to his
uncle, in Normandy, setting forth, that he was about purchasing an estate near
to his present domain in Guyenne, but that he should want five hundred marks to
complete the bargain.—Do you know why this letter was not sent?”
“Because,” replied I, “my master
having completed his business sooner than he imagined, thought he might as well
fetch the money himself.”
“Enough,” said he, “it was wisely
resolved. He is at peace from all the turmoils of riches, and we will take the
troublesome charge upon ourselves; thus much for business.—And now,” continued
he, addressing me, “though thou art but a menial, we will permit thee to be
seated in gentlemen’s company; take that empty stool, and drink this cup of
wine.—Obey!” cried he, sternly, seeing that I hesitated; upon which I
immediately complied.—“It is well,” continued he, smoothing the asperity of his
brows, “not any here disobey my commands, for they know that the general safety
depends on a proper subordination, and none but a tyrant would exact a servile
one.—Fill round—here is liberty, under proper restriction.”
“As I saw I had not the liberty either to refuse the wine, or wave
the toast, I per force complied.—“Gramercy,” exclaimed the chieftain, “I espy
hopes in thee, notwithstanding thou appearest to be somewhat tramelled by early
prejudice; but thy education shall be improved, if we find thee not stupid and
incorrigible.—Meantime, he shall partake of the same viands with ourselves; and
Roldan, see thou prepare him a better bed than he has reposed on for some
nights past,” an order that was exactly obeyed.
CHAPTER XV.
“THIS apparent
indulgence was far from giving me pleasure, for it now plainly appeared, that
the motive was to induce me to turn marauder, and to keep me with them until I
was cut off, either by the hand of justice, or by the desperate arm of some
aggrieved traveller.
“I had now but one chance left, in
order to regain my liberty, namely, a seeming compliance, on my part, until I
found a proper opportunity to escape; but, alas! I was too closely watched, and
while I was eagerly and impatiently waiting that event, I was often compelled
to make one in their villanous depredations.
“They had hitherto acted with
caution, never attacking any one save my master, near the ruins, and that they
would not have done, had he not been so completely in their power.—He being
dead, could tell no tales, and it was not until much consultation had been
held, that they agreed to spare my life.
“Their usual robberies were
committed many miles distant, concealing themselves until dusk in the forests,
near some great road, where, disguising their persons, they burst forth upon
the unwary like so many wild beasts; then, having effected their dire purpose,
they dispersed by unfrequented paths, and regained their den.
“In this manner they went on, in
their villanies, for near eighteen months after my master’s murder, during
which time I had not a single opportunity to withdraw myself, or knew I where
to go, for I feared an enemy in every human face.—You may remember, I told you
that our chief meditated getting the five hundred marks mentioned in my
master’s letter; this he had the address to affect by taking a journey to
Normandy, where, presenting my master’s hand-writing, the uncle having no
suspicion, paid the money.—In this excursion he was accompanied by another of
the gang, remarkable for having a large scar on his right cheek; he had the
imprudence to take this man to the uncle’s house. After the payment of the
money, weeks, nay months elapsed, though the uncle had, it seems, written
letter after letter, and made every possible inquiry, but no tidings of his
nephew was received. At length, he resolved to go to Guyenne, and, in the
market-place of a considerable town, about ten miles from the ruins, he
recognized the man with the scarred face, leading the identical horse belonging
to his late nephew.
“The man had been dispatched early
that morning, in company with another of the gang, who was disguised as a
countryman; this last rode a strong horse, on which panniers had been fixed, in
order to carry provisions, which his companion was to purchase, and which were
much wanted. The alarm being given, both attempted to escape, but to no
purpose, they were instantly secured, loaded with fetters, and thrown into a
dungeon.
“Being confronted with the uncle,
the man who accompanied the chief of the gang into Normandy, engaged to make
capital discoveries, provided his life might be spared; a compromise to this
effect was entered into,—particularly as he was not the identical man that
murdered the nephew.
“While this business was transacting,
the party at the ruins, little suspecting the detection of their comrades, were
awaiting their return, and anticipating a joyous revelry on the wine and good
things they were to bring back;—their number was eighteen, exclusive of the two
detained members and the captain, the latter having, fortunately for himself,
taken a ride through the lone and unfrequented parts of the forest.—As for
myself, I had that day experienced a more than usual depression of spirits,
revolving on my own sad fate in being thus cut off from the society of
humanized beings, and forced to associate with murderers and robbers.
“In this frame of mind, about
sun-set I walked forth, and seating myself upon a large fragment of the fallen
wall, opposite to the only remaining tower, I there began to meditate on the
means of escape;—my thoughts, however, were soon interrupted by a rustling
among some dry underwood upon my left hand, lifting up my eyes, I saw a large
hare come forth from beneath, cross before me, and take refuge among those
brambles that cover the iron grating and steps by which we entered this place.
Starting up I endeavoured to secure it, and for that purpose began to remove
the brambles, which with some difficulty I effected; but instead of my prey,
found only the iron trap, between the vacancies of which I had no doubt it had
entered. Curiosity now took place, and every other thought was banished; I
lifted up the grating and found steps beneath, leading to the tower.—“It is
plain,” said I to myself, “this part of the ruin is unknown to its present
inhabitants,—I will immediately return, make the discovery, get light, and
explore it.” I was in the act of letting the trap fall, in order to put my
resolve in execution, when a sudden and loud shout, a din of arms alternately
intermingled with groans, cries of triumph, and others of discomfiture reached
my ear. I started, stood aghast and appalled, instinctively raised the trap,
descended a few steps, and let fall the grating.
“The noise continued for a
considerable time, but at length became more indistinct and confused, and
gradually ceased, when an universal silence succeeded. By this time it was
totally dark, which added not a little to the horror and uncertainty of my
situation.
“That our men had met with a sharp
rencontre I had little doubt, and from the silence that ensued most likely were
worsted, if not wholly exterminated. It was also as probable, in this latter
case, that the victors would remain, at least for some time, on the spot; what
then was to become of me, immured as I was, without food or sustenance,—setting
aside the probability of being discovered, in which case an ignominious death
would be my certain fate, and the same if even I surrendered?—Thus environed,
in darkness and despair, I passed some of the most comfortless hours of my
life, sometimes standing, at other times sitting on the cold steps. At length
the sun’s welcome beams above the horizon, directed some faint glimmerings of
light towards the trap, of which I took the advantage, by putting my hand
through the spaces of the grating to draw the brambles over the surface, in
order to conceal it,—in this I pretty well succeeded.—As the sun approached
nearer to its meridian height, I found I could distinctly explore my place of
concealment.
“The castle had originally formed
one vast square, a parapet rising considerably on each front, and had been
flanked at the corners by strong towers. Between the towers and the main
building there had originally been strong walls, which enclosed passages of communication;—these
walls no longer remained, save only a part of one adjoining this wing of the
building, on the western side.—There was no apparent access, the subterranean
entrance being unknown, and the aperture on the other side, which communicated
with the main building, being blocked up by the falling of the front walls.
“At a considerable height from the
ground, in this tower, were small openings, large enough to admit a hand, made
for the purpose, I suppose of admitting air; these were now of the greatest
service, as they supplied light sufficient for me to descend the steps and
examine this part of the castle. It contained only the vaulted apartment below,
and this small one, from which there was an aperture communicating with the
wall on the western side, large enough to admit a man;—that part of the wall
was raised much above the opening, and from whence you might, unseen, by means
of certain loopholes, observe what was passing beneath.
“Daylight and reflection having in
some measure allayed my terror, I cautiously looked around, surveyed the lower
chamber, bolted and barred, without noise, a strong door that led to the
entrance; I then ascended to where we now are, and finally, finding that I
could, unobserved, take a survey around, I silently crept on the wall, and
plainly discovered several dead bodies, and a number of armed men in close
conversation.
“Though this was nothing more than
what I expected, yet it added to my misery, for if these men remained any time,
there was a certainty of my being starved to death; and already did I feel the
cravings of nature very powerful, having ate no supper the night before. While
I was mournfully ruminating on my hard fate, I heard the noise of different
birds, both within and on the outside of the tower; a sudden gleam of hope
rushed on my mind, I immediately examined a number of holes and cavities, and,
to my unspeakable pleasure, found not only eggs, but also young birds. A sudden
emotion of thankfulness seized me,—“Praised be God,” said I, “here is a present
supply at least!” I then took and devoured about a dozen eggs, which much
revived me.—During the day I repeatedly and anxiously watched for the departure
of the men I had seen, but to my sorrow I found they remained, some appearing
to keep guard, while others, well armed, were straggling about the ruins, in
separate parties.—Two of these men, about the close of day, approached the wall
where I lay hid, engaged in earnest conversation,—“Yes,” I distinctly heard one
say, in reply to the other, “it is a dear bought victory, for though the rogues
have lost eleven of their number, and the rest will infallibly be hanged, yet
we have also had seven of our party killed, exclusive of the wounded; and what
is worse, we that survive were taught to expect a great booty, when after the
strictest search we have not been enabled to discover enough to recompense our
trouble, setting aside the blood that has been spilt.—I wonder how their
captain and the other young villain escaped,—I mean he that was servant to the murdered
gentleman.”
“That is impossible to tell, but
that they have escaped is
certain,” replied the other, “and as that is the case, I wonder how much longer
we are to be harassed with watching,—I think we have had fatigue enough.”
“Why, I can satisfy you in that
particular,” replied his comrade, “we are only to remain another night;—at
break of day we depart.”
“And a pretty night we shall have of
it, from the blackness of the clouds,” returned the other; “you and I doubtless
will have fine drenched skins, as I understand we are of the party that is to
keep guard without.”—By this time the sun had disappeared below the horizon,
and a tucket sounded, to call the stragglers together, so that I heard no
more.—However, what I had heard was joyful tidings to me, as it convinced me
that they had no suspicion of my being so near; and likewise that their removal
would give me free liberty to quit my hiding place, and gain some safe retreat.
“As the man had predicted, the rain
soon descended in torrents, however this was an advantage to me, for I
copiously slaked my thirst, from what was retained in the cavities of the wall;
after which I regaled myself on some eggs, and having again drank some more
rain water, I laid down on one of these settles and soon fell asleep.
“For some hours my rest was quiet
and undisturbed, but about the dawn of day I dreamed that my mother stood
before me, and said,—“Repent your sins and quit this wretched place.”—And that
I replied,—“Alas! mother, whither shall I fly?”—“Travel due south for five
miles,” answered she, “you will then come to an avenue of large trees, at the
end of which you will meet one whom you have known, he shall tell you what to
do.”
“I awoke, so impressed with this
dream, that I at first looked round expecting to see my mother;—at that instant
the tucket sounded, and I flew to the wall, where I beheld the whole troop,
consisting of about forty men, mounting their horses and preparing to depart.
In about half an hour they were completely out of sight; I, however, did not
quit my station for more than three hours after, when I cautiously descended,
and once more returned to our old place of rendezvous.—On my way thither I
beheld shocking vestiges of the late engagement, though the bodies had been
removed and buried, as I supposed, in one pit, for the ground near the scene of
action appeared to have been newly opened.—Our old habitation too had suffered
its share of spoilage, as well as its late inhabitants, for every thing that
could not be carried off was broken and rendered useless. This was no longer a
place for me, for I had now full liberty to depart.—The whole world was before
me, but I had no one to assist or counsel me;—like Cain, I appeared as a
fugitive and a vagabond on the face of the earth, and knew not whither to
direct my steps. In this emergency I fell upon my knees, called upon God to
assist me, and shed a flood of tears;—immediately my dream occurred fresh to my
memory,—“Yes,” cried I, in a frenzied accent, “my mother, I will obey thy
commands!”—and instantly began my walk, directing my steps by the sun, which
was then at its meridian height, due south.
“Having had but little nourishment
for many hours past, by the time that I supposed I had gone five miles, I
became sick and faint;—I, however, still walked on about another mile, when
glancing my eyes to a turn of the forest on my right hand, I beheld a long
avenue of tall trees, and gave an involuntary cry of joy.—Pursuing my way
beneath their spreading branches, I was at length stopped by a deep moat, over
which was a small bridge, but drawn up on the further side;—the view beyond
this was obstructed by a thick plantation of trees. Finding my progress stopped
in that direction, my spirits sunk, and I turned in order to go back, when a
voice that appeared perfectly familiar to me, called me by my name.—I looked
up, but saw no one,—“Surely,” said I, “this is a deception of the senses, or
the effect of witchcraft, I will begone.”—“Stop,” articulated the same voice,
“I will be with you presently.”—Still I beheld no one,—but in a minute after, I
saw the bridge drop across the moat, and recognized our late chief advancing
towards me.
CHAPTER XVI.
“THIS dream,”
said I, to myself, “must be the work of the devil, for the spirit of my mother
would never urge me to seek those who would lead me to destruction.”
“Thou art a fortunate varlet,” said
he, in a sullen tone of voice, as he approached near me;—“has any of our brave
associates survived the surprise—and by what means didst thou escape?”
“I stated, in as concise terms as
possible, that on the night of the attack, being on the outside of the
building, in a part obscured from view, I had been witness of the unexpected
assault;—that I had concealed myself until the assailants had retired, and
then, not knowing which way to direct my steps, chance had brought me to the
spot where he then beheld me.
“Know you of any one else that hath
escaped?’ said he.
“No,” returned I, “I do not think
that a single individual, exclusive of ourselves, has been saved from death or
captivity.”
“Peace be with them, dead or
living!” rejoined he, “one or the other would most probably have been my fate,
had I not possessed more foresight;—for finding that our comrades did not
return from market about their usual time, my mind misgave me, and I mounted my
horse, pursuing private ways through woods and intricate paths well known to
myself. For some hours I reconnoitred the country round, from a cover where I
could not be perceived; from thence I at length observed a troop of armed men,
slowly advancing towards our castle.—I watched their motions, undiscovered,
until I had no doubt of their intentions;—in fine, I pursued their footsteps,
by hovering in their rear until I saw them, under the cover of the gloom,
commence their attack.—Their numbers and equipment precluded all hope of
victory on our part, so I had no other chance left but to take care of
myself;—fortunately I had previously secreted my share of the spoils, being
well aware of the uncertain tenure of our lives.”
“You have then, I suppose,” said I,
“taken up your abode somewhere near this spot?”
“My dwelling,” replied he, with a
smile, “must for the present be concealed; however, I think I have interest
enough to provide for you, if you have no objection to serve.”
“I have an objection,” said I,
resolutely, “to serve the devil any longer, by living by plunder.”
“Oh, if that is all your objection,”
replied he, laughing,—“you may make your mind perfectly easy. In short, I know
an old gentleman, a man of good estate, who wants a confidential assistant, in
an expedition he is about to undertake; and you appear to be the very person.”
“I have no objection,” said I,
“provided the expedition is lawful.”
“Of that there can be no doubt; for
it is only, by the aid of resolute persons, to rescue family property from the
gripe of injustice and hypocrisy.—But you shall know more anon, and have all
your conscientious scruples
quieted,” continued he, with a sneer; “meantime I will go and propose the
business to the principal.”
“Do so,” I replied, “and if you can
contrive to procure me some refreshment, I shall be glad, for I have fared but
indifferently since I saw you last.”
“Poor devil!” said he; “well, repose
yourself on this bank, and you shall speedily hear from me.”—“I did as I was
directed, and in about a quarter of an hour, a man, with a lowering aspect,
appeared, who having surveyed me intently, bade me follow him. I obeyed, and he
led me over the bridge, which, having drawn up, we proceeded by a long winding path,
through a plantation of trees and shrubs, so closely set as almost to exclude
daylight; the walk was terminated by a small gloomy dwelling, which having
entered, the man, from proper receptacles, spread all the necessaries for
eating; he then withdrew, and soon after returned with wine and cold meats,
which having set before me, he shut the door and retired.
“I had not long finished my meal,
before I was joined by our late chief, who, seating himself, said, “I forgot to
caution you, as you value your life, not to hint at our late connexion. You see
me here in my proper character, that of a gentleman; at the castle I never went
abroad but so well disguised, as not to be recognised.—My situation here you
will also not inquire into; for depend upon it, if your curiosity should be
excited, it will not be gratified, and it would only lead you into extreme
peril.—Your services will be light, and probably not immediately needed; in
this spot you will reside, where you will live well, but your walks must not extend,
for your own safety, beyond the paling that surrounds these grounds.”
“There was a mystery in his words
that I did not approve, but I had no remedy, and was obliged to submit. I had
indeed no cause to complain, for I continued several days without having any
thing to do, but to eat, drink, and sleep; until at length this inaction and
sameness became wearisome.—One day, after sunset, the captain suddenly
appeared, and, without any preamble, said,—“You are immediately to be called
into action, though it is only a prelude to the main business; in a few minutes
you will have proper habiliments brought you, accoutre yourself without delay,
and be ready.”—So saying, he went out, and presently a man entered, bearing a
bundle, which he put on the table, and departed. The package contained a
complete disguise. I was soon equipped, when, being joined by my late chief, we
sallied forth, crossed the bridge, and joined three others, two of whom had led
horses saddled and bridled, and the third had, beside his own, a sumpter horse,
bearing some packages, and which, from the darkness of the night, I could not
distinguish.—Having mounted the spare horses, our chief commanded the men to go
forward, and singling me out, said,—“It is now time to explain the business we
are about to undertake;—know then, the lord of these domains, which are most
ample and extensive, hath several children, amongst them a daughter newly come
of age.—Being willing to spare no expence in her education, and in order to
make her perfectly accomplished, he placed her in a neighbouring
convent.—During her early years, an aunt died and left her large possessions,
which the abbess hearing, hath, in order to obtain them, so estranged the weak
girl from her family connexions, that, without some vigorous effort be made to
withdraw her, both her person and property will speedily be for ever lost. To
prevent this, there is no other means than to make an opening into the convent
garden, which, when done, may be easily concealed.—Nothing afterwards remains,
but to watch a fair opportunity, and to bear her off;—we are this night
furnished with proper implements to begin the work, at a part of the wall, so
distant from the convent, and so well concealed on the outside, by a thick
coppice, as to set discovery at defiance.—It is a business that will soon be
achieved, a hundred marks a man is the reward, together with safe conduct to
whatever place they may choose to retire, when the business is effected.”
“For my own part, I had no great
inclination to earn this money, but I had gone too far to draw back;—besides, I
was too much in this man’s power, he might contrive to betray me into the hands
of justice, or procure my murder, for I knew him to be artful, bold, and
daring,—I, therefore, made a virtue of necessity, and accepted his proposal.—In
due time we reached the convent wall, and began our operations at a place that
he pointed out,—for it seems he had previously contrived to reconnoitre not
only the best part to make a breach, but also the interior grounds, where the
nuns and novices take their exercise.
“But this was a more difficult task
than we had been taught to expect, for it was not until the third night’s hard
labour that we compleated a sufficient entrance, which was perfectly concealed
within by thick underwood, and by the coppice without,—and which, even in the
day time secured ourselves, our horses, and instruments from view.
“For three whole weeks after we had
effected the breach we had no sufficient opportunity to complete the
undertaking; for though we lay hid in the garden for several days, and had Mary
de Vavasour, as we thought, perfectly pointed out to us, yet something or other
always impeded, till the night of the storm, when, from mistake, you were
seized.”
“I do not wonder at that,” I
replied, “our size and form are not unlike.”
“I need not relate,” resumed my
deliverer, “what followed your seizure, until the time that de Vavasour
discovered that you were not his daughter;—you doubtless remember his rage, and
that after being called in, we all quitted your apartment in order to hear our
chief’s expedient to insure our future safety.—It was a horrid one—your
murder!”
“It was what I thought at the time,”
said I.
“My blood ran cold at the proposal,”
continued my deliverer, “and nothing but the faint light of a single taper
could have concealed my confusion.—“No,” said I to myself, “I have already been
too criminal, and will sooner lose my life than be an accomplice in such an
accursed business.”—I, however, concealed my thoughts, and apparently
consented. They then discussed the means, and which were, to persuade you that
they meant to restore you to the convent, on your taking an oath to make no
discovery; but on your road thither, to murder and conceal you in an old stone
quarry. My companions were again dispatched, with orders to make every exertion
to gain the right object; and even, under cover of the night, to break into the
convent.”
“Pray Heaven they may not succeed!”
interrupted I.
“I trust they will not,” he replied.
“However,” continued he, “their absence produced one good effect, for I was
deputed to wait upon you. What followed you are acquainted with, except one
circumstance, and which determined me to save your life.—After the departure of
my companions, having seated myself on a stool which was placed in a recess,
near your prison, I became suddenly drowsy, and fell asleep;—again, to my
fancy, I beheld my mother,—“Save the poor prisoner!” said she, “Save,—” and the
voice appeared to falter, as if unwilling to mention the name,—at length it
continued,—“Save—O! save Magdalen!—the much loved—infant—child—the
beauteous—injured—persecuted,—but I must not utter more,—farewel.—Save!”—The
voice and form now appeared gradually to sink and die away.—I awoke in the
utmost terror, exclaiming,—“Yes, I will save her!”—I then endeavoured to arouse
myself, and looked cautiously around to see if any one was near, that might
have heard my involuntary exclamation, but no one was in sight, or within
hearing,—and you know what followed,” said he, addressing me, “until we reached
this place.”
“I do,” I replied, “but were you
never introduced to the Sieur de Vavasour before the night I was forced from
the convent?”
“Never,” he replied, “nor did I,
until then, hear the name of our employer;—with whom, however, our chief
appeared to be very familiar.”
“Know you by what means they became
acquainted?” interrogated I.
“I do not,” answered he, “nor did I,
until that night, know that there was a mansion so near the place where I first
encountered the chief, it was so surrounded and shaded by trees. Indeed, I was
acquainted then with only that part where you were confined, which, I was given
to understand, stood detached, and had no communication with the main
building;—nor did I ever see any domestics, save those that assisted in the
expedition to the convent.”
“Was there a necessity,” said I,
“for us to come here, instead of proceeding in an even course to the convent?”
“There was,” said he, “for if we had
gone the direct road thither, we might have encountered those that forced you
from thence, and certain death would have been the consequence.—Besides, we now
shall have day-light, in which they
will not dare appear, so that we can then proceed in safety.”
“My deliverer and conductor then
ceased,—and I said,—“You appeared astonished when I told you my name was
Magdalen, and exclaimed,—“It is strange!—it is wonderful!”—I knew not then of
your dreams,—they were no less wonderful—What was your mother’s name?”
“Margaret la Fontaine,” answered
he.—I started with amazement.—“Did you then know my mother?” interrogated he.
“I—I thought I did,” answered I,
recollecting myself, “was she ever in France?”
“Never,” replied he, “though my
father was a native of Normandy, and taught me the French language.”
“And what is your baptismal name?”
said I.
“I was called Morgan,” replied he.
“I concealed my emotion as well as I
could, for I had no longer a doubt but that this man’s mother had been my
nurse, and that this was the son who partook of the same milk which nurtured my
infantile years.”
“Did you confide your thoughts on
this subject to him?” eagerly inquired the abbess.
“Never,” replied Magdalen,—“but kept
to the strict letter of my oath.”
“You have done well,” said the
abbot, “I pray you go on.”
“During his recital,” resumed
Magdalen, “I became so interested that I had quite forgotten that he had taken
no nourishment, though I had;—but at the close of his narration I desired him
to eat, being well assured he must need refreshment.—“I will follow your
advice,” said he, “and as I am equally convinced you must require rest, I will
retire for a few hours;” so saying, he took some food and wine with him, and
bowing respectfully, immediately withdrew.
“The perturbation of mind, added to
fatigue, caused me to sleep for some hours. When I awoke, I found it was broad
day; I was then in haste to depart, and called for Morgan, but receiving no
answer, I looked through the aperture he before mentioned, and saw him fast
asleep in a recess of the wall.—Though the delay was not pleasing, I could not
determine to break the rest of a man that had saved my life, I therefore waited
for about three hours. He then awoke, and we were preparing to depart, when
there suddenly came on a heavy rain; as, from its violence, we supposed it
could not be lasting, we agreed to wait some little time before we set forward.
The storm, however, continued until about five in the afternoon, and then
abated, which again determined us to renew our walk.
“Fortunately, before we descended
for that purpose, Morgan repaired to the wall, in order to inspect the
surrounding country, for fear of a surprise. His caution was well timed, for he
returned to me in great haste, and reported that he saw two horsemen, at a
distance, riding at a great rate, and apparently in a direction towards the
castle.—“They doubtless are only travellers,” continued he, “and will quickly
pass; for none can have business at this desolate place.—I will, however, watch
their motions, and the moment they are out of sight, will let you know.”—So
saying, Morgan retreated through the aperture, but soon returned in great
trepidation—“It is de Vavasour and the chief,” said he; “they have just
alighted, and are gone into that part of the building that we used to inhabit;
what their business is I cannot guess, for it is impossible they can have any
knowledge of our route, and I am equally certain this retreat is unknown to the
chief. I will however again to my post on the wall.”
“I am fearful of being left alone,”
said I.
“You may then, if you please,
accompany me, for the wall is perfectly secure; there is likewise no danger of
your being discovered, from the height of the parapet, provided you keep
silent.”—So saying, he crept through the opening, and I followed.—We had not
remained many minutes, before we beheld de Vavasour and his companion issuing
forth from a part of the main building, and bending their steps slowly towards
the tower, they appeared in earnest converse.—“It was, indeed, a cursed
mischance,” said the former, as he approached, “and ruin is the consequence;
ere this they have reached the convent.—Had you but returned last night, before
they escaped, her death would have made all sure; nothing now remains but to
flee, and save our own lives, if it is not too late, by making to the first
sea-port.”
“Why do we then waste the time?”
hastily interrupted the chief; “let us proceed and secure my treasure, for that
is the business that brought us hither—not to talk. I fancy that must be all
that we shall have to depend on, exclusive of what you have hastily been able
to draw together; for no doubt your estates will be confiscated, and yourself
outlawed—a pretty conclusion you have brought things to by your cursed
avarice.”
“Add too, your wild extravagance,—but
reproach me not—for whose sake did
I——” Here all
further hearing was cut off, by a distance that rendered their farther
discourse unintelligible to us. We, however, soon after, saw them busied at
another part of the ruins, from whence they appeared to remove something
weighty; after which they returned the same way, again entered the ruins, led
out their horses, remounted, and gallopped off.
“Though we had been detained a
considerable time longer, it was yet no small satisfaction to find, by de Vavasour
and his companion’s discourse, that so far from having succeeded in carrying
off Mary, that they had given up the attempt, and fled to save their own lives.
We were also now assured, that we might return without danger of meeting the
ruffians, we therefore cheerfully quitted the ruins, carefully closing the
entrance, that it might not tempt rogues and vagabonds to take possession of a
post, from whence they might annoy the unwary traveller.
“I had inquired of Morgan, soon
after we left the ruins, how far distant the convent was?” He replied, “He
thought about twelve miles;” “so that I was in hopes that I should have reached
hither, in good time, and without much fatigue; but, owing to the brooks and
rivulets being swelled by the heavy rains, which caused us to go much about,
and some part of the way being deep and miry, it was past the hour of midnight,
and I thought I must have sunk under the fatigue.”
CHAPTER XVII.
MAGDALEN ceased;
and the abbot said,—“Daughter, I have listened attentively to your narration,
and am far from thinking any blame or censure can be attached to your leaving
the convent; your account also, from that period to the present time, is
ingenuous, open, and candid.—Kneel, therefore, and receive our blessing; we
absolve you for trespassing against the rules of this house, which, by oath,
you were bound to obey, forasmuch as you broke those rules, by force, and not
wilfully, the Almighty, therefore, bless, keep, and protect you.” He then
raised and led her to the abbess, who said,—“Neither can I censure you,
Magdalen, for you appear to have preserved a due regard to your sacred vows;
and henceforth you shall partake of my favour and confidence.”
“One thing yet remains,” said the
abbot; “know you ought where the man Morgan hath retreated to, Magdalen?”
“I do,” replied she, “for he throws
himself at the foot of holy mother church, and entreated me to intercede for
him, that he may be restored to those rites which he has forfeited.”
“His offences have been heavy,” said
the abbot, “but, as he has, in some measure, made reparation, and as his
vicious life was, in the first instance, constrained, we will make our report
accordingly, to the archbishop of this diocese; let him, therefore, take
sanctuary, for his own personal safety, he will there receive food, and be
examined in regard to his repentance, which, if found sincere, he will be
pardoned and absolved—for the church is a lenient as well as a severe
mother.—You will acquaint the Lady Abbess with the place of his concealment,
and she will dispatch a messenger to conduct him to the sanctuary, from whence
no secular arm dare force him.—But our attention must first be directed against
the principal offenders, whose persons must be forthwith seized, if they have
not already eluded justice by flight, in which case a spiritual anathema must
be denounced against them, their property registered, and put under
sequestration.—Farewel, lady,” said he to the abbess; “I go to advise with the
arch bishop on these events.”
“Grace and peace be with you,”
returned the abbess.—“You, Magdalen,” continued she, “had better retire, and
endeavour to recruit your strength and spirits, from the fatigue and
perturbation you have sustained; and for this purpose we will, for a day or
two, excuse you from the accustomed duties.”
“May I not, in the mean time, lady,
hold communion with Mary and little Ela?”
“You may,” mildly answered the
abbess, “for your conduct now appears so exemplary, that I mean not to restrict
you in any rational indulgence.—You will only be careful not to walk near the
wilderness, nor even to the bridge, until we have had every part of the grounds
examined, and made secure.”
“I will most assuredly obey you,
lady,” said Magdalen, “for I have no inclination to experience such another
alarm.”—Magdalen now repaired to the refectory, where she found Mary and
several of the nuns assembled. The two friends warmly embraced, and
congratulated each other on their again meeting, while the others fatigued her
with a thousand questions, which she answered as concisely as possible; being
unwilling to hurt Mary’s feelings, by publicly announcing that she owed her
late distresses to the novice’s unworthy parent.
No sooner did Magdalen and Mary
disengage themselves from the curiosity of the overwhelming inquirers, by whom
they were surrounded, than they repaired to the dormitory of the latter, where,
being seated, Mary again embraced and congratulated her friend on her
return.—“I understand, my dear Magdalen,” said she, “by what you told the nuns
just now, that you were forced from hence, and have suffered much.”
“I have, indeed,” replied Magdalen,
“though they mistook their object, for the outrage was designed for another.”
“For another!” repeated Mary.
“Yes,” answered Magdalen, “and happy
am I at the mistake; for had it been otherwise, possibly neither the
perpetrators would have been discovered, or the injured party ever more heard
of.”
“You surprise me, dear Magdalen!—Do
you know, then, who was their real object?”
“Yes,—Mary de Vavasour.”
“Impossible!—for who could meditate
so cruel an injury?”
“Her unnatural father,—the Sieur de
Vavasour.”
“Oh! my dear Magdalen!” replied
Mary.—“Yet let me indulge the flattering hope that it is not so, for,—oh! my
God!” continued she, “what can I have done that a parent should doom his child
to destruction?”
“You have been guilty of the worst
of crimes, in the eye of avarice,—rivalled your father and brother in a rich
aunt’s favor.”
“How willingly, dear Magdalen, would
I forego all personal advantage, to enjoy parental and fraternal affection!”
“It would be a dear bought purchase,
Mary;—for, believe me, you would only possess the shadow for the substance.—But
let not this distress you, my dear unfortunate girl,” observing Mary’s tears,
“you have a better father,—an all good—all powerful one, that can defeat the
wicked machinations of sinful man—one that will protect innocence;—and in me,
Mary, behold a sister—not bound by the ties of blood, but in the closer links
of true friendship and affection.”
Mary pressed Magdalen to her bosom,
and said,—“Well then, we will, indeed, be sisters, and your God shall be my
God!—no longer will I oppose the will of Heaven,—and what have I to regret in
quitting the world?—Come then, my dear sister,” continued she, rising from her
seat, “let us immediately repair to the abbess, and notify my willing resolve.”
“Stop, Mary,” replied Magdalen, “let
not the enthusiasm of the moment precipitate you to a deed which cannot be
revoked,—give this sudden resolution some hours thought, and—”
“It is not a sudden resolution,”
interrupted Mary, “but what I had determined on during your absence, when I was
fearful I had lost you for ever.—Your return has, indeed, strengthened my
resolution, for you have convinced me that I ought to have no affections but to
my God, and to what is contained within the narrow limits of these walls.—Oh!
Magdalen, how can I repay you for what you have suffered on my account?—But may
I ask, (that is, if the recital will not prove too painful,) will you oblige me
with particulars?”
“It will, indeed, be painful,” said
Magdalen, “because I am afraid, that notwithstanding the undeserved injuries
you have sustained, you cannot hear, unmoved, the errors and vices of one to
whom you owe your being.”—Magdalen then ran over, briefly as possible, a
narrative of all she had suffered;—only concealing their intent to destroy her,
and softening, where she could, the blackest part of de Vavasour’s conduct.
“Wretched, mistaken parent!”
exclaimed Mary, as Magdalen ceased,—“how art thou punished!—forced to flee and
become a wanderer!—Alas!—Alas! that ever I was born;—and thou, accursed gold,
bane of society, but for thee I might have been happy!”
“Riches, my dear Mary, are bestowed
for a blessing;—it is our passions only that render them pernicious and
injurious to society.”
“True, my dear Magdalen, and who
knows whether those baneful passions might not have taken as firm a root in me,
as they have done in my unhappy parent, had I been permitted to live in the
world, to my soul’s utter perdition. Oh! my friend,—my sister,—every thing
strengthens—every word that you utter convinces me that I should delay my vows
no longer;—one short struggle and I have done with the world.—Could I but once
more see my mother,—hear her call me by the endearing name of child,—and know
that my father is in safety, cruel as he has been to me.—Perhaps a little time
may see him in a strange land, friendless and in want,—he that has had every
comfort, every luxury.—O! Magdalen, I cannot bear it!—I cannot consent to give
up all—all my fortune, and not
reserve a little for a distressed parent;—the abbess surely will not require
it!”
“Perhaps,” said Magdalen, “he may
not want it.”
Mary for a moment looked wistfully
at Magdalen, then burst into a flood of tears,—“Surely, Magdalen,” said she,
“you do not mean that you think he will be taken and put to death?”
“How ready, Mary, you are to torment
yourself.—My meaning is, that at least for the present I should suppose he is
pretty well stored.”
“I remarked,” said Mary, “that at
the conclusion of your account of the outrage, you added the abbot’s opinion,
that my father’s estate would be put under sequestration,—they surely will not
be so unjust as to deprive my brother of it.”
“You seem to have more affection for
your brother than he had for you; it did not appear that he had any scruples
about your being deprived of your fortune.—Upon my word,” added Magdalen,
smiling, “you will make an excellent nun, and will far exceed in practice many
of the professed sisters; for, though but a novice, you have already learned to
love your enemies, and to do good to those that persecute you.”
The conversation was here broken off
by the boisterous intrusion of little Ela, who kept up an incessant knocking at
the door of the dormitory, until she was admitted,—crying,—“I will come in and
see my mamma Magdalen;—my Lady Abbess says I may, and I will too.—Open the
door.”
Mary arose and admitted the little
pleader, who immediately flung herself into Magdalen’s arms, saying,—“My dear
mother, where have you been this long, long time?—how could you go without
Ela?—They say you have been run away with,—why did they not run away with me
too, and then we would not have come back again?”
“What then you would have left me,”
said Mary.—“O, fie! Ela, I thought you loved me.”
“O, no,” replied Ela, “we would have
come back for dear Mary;—only——”
“Only what, Ela?” said Mary,
interrupting the little prattler.
“Why only, I was thinking, perhaps
the Lady Abbess would not let us run away again, and then we must all have been
obliged to stay in this dismal place.”
“So then,” said Mary, smiling, “I
find, that rather than your mamma Magdalen, and yourself should be detained,
you would however leave dear Mary.”
“Ah, but you know,” returned Ela,
“that when you are married you will leave the convent, and go home and live
with your husband.”
“Yes, when my soul is united with my
Heavenly spouse, I trust I shall; for my body is doomed never to quit the
precincts of a cloister.”
“If the reflection, my dear Mary,
impresses a regret on your spirits, why resolve to take the vows?—It is not yet
too late to retract; you have not publicly avowed a determination, and, believe
me, nothing that has been uttered in my presence shall ever transpire.”
“I have no regrets,” answered
Mary;—“it is true I had once other views, but they are for ever lost.”
The two friends were now interrupted
by the ringing of the convent bell, an indication that the general mid-day meal
was about to take place. Mary, Ela, and Magdalen, however, were indulged in
taking their’s together, on account of the fatigue the latter had so recently
sustained, and they were also further favoured by its being sent from the
abbess’s own table. Not but that lady had another motive as well as the
granting a particular indulgence,—she had well weighed all the recent events,
and did not wish to have them publicly canvassed before the opinion and
determination of the bishop of the diocese was known.
CHAPTER
XVIII.
TWO days after,
the arrival of the Arch-bishop of Bourdeaux was announced at the convent, he
was accompanied by the Abbot of Pau. The arch-bishop was a venerable old man,
his countenance and demeanor having every mark of christian piety and
humility.—After his introduction to the abbess, and some little time had
passed, Mary and Magdalen were summoned before him. He addressed both with
mildness and kindness,—markingly surveying them with looks of sympathy and
compassion. They both knelt before him, and he raised and blessed them with an
emotion truly parental.—“Daughters,” said this worthy prelate, “I feel and
commiserate the outrages and sufferings you have sustained, and am come hither
to redress them as much as within me lies.” He then made Mary recapitulate
every circumstance of her family connexions,—her introduction to the convent,
and every succeeding event.
It was plain, that at the
commencement of this account the Abbot of Pau and the Abbess of the
Benedictines did not feel much at their ease;—however, as the narrative
advanced, and they found that Mary stifled the harsh and cruel usage she had
undergone in the convent, their visages brightened up,—nay, their eyes
moistened into tender commiseration at the want of affection in her family to
such a pious and sweet tempered child,—to whom, the abbess said, on her part, her duty as well as
affection, would oblige her to return doubly, what she so severely missed in
her parents.
“It is both pious and benevolent in
you, Lady,” said the prelate, “and I will occasionally join in the pleasurable
undertaking.—What say, you, Mary, shall I
be your father?”
The grateful maid arose, and
throwing herself at the arch-bishop’s feet, said,—“and shall I then have one
that I may call by that tender name?—the poor forsaken desolate Mary!—Oh, my
father!—then again bless—bless your happy daughter!”
The arch-bishop gently
raised,—folded her in his arms,—kissed her cheek,—then raising his hands and
eyes to Heaven, solemnly ejaculated,—“Father of Mercies, look down upon this
child—bless,—comfort,—and give her that peace which the world cannot bestow!”
“Amen!” responded Mary, with joyful
fervor, again sinking upon her knees, “and hear and record Mary’s firm and
willing resolve,—she from this moment devotes her life to thee, her God!—for
thou alone can give peace and comfort.”
“Is this resolve free and
voluntary!” said the arch-bishop.
“It is,” replied Mary.
“You have a considerable fortune, I
understand.”
“It is appropriated, holy father,”
answered Mary.
“How appropriated, daughter—and who
were your advisers?—for you appear much too young to have acted for yourself,”
said the arch-bishop.—“Did your father constrain you?—if so, your non-age will
put it aside.”
“No, holy father, it is a gift to
St. Bertrand,” said Mary.
“To St. Bertrand!—Ha,” said the
arch-bishop, “St. Bertrand needs it not.—To St. Bertrand!” repeated he, “and
pray who are St. Bertrand’s trustees?”
During this interrogation the abbot
and abbess’s countenances had undergone different degrees of suffusion,—from
pale to yellow,—from that to red and crimson;—they, however, chose to continue
silent and await Mary’s answer.
“I know not,” replied Mary.—“But if
you, my lord, would condescend to become his almoner, I am assured it cannot be
in better hands.”
“I have no objection,” replied the
arch-bishop, “in occasionally assisting and advising with you in the disposal
of a part of your property, for pious and charitable purposes. But answer me,
daughter, was the first idea your own, and perfectly voluntary?”
“Heaven and you pardon me, holy
father. I at first was guilty of the sin of hypocrisy of which I sincerely
repent, and crave your absolution; and as an atonement for my offence, now
willingly offer up my fortune to St. Bertrand.—Yet, my lord, if I could,
without sin, make one request,—”
“What is it, daughter?”
“My father’s offences, which incur
punishment, were levelled at myself. May the Almighty pardon him as freely as I
do! His disgrace would be an everlasting bar to my future peace.—Ah, my lord,
your power could sanction——”
“Amiable—exemplary child!—Well—well,
for your sake, there shall no search be made;—but let him take care of himself,
and keep out of our way, and your elder brother, also, for he, I understand,
has been a party in this atrocious act; they must, therefore, in future, be
aliens to their native country.”
“One thing more, my lord;—poverty,
which they have not been used to, will be hard to encounter; and I have been
told it frequently leads to vice. My father’s estate—”
“Must inevitably be put under
sequestration; not only to prevent the commission of more crimes by him and
your elder brother, but also that a provision may be made for your mother, and
the other children, in which distribution yourself shall be considered.”
“Heaven be praised!—I shall then
have it in my power to assist the unhappy, and perhaps repentant wanderers.”
“If any thing can make an impression
on their hardened bosoms, it, doubtless, will be a knowledge of the amiable
disposition of one they had so much injured,” said the arch-bishop. Then
turning to Magdalen, he said, “I will not trouble you, daughter, to
recapitulate the terrors and dangers you have so lately sustained; having
minutely weighed every circumstance, as related to me by the abbot, suffice it,
that I have taken measures for future security in all the religious houses
within my diocese.—The man you term your deliverer, I have seen; it appears,
upon the whole, that he has acted from coercion, and that what share of guilt
may attach to him, has been much extenuated by your deliverance.—Add to which,
he appears a true penitent, and is desirous of expiating his former offences,
by entering into holy orders; he is now in sanctuary, until his pardon can be
made out, he then will enter upon his noviciate—for I mean to take his
patronage on myself. I have also,” continued the prelate, “had the curiosity to
examine your late place of concealment, and have given orders for every part of
the ruins to be levelled, that they may no more serve as receptacles for
plunderers.
“By my conversation with Morgan, I
think I have also gained some knowledge of the man, called the chief; but this
even your deliverer is not aware of, and which I shall keep secret until my
suspicions are well authenticated.—And now, Lady Abbess,” continued the
prelate, “nothing remains for me to say, in regard to your house, but that you
will give immediate orders to a skilful surveyor, to inspect both within and
without your walls; the height of the latter must be raised, and the approaches
to them totally cleared of the coppices, to a considerable distance. I would
also advise the wilderness, within side, to be cut down and laid open, so shall
you have nothing to apprehend in future.”
The Lady Abbess promised implicitly
to obey his directions, and the good arch-bishop having, with the utmost
kindness, taken leave of Mary, the fair nun, the abbot, and the superior, he
left the convent.
After his departure, and that of the
abbot, nothing could exceed the kindness and condescension of the Lady Abbess.
She repeatedly embraced the two friends, called them her dear children—said
that now the utmost wish of her heart was gratified, in Mary’s voluntary
consent, and which she had no doubt was owing to the pious and salutary advice
of Magdalen. Nor did the kindness and affability of the abbess end in words—she
that day invited them to her own table, and, that their entertainment might be
more grateful, she permitted little Ela to be of the party.
In the afternoon she also
condescended to accompany them into the garden, and pointed out the alterations
and additions she intended making; not only for the pleasure and convenience of
the sisterhood, but for their personal security.—“It will be attended with
great charge,” added she.—“To be sure, the revenues of the convent are ample,
and fully adequate to its former disbursements.—And now, my dear daughter Mary,
your pious and noble donation to St. Bertrand, will fully enable us to answer
the present expence, as well as to increase our future charitable purposes.”
Mary replied, that she was happy it
was in her power to contribute her part towards a religious establishment, and
in aid of her fellow creatures;—that she had no desire to accumulate wealth,
though she should wish to reserve a little for particular occasions, as she had
expressed to the arch-bishop.
“The arch-bishop is a good man,”
replied the abbess, “but he is not severe enough to hardened offenders, which
makes crimes multiply in his diocese;—but every one hath their faults. He is a
man of high birth, vast possessions, and has great connexions in almost every
part of Europe; so that there are even but few of the crowned heads that would
refuse him any thing he chose to ask.—The Pope is his near relation, and he
might have been a Cardinal, and even have filled the papal chair, had he been
so disposed.”
“In truth,” said Mary, “he appears
worthy of that, or, indeed, of a more exalted station; for never did my
inexperience view so much unaffected piety and humility, blended in one and the
same person.”
“You are an excellent panegyrist,”
replied the abbess, coldly, “and seem perfectly
to understand how to return the arch-bishop’s predilection in your favor.—But
you are young and inexperienced in the world, in a few more years you will
learn not to give your opinion lightly.”
“Dear Lady,” said Mary, “why did not
yourself say that the arch-bishop was a good man,—and is not the esteem of
princes a certain proof of it?”
“And pray, what have you heard me
say against his being a good man?—Heaven
forbid that I should be a slanderer, or detract from any one’s merit!—A man’s
deeds best speak for him.—Then, as for the esteem of princes, they are not
infallible in regard to their discriminative powers, any more than other
mortals in a less elevated sphere.—But we have got upon a subject that we have
nothing to do with,” said the abbess, smiling and suddenly recollecting
herself, for she had unawares let her natural disposition shew itself, when she
only meant to exhibit smiles and complacency.
She had truly said that the
arch-bishop was a very powerful man, which she was not a little sorry for,
because he was likewise a good man; and though he did not punish petty offenders to the extreme letter of the
law, he would neither wink at, tolerate, or connive at injustice and
oppression. He had the utmost zeal for religion, but it was of the true
primitive kind, that did not seek to deck the shrines of saints with costly
jewels, or to enrich convents by impoverishing a future progeny. Such a visitor
was not formed to be a favorite with hypocritical monks and bloated abbesses,
though they deemed it needful to dress their holy-day countenances with the
semblance of joy and gladness at his appearance; in order to conceal the devil
that reigned within.
“There will be a very considerable
sum to receive,” continued the abbess, “now you are of age, my dear Mary;—but I
think there was no occasion to trouble the arch-bishop in regard to either the
receipt or its disposal.—St. Bertrand, who doubtless inspired you with the idea
of appropriating it to his service, will also point out the mode and manner to
his agents.”
“I trust he will, Lady,” said Mary,
“for I am a perfect novice in money concerns, and shall, therefore, leave them
to those that are better skilled.”
“You answer prudently, child; and
now you are in a proper frame of mind, no doubt every thing will be conducted
to the satisfaction of all parties.”
By this time they had arrived at the
foot of the old bridge, and Magdalen could not help shuddering at the
recollection of events that passed the last time she was there; which the
abbess perceiving, said,—“You need not now fear, for I have had the breach in
the wall properly closed, and guards posted night and day on the outside, who
will remain until the walls are raised, and all the woody covert, both without
and within, cleared away and laid open.—When that is done, a deep and wide moat
is to be dug all round the walls, which will be always kept full by this
brook;—and as to the wilderness on the other side of this bridge, it may be
rendered of some use, which it never yet has been, when all those overgrown
trees are cut down and grubbed up.”
“It is almost a pity, on any other
account than security, to destroy these venerable inmates, that appear nearly
coeval with creation,” said Magdalen.
“Oh, I shall not feel the least
compunction,” replied the abbess, “for they will furnish the convent with a
notable supply of fuel for some years to come. I wonder I did not think of it
before,—and the ground may be turned to better account when it has been
properly cultivated.”
“I think,” said Mary, “if it is
found necessary to destroy these, they may be replaced to advantage by covering
their scite with fruit trees; for an orchard is very much wanted to the
convent.”
“A very good thought, Mary,” said
the abbess, “I will adopt it;—but we must then repair, or rather make an entire
new bridge.”
“And with all due reverence, Lady,”
answered Mary, “I think our patron here has suffered equally from the attacks
of all-destroying Time.”
“The symbolical figure of St.
Bertrand hath, indeed, suffered, and it will be needful, for the credit of the
house, that it should also undergo renovation, least we should draw upon us the
gibes of the profane,—who would say, we were solicitous and careful of the
building, while we neglected its guardian and protector.—To prevent this, we
will employ the best artist in Guyenne, who shall be instructed to form a new
and accurate likeness of our patron, which, when finished, shall be placed in
the interior of the convent; not only as an incitement to devotion, but also to
preserve it from the weather.”
As neither the abbess nor her
companions had any desire to cross the bridge and explore the devoted groves,
they slowly returned towards the convent; the conversation, by the way, turning
on the approaching ceremony, which was to add a new sacrifice to St. Bertrand,
in the person of Mary.
The abbess wished the pomp and
splendor of the house to be exhibited on the occasion;—while Mary, on the
contrary, pleaded that all external shew might be banished.—“There is only one
thing,” continued she, “that I would wish,—the spiritual aid and comfort of the
good arch-bishop, if he would condescend to be present;—and, previous to its
taking place, that I might receive a last embrace and blessing from my earthly
parent—my mother.—I shall then, I trust, quit all thoughts of busy society, for
which I once pined, without regret; nothing doubting, but that internal peace
here, and eternal happiness hereafter, will be the consequence.”
As the abbess could not make any
reasonable objection, she assented to both requests, though at the same time
she wished Mary and the arch-bishop to converse as little as possible, lest any
thing should by chance transpire that she did not like to be known.—Yet she was
aware, that by seeming averse, explanations might occur, which would possibly
bring about the very circumstances that she was anxious should not be
discussed.—She had, however, two chances in her favor,—the first was, that as
every thing relative to Mary had been minutely brought forward at the last
meeting, a second investigation, she conjectured, would be deemed unnecessary.
But a more substantial and better
reason to hope that the past would be buried in oblivion was founded in the
moderation and forgiving spirit of Mary;—a disposition which it was her
interest to conciliate and cherish, and which she now did, to that degree of
indulgence, that it was not only noticed, but became the common topic of all
the sage censorious dames of the convent,—who, though they agreed in one point,
namely that of envy to the reigning favorite, yet nevertheless were divided
into two factions,—the malignant and the cunning. The first met and discussed
with the most vituperative fervor, their supposed grievances, in the preference
and indulgence that Mary was favored with; the latter had art enough to conceal
their dislike, and to make the young novice’s interest with the abbess,
subservient to their own wishes.
CHAPTER XIX.
SUCH was the
state of politics within the convent of the Benedictine nuns, at the second
visitation of the arch-bishop, who acquainted the abbess, that since his former
visit, he had convoked a provincial synod, at which de Vavasour and his adherents
had been cited to appear, and answer to the crimes exhibited against them.
That, in default, a spiritual anathema had been passed against their persons,
and all their known property taken possession of and vested in trust for
especial purposes;—a moiety of de Vavasour’s estate being reserved for the
maintenance of his wife and younger children,—a portion thereof being likewise
set apart for Mary, to be at her own disposal; an indulgence which the
arch-bishop said he thought but just, as a small remuneration for the cruel and
oppressive treatment she had sustained from her family. As for her own fortune,
the prelate continued, he had laid all the circumstances before the members of
the synod, spiritual and temporal, and they had decreed, that the disbursements
of the rents and monies should be dictated by her, to whomsoever she might
choose as her agents, if she took the veil, and this to continue during her
natural life. After the period of which, if she chose to bequeath it to St.
Bertrand—“that is to say,” added the arch-bishop, “if she continues in the mind
to bestow her wealth on this house, she will be at liberty so to do; but,
otherwise, it would militate against the third canon passed at a synod held at
Westminster, in the year 1127, where William Curboil, Arch-bishop of Canterbury
presided as the Pope’s legate, and which canon expressly forbids taking money
for receiving monks and nuns into religious houses.”
“Pardon me, my lord arch-bishop,”
interrupted the abbess.—“The present case does not come within the meaning of
the canon law; Mary’s is a free, voluntary, and pious gift, offered at the
shrine of St. Bertrand.”
“I have been assured otherwise,”
answered the arch-bishop; “and indeed it appears to me to have been originally
a stratagem of Mary’s, in order to escape being forced into a conventual
life.—However succeeding circumstances may have influenced her to acquiesce, we
cannot therefore suffer what was begun by force, and continued in guile, should
stand good in our diocese.—If Mary is now willing to take the vows freely, it
will be far from me to oppose it, but then it must be agreeable to what has
been determined by the synod; from whose voice, however, if any should deem
themselves aggrieved, there still may be an appeal to the Pope, before whom all
the proceedings of the synod must then be laid, together with the reasons that
caused their determinations.”
This explanation was by no means
pleasing to the abbess, who had so long flattered herself with the idea of
enjoying an uncontrouled disposition of Mary’s fortune. To be baulked on the
very eve of completion, was doubly mortifying, and more particularly so, as the
arch-bishop had given some hints, that clearly proved he was more acquainted
with the business than she was aware of, and, if so, it was plain that she had
spies on her conduct, and in that case an appeal to his holiness, so far from
being conducive to her wishes, would, most probably, end in her own
discomfiture; and this now appeared so palpable, that she instantly resolved to
try, if, by temporizing, she could not avert, or at least meliorate, the
business, by which, something might be gained, and her conduct rest secure from
investigation.
This being the mode which appeared
best calculated to succeed, she replied to the reverend prelate,—“It is very
true, my good lord, that I have been anxious for Mary’s being a member of our
community; not from a selfish motive, for I can have, in seclusion, no personal
wants, abstracted from the general interest I feel, the funds of the convent
should be in a flourishing state. The intention of the Sieur de Vavasour in
placing Mary here, was to gratify his avarice, that being the case, and her
family totally devoid of affection, I submit it to your wisdom, whether her
taking the veil would not be far more eligible, than a friendless, unprotected
state, or, perhaps, something worse; for, in the daring outrage on the person
of Magdalen, and the subsequent conduct, the de Vavasours have fully exhibited
to what lengths their villany may be carried. An increase of fortune,
therefore, would only enable them to extend their crimes; while, on the
contrary, if bestowed on a religious establishment, it would serve to promote
and enlarge the pious and charitable purposes for which these houses were ordained.”
“In both instances I hold with you,
lady abbess,” said the arch-bishop, “with the proviso that the will is free and
unrestrained, both in regard to person and property; for neither can prove an
acceptable offering to the Most High, where either force, deception, or
subterfuge, is made subservient.—Nor will I ever, knowingly, admit either to be
used in any religious house within my jurisdiction. In regard to Mary de
Vavasour, she hath, already, in my presence, expressed her willingness to take
upon her the vows of seclusion; if she remains steady, in the same disposition,
I will willingly assist at the ceremony.”
The abbess acquainted the
arch-bishop how very acceptable his condescension would prove to Mary, who,
with Magdalen, were then introduced into his presence; when having received
some spiritual advice, and the reverend prelate’s blessing, he took leave and
departed, after having fixed Mary’s renunciation of the world to take place on
that day month.
The interim between that time was
taken up by Mary, in preparing for what she deemed one of the most solemn acts
of life. Whole days were passed in prayer, and in a strict examination whether
she could, without repining, give up the pomps and vanities of the world.—In
these meditations and devotions she was occasionally assisted by a reverend
priest, called Father Dominick, who had been recommended by the arch-bishop as
a confessor, and who was also authorized, by that venerable prelate, to explain
to her the nature and extent of her temporal concerns.
One day, previous to his entering on
his sacred function, he said,—“I am desired by the arch-bishop to acquaint you
that his treasurer has, by his order, been collecting certain sums due from the
tenants occupying your lands, and which I have brought hither with me.—His
grace also desired me to say, that large sums, and many jewels and valuables
have been embezzled during the time that your father had the administration,
and of which he therefore can produce no vouchers in regard to their application.—For
what I now present you, the arch-bishop, who is a just steward, hath sent a
regular account, and desires, in return, your acquittal.—He is also desirous
that you should have it as speedily as possible, not knowing whether you might
not have some worldly arrangements to make, or some little services of
friendship or remembrance to fulfil.”—The priest then produced two bags, each
containing five hundred marks, and which he had caused to be brought into the
convent.
“What thanks can I,” said Mary, “return
for such exalted goodness?”
“The arch-bishop requires none,”
returned the priest, “but esteems himself sufficiently repaid by the Almighty
having placed him in a situation to be serviceable to his fellow
creatures.”—The holy father then changed the discourse, by asking her if there
was any commission without the walls of the convent that he could fulfil?
“There is but one thing remains, and
for which I have the Lady Abbess’s permission; it is to take leave of my
earthly parent. Would you, holy father, signify to her my desire, and entreat
her presence; I should hold myself highly favored. The arch-bishop, I trust,
will have no objection.”
“None daughter,—and for myself, I
undertake the office most willingly;—but only exhort you to meet and part with
becoming fortitude, so that your health may not suffer by the weaknesses of
human nature.”
“I trust, holy father,” said Mary,
“that I have sufficiently conquered those pinings and regrets with which my
younger years were so forcibly marked; and which were caused by my having
conceived a strong and high wrought picture of the pleasures of unrestrained
society, and of family affection. Miserably deceived in the latter, the former
has fled like a shadow, and I now consider all worldly enjoyments as so many
idle vanities.”
“You draw a just conclusion,
daughter,” returned the priest, “by cherishing of which you will imbibe peace
of mind, the first step towards true piety;—for no peace dwelleth with the
wicked and worldly minded.”
After a number of admonitions and
exhortations preparatory to her taking the vows, the priest retired, and Mary
sent to know if she might be permitted to have a few minutes conversation with
the superior, a request that was immediately complied with.
“The holy father, lady,” said Mary,
“has brought me some monies collected from my estates, by order of the
arch-bishop, and here are five hundred marks, which I am come to entreat you
will disburse to the honor of St. Bertrand, and for the benefit of the
community, in what way you shall deem most meet.”
“I accept your largess, daughter,”
said the abbess, “and thank you, in the name of St. Bertrand, who, no doubt
will grant his protection to so zealous a votary;—it is a gift that comes very
opportune to defray the additional expences we have been obliged to incur, and
which, nevertheless, are for purposes that will prove beneficial to all. Your
receipts will be more considerable, I understand, than what your father
reported, or was willing should be made known.”
“Such the holy father informed me,”
replied Mary, “but I only rejoice thus far, that it will afford an additional
aid to charitable and humane actions.”
Three days previous to the ceremony
taking place, Mary de Vavasour’s mother was announced at the convent, and
Magdalen, by the order of the superior, was sent to prepare Mary for the
interview.—Contrary to her expectation, she received the tidings with
calmness,—“This was unnecessary,” said she, with a smile, “I have, by the
Divine assistance, brought my mind to a perfect composure, and trust nothing
will again disturb its serenity.—Lead me to my parent, and you, the sister of
my soul, be present at the interview,” so saying, with a placid countenance and
firm step, she took the arm of Magdalen, and repaired to the superior’s
apartment, where the abbess and Madame de Vavasour were waiting to receive her.
Madame de Vavasour, now left at her
free liberty, and uncontrolled by her husband not being present, received her
with outstretched arms, and in silent agony pressed her to her bosom; from
which Mary gently sunk upon her knees, and said,—“Bless, O, my mother! bless
your poor child, and forgive her all the trouble she has occasioned both to her
father and yourself!—Alas! could I but have foreseen the disastrous consequences
of my perverse disobedience to his will, he should have possessed my fortune
without a murmur!”
Such unexampled conduct, from a
wronged and persecuted child, greatly distressed Madame de Vavasour, who
appeared overcome by the conflicting passions of shame, remorse, and
tenderness.—“Oh! my child!” at length she uttered, “ask not forgiveness of your
cruel and unjust parents;—that word would better become us.—It is our knees
that ought to bend before our for ever injured child.—With what face can we
ever implore Divine mercy, when we cannot make any reparation for the wrongs we
have inflicted?”
“You have done me no wrong, my
parent,” said Mary, “but only removed the film from before my eyes, which
prevented my seeing the road which leads to happiness.—Had I been permitted to
live in the world, at the time my mind was misled by what I had heard of its
vanities—lost in fallacious pursuits, my reason would never have had leisure to
select the good, and reject the evil.—Do I not, then, owe you thanks for my salvation?—My
father too, has only been an agent in the hand of Divine Providence to bring
about its own wise and salutary decrees;—the means, to human foresight, appear not altogether
justifiable, but may not their failing in success, and consequent punishment,
lead to that penitence which prosperity would never have excited?—Oh, my
mother!” continued she, “forgive your visionary child!—Methinks I see my
father, in his last moments, imploring pardon, and blessing his poor Mary!”
Mary, from being perfectly calm,
had, at the conclusion of her speech, raised herself to a pitch of enthusiasm,
which appeared to communicate to all present, who beheld the young novice with
a degree of admiration bordering on reverence;—even the abbess’s natural apathy
was apparently subdued, and she exhibited some tokens of feeling, and what she
called human frailty,—for her eyes were actually moistened, either from pity or
a remorse arising from retrospection.—But Providence has wisely ordained, that
high wrought affections should not long continue, lest they should overwhelm
and destroy our frail organic system; the passions, therefore, of the assembly
gradually subsided, refreshments were introduced, after which the abbess and
Magdalen retired, leaving Mary and her mother together.
Mary carefully avoided all discourse
that might lead her mother into self accusation, and indeed, she wanted not any
aggravation of her feelings, for she now, too late, discovered what it was to
be deprived of an affectionate child,—of one, who by her duty, attachment, and
tenderness would have mitigated the pangs arising from being forsaken by her
husband, and neglected by her profligate sons. Mary, in the most soothing
language, attempted to mitigate her mother’s grief, nor did she wholly fail of
success;—she told her, that not neglecting her duty to God, notwithstanding her
seclusion, she would ever remain her devoted and affectionate child,—that her
mother might have frequent opportunities of seeing her, and that from the
goodness of the arch-bishop, she should be able to assist both her and her
father.—“I have,” continued she, “my dear mother, reserved for that purpose,
five hundred marks, and will, from time to time, furnish you with more. I do
not ask you of my father’s place of retirement, which I would not wish to know,
that it may not lead me into falsehood, or prevarication, should enquiry be
made.—I trust that he is well and in safety, and will ever pray for his eternal
happiness.”
“Exemplary child!” exclaimed Madame
de Vavasour.—“What have we lost by pursuing an empty shadow—that phantom,
family aggrandizement? And for whom was the sacrifice made? for one who
observed no law, nor performed one moral duty. Born amidst dissipation, and
bred up in luxury and extravagance, your brother early became proud, cruel,
vindictive, and disobedient—these faults, instead of being checked in time,
were softened, and called spirit, bravery, and a love of freedom.—Late your
father found his mistake, but was himself too haughty and imperious to
acknowledge it, although his ample possessions were drained to support his
son’s revels.—One event, indeed, for a time, appeared to make an impression on
his mind, for it struck at your brother’s personal safety.—In a vindictive
mood, he quarrelled with, and killed one of his intimate companions; the rank
of this man made it necessary for him to fly, and seek a place of
concealment.—For a time neither your father nor myself knew his place of
residence;—after some months absence he suddenly, early one morning, presented
himself before us, but so disguised, that at first we knew him not. From that
time to your father’s retreat, he kept himself concealed in an obscure and
private out-building, some distance from the mansion, until the fatal attempt
was made, that reduced them to the condition of being everlasting aliens to
their native country, or of expiating their offences by an ignominious death.”
“Unhappy parent! unhappy brother!”
exclaimed Mary;—“but have I not two other brothers? say, my mother, they
surely——”
“Alas, my daughter,” interrupted
Madame de Vavasour,—“though not so much in favour with your father as your
elder brother, the same erroneous system has been pursued, and nothing but the
supplies of money hath been wanting to render them equally criminal.”
“Merciful Heaven!” exclaimed Mary,
dropping on her knees, “praised be thy holy name, that I, by a seeming cruelty,
have escaped the dire contagion. Forgive thy short-sighted creature, for so
long and obstinately opposing thy will; confirm and strengthen my present
sentiments—extend thy mercy and forgiveness to my father and to my brethren,
and finally turn their hearts towards thee in humble and sincere repentance.”
“I trust,” said Madame de
Vavasour,—“that misfortune will bring reflection, and reflection repentance.—Oh,
my dear child! though I cannot charge myself with any other crime, than basely
assenting to give thee up, though unwillingly—yet my heart never knew true
peace; even amidst the glare of splendour, my reason would revolt, as my body
wearied, and I would say, Is this happiness?
“A thousand times have I resolved to break the bonds of custom, and live a rational creature; but my resolution has ever proved too weak, and the want of example in him, that should have been my guide and instructor, contributed to render every virtuous determination abortive.—Weak by nature, and more so from indolence and habit, I have often suffered myself to be laughed out of my most serious resolves.
“Thus I continued from day to day,
from year to year, until the vengeance of offended Heaven, in counteracting
your father’s cruel design, burst at once upon us.—Your father fled—then
conscience flashed conviction on my guilty soul—a deserted hopeless innocent
tortured my fancy by day, and haunted my sleepless nights.—I had none left to
divide my affection, and all the mother returned.—My callous heart was
softened—I longed to fold my child in my arms, but dared not approach in my
distress the object I had so vilely abandoned.
“Tortured by a thousand conflicting
passions, my mind was at length relieved, as if by an angel sent from
Heaven—the good priest appeared, and removed the weight which bowed me to the
earth, for he brought me a gladsome message from my child, and he spake the
words of peace to my soul.
“Once more, my angelic sufferer,
pardon your repentant mother, that she may, at the close of her life, enjoy
true comfort; and undisturbed by worldly sorrow, strive, by a sincere
repentance, to deprecate the wrath of an offended Creator.”
“If my forgiveness, Oh, my mother,
is essential to your happiness—freely do I bestow it. May the Almighty,”
continued Mary, dropping on her knees, “look with compassion on my parents, and
accord them mercy and forgiveness.—Grant them inward comfort and peace in this
vale of mortality, and at his own good time receive them into the mansions of
everlasting blessedness.”
“Thy prayers, my good child, must
prove efficacious; already I feel a new creature, and am resolved no more to
embark in a deceitful and treacherous world.
“No, my daughter, never more will I
quit thee, but devote the remainder of my life to the service of my Creator;
and by acts of mortification and penitence hope to atone for my past
offences.—Here will I daily contemplate thy perfections, and, in imagination, anticipate
the glad hour when all worldly sorrow will be done away, and the repentant
mother and her forgiving daughter meet in bliss.”
“Do you, then, my mother,” said
Mary, “resolve to embrace a conventual life? Have you not duties to fulfil in
the world, and can you quit it wholly without regret?”
“It is not, my dear Mary, the
thought of a moment,” replied Madame de Vavasour,—“I have long pondered on my
own sinful state, emerged in scenes of busy dissipation, from which, while your
father was present, I found it impossible to retreat.—I have now, alas! no duty
to fulfil; your younger brothers are both in the army, and were taught, long
since, to despise their mother, and treat her with neglect and contempt. Judge,
then, my Mary, whether I can have a duty preferable to the care of my own soul,
or that I can hesitate to quit the world, without regret, wherein I have not
the least tender tie remaining?”
“Far be it from me, my mother, to
oppose so pious a wish; and happy, doubly happy shall I be, after having
regained a parent, to know that we shall part no more.—But will my father, I
pray ye, approve and consent to your resolution?”
“He has ever acted more like a stern
tyrant than a husband,” replied Madame de Vavasour, “or I should never have
patiently acquiesced in giving up my child.—You may remember, and must have
noticed, that I was obliged to repress my tenderness at our former meeting,
when you sent to desire his presence, previous to your entering on your
noviciate.—No, he will, I doubt not, be much pleased to be quit of one, that he
has, for many years past, deemed an incumbrance, and a spy on his pleasures.
Besides, labouring under his present difficulties, by having incurred the heavy
censure of the church, he will not be able to return, but must for ever remain
an alien to his native land.
“I therefore entreat that you will
make known my desire to the superior of this house, that I may gain a speedy
admission to the place where my sole affections rest.”
The conversation betwen Madame de
Vavasour and Mary was terminated by the entrance of the abbess.
“My mother, lady,” said the young
novice, “is desirous of quitting the world, and would gladly place herself
under the protection of the Holy St. Bertand, and wishes, preparatory to
receiving his patronage, to offer, at his shrine, the sum of five hundred
marks; being well aware that, however willing the saint may be to encrease the
number of his votaries, they cannot be sustained without expence.”
“We receive her, willingly,
daughter, not only on her own account, but doubly so on your’s; and heartily do
I congratulate her on this pious resolution.—Here she will find a calm and safe
retreat from the sorrows and troubles of busy life; I wish that many would
follow her example. It is true, the funds of this community will not admit of a
large encrease, but pious gifts to our patron saint might sustain the charge,
as it has heretofore done; and, blessed be the name of our protector! his house
yields to none in fame, for piety, zeal, or ample endowment.”
This was far from a vain boast in
the abbess, for it enjoyed at least a reputation for piety and zeal, that had
extended not only over Guyenne and Normandy, but which also reached England;
hence the superstition and bigotry of the twelfth century did not fail to
bestow on it large revenues.—Added to this, the abbess was of high birth, and
possessed the happy talent of ingratiating herself into the favor of powerful
personages, by paying an implicit obedience to their mandates;—a proof of this
fully appeared in the mysterious and secret admission of Magdalen.—Neither was
she failing in increasing the funds, and keeping up a sufficient stock to
support and aid the disbursements, for which purpose St. Bertrand was often
brought forward, and few there were of the inmates, that were known to possess
any property, who had the hardihood to deny the Saint, and his coadjutrix the
abbess.
One thing, indeed, appeared rather
unfavorable to the superior’s views, as has been already noticed;—the
arch-bishop of the diocese was not a favorer of injustice, nor of
hypocrisy,—zealous without being intolerant, he would neither relax a proper
discipline, nor condemn to the flames for a difference in opinion.—In that
unenlightened age the rigid bigots would have whispered that he was a favorer
of heresy, had they not been awed by his exalted rank and power;—such being the
case, the abbess was obliged to proceed with some degree of caution,
particularly, as the prelate had lately taken upon himself to inspect the
convent, which he had not before done.
In the present instance his visits
were peculiarly unwelcome, for at their commencement she had nearly put the
finishing hand towards engrossing the whole of Mary’s fortune; whereas, by his
interference, she had been disappointed, and was obliged to change her plan, by
putting off the tyrant, and endeavouring to gain by smiles and courtesy, what
she meant to seize by force. The transition was not difficult, and did not,
even in the first instance, fail of success.—Mary’s fortune and revenues, it
was true, would be nominally in
her own power, but having no wants, with a little artful management, St.
Bertrand and herself would be the real possessors.
CHAPTER XX.
THE day at length
arrived which was to add another victim to a blind and mistaken zeal,—to shut
for ever from society a member ordained by Providence to be useful and
ornamental. To Mary the sacrifice had long ceased to be dreadful,—her spirits,
originally strong and ardent, were broken by parental unkindness,—no kindred
affections existed without the walls of the convent,—and even her seclusion was
now become habitual. The abbess too had ceased to treat her with severity,
added to which, the pleasure of being assured that she would never be separated
from Magdalen and her mother, operated to make her think the approaching
ceremony truly desirable.—She, therefore, beheld, unmoved, the bustle and
preparation, for the Lady Abbess was not to be persuaded to forego the
exhibition of all the massy rich plate, jewels, and paraphernalia used to
dignify the sacrifice, nor to omit any part of the ceremony.—Every individual
of the convent was marshalled in due form, and joined in the procession.
The arch-bishop and the Abbot of Pau
led the way,—next followed twelve priests,—a small space was then left for the
abbess,—the nuns succeeded, walking in pairs, according to seniority, the best
voices chaunting a solemn anthem selected for the occasion.—The nun elect then
appeared, dressed in pure white, supported on each side by her mother and
Magdalen, a favor which she particularly requested.—Six novices came next,—and
the procession was finally closed by the inferior members and servants
belonging to the house.
As they reached the altar, they
ranged on each side, the arch-bishop taking the right hand, supported by the
Abbot of Pau, the priests being placed behind them.—The abbess and nuns
occupied the other side in like manner, all waiting until Mary was led up the
aisle;—when near the altar, the arch-bishop and the abbess advanced, and each
taking one of her hands led her to a cushion,—then all kneeling, the
arch-bishop repeated an impressive prayer, after which he addressed an
exhortatory discourse to the whole assembly, suitable to the occasion,—an
anthem was then sung, accompanied by solemn music, the choristers joining in
the responses.—A silent pause for some minutes took place, after which, the
abbot slowly rising, began the ceremony, requiring her to declare whether she
willingly quitted the world, and dedicated the remainder of her life to the
service of God, and the exercise of true religion?
On her answering in the affirmative,
the vows were administered in due form,—her hair was cut off,—her worldly robes
removed, and replaced by those used by the professed.—Mary de Vavasour became
for ever lost to society, and the substituted name of Bertha gave a new sister
to the convent.
Mary’s conduct was calm and
dignified, and no regret of the sacrifice she had made, appeared either in
word, or in demeanor.—Mary, indeed,—or sister Bertha, as she must now be
called, had justly appreciated the change, and found it amounted only to the
mere ceremony; for the same habits she had been accustomed to while a novice,
would be pursued.—Nay, as the arch-bishop had secured to her the disposition of
her own property, she, with much reason, reckoned on being favored with still
greater indulgences. Nor was she mistaken, for setting aside the seclusion, and
the accustomed formula of the house, she found herself as much at her ease as
she could desire; and, to add to her satisfaction, both her mother and Magdalen
were included, and treated with equal kindness. Such influence, however, was
not occasioned by any change of disposition in the Lady Abbess, but only in
order to insure Bertha’s ensuing rents, and to share her mother’s allowance of
the part allotted out of de Vavasour’s estate;—for the sagacious abbess knew
that they had no wants or worldly provision to make, she, therefore, always
took care, in due time, that St. Bertrand should need some assistance,—that is,
that the house had incurred some expence more than the revenues would
discharge, an allegation known to be perfectly false,—but which none cared, nor
even dared attempt to controvert, though the old nuns, in their private
gossippings, did not fail to laugh at, and turn their superior’s avarice into
ridicule.—Even her bosom counsellors, Martha and Bridget, grown jealous of the
new favorite’s influence, said, one day,—“You must be careful, now, how you
affront sister Bertha;—times are strangely altered since she was denounced as a
dissembler, and an enemy to Holy St. Bertrand.”
“Aye,” replied Bridget, “altered
indeed,—the Saint and sister Bertha are no longer enemies;—she hath, it seems,
made him a noble present,—and yet, I doubt whether he will have a new doublet
and hose for all that.”
“How should he,” returned Martha,
“when you know the abbess says, the revenues of the convent are all swallowed
up in gluttony, and that the times are so hard that she must be obliged to
increase the number of meagre days, which if she does, we shall all be reduced
to skeletons.”
“No, not all,” replied Bridget, “for
there is nothing but junketing from morning till night with Bertha, Magdalen,
Madame de Vavasour, and the Lady Abbess.—The times are hard enough, indeed,
with us, and if she does increase the meagre days, she will soon have a meagre
house, for we shall all die of consumptions; for my own part, I am nothing but
skin and bone already.”
“Nay, don’t say I, sister Bridget,—if I was as fat and sleek as you are, I
should have no cause to complain;—for, notwithstanding the new favorites, you
can always manage to get your share
of the choice bits, and a cup of good wine.—It is I, God help me, that am
reduced to skin and bone, I have not egress and regress to the store room.”
“I scorn your words, Martha,”
replied Bridget, “I get no choice bits;—and then, for wine, it is well known
that I never drink any thing but water,—“As abstemious as sister Bridget,” is a
common saying throughout the house.—But your tongue is no slander, and since
you force me to speak, you know very well the reason why you are shut out of
the store room,—it was for your making too free with the wine;—and then, your
being spare and thin is owing to your own envious fretful temper, which you
should strive to correct, by praying for patience and christian charity——”
“I am glad to find you so well
employed,” said the abbess, who that instant entered, and who only overheard
the last words,—“patience and charity are indeed truly christian virtues, and I
am heartily sorry to interrupt a discourse that must needs have been both
pleasurable and edifying to each?—but you can resume it at another
opportunity.—I now want you to fetch some necessaries from the storeroom,
Bridget, and which I have placed apart on a table. Martha may, if she pleases,
assist you.”
“Willingly, Lady,” replied Martha.
The two nuns then departed to execute their commission;—and, to shew that they
bore no malice, nor harboured rancour in their hearts, they each took a cheering
cup of oblivion, out of one of the abbess’s jars; after which they separated in
as perfect amity as their dispositions would permit.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE arch-bishop
strictly kept his word in regard to Morgan. A pardon had been formally passed
in his favor, and at his particular request he was placed under the tuition and
spiritual guidance of Father Dominic, who employed him as a lay brother; in
which capacity he was frequently sent to the convent on business, to the Lady
Abbess, Friar Lawrence, Magdalen, and Bertha.—In the course of his attendance,
he sometimes continued at the convent three or four days, as an assistant to
Friar Lawrence, who was old and infirm. At these periods, Magdalen had frequent
opportunities of seeing her deliverer at the grate.—Bertha often accompanied
her, and both could not help admiring the apparent good sense and ingenuousness
that marked his character;—even the abbess herself appeared interested in his
favor, and said, she did not doubt but that in time he might prove a pious
member of the church, and expiate, by a life of penitence and mortification,
all his former sins.—And, indeed, without the superior being gifted with a
spirit of divination, her prediction became every day more and more verified;
for Morgan pursued his studies with so much perseverance, and was so devoted to
a religious life, that the arch-bishop soon admitted him into priestly orders,
continuing him in the same house with Friar Dominic, whose piety and learning
being superior to the ecclesiastics of that period, had much ingratiated him
with the good prelate.
In the same monastery there had been
placed, under the immediate care of Friar Dominic, a child, supposed of noble
birth, for the utmost attention was paid to his person, morals, and education;
but, excepting the arch-bishop and Friar Lawrence, none were intrusted with the
secret of his origin, or what was to be his future destination.
At the period of Bertha’s taking the
veil, and which was about seven years from Magdalen’s entrance into the
convent, he was about ten years of age, tall, and of a graceful person;—knowing
no parents, he was much attached to Friar Lawrence, who sometimes found it
difficult enough to restrain, even at that early age, the natural impetuosity
of his temper.—Morgan, speedily after his introduction, also became a great
favorite with Eustace, for so was the boy called.—It was, indeed, by no means
wonderful, that among so many austere and rigid monks, the mild manners of
Morgan should be most pleasing to a young mind;—Eustace, therefore, would seize
all opportunities of being with Morgan, and accompanying him in his walks. As
the convent of the Benedictines was only at the distance of three miles, Morgan
one day took him thither, with the consent of Friar Lawrence, and presented him
to Magdalen and Bertha. The two nuns appeared particularly struck with the
beautiful person and noble mien of the boy, and both, for some minutes,
remained thoughtful and silent.
“These are the only sights that
bring with them regret,” at length said Bertha.—“I might, perhaps, had I lived
in the world, possessed the fraternal affections of a brother, like this
child.”
“And I—oh, my God!” exclaimed
Magdalen, bursting into tears,—“But let me forbear—Oh, my God! do not try thy
poor creature beyond her strength.—Alas, alas! I am but mortal.”
“Are you angry with me, lady, and do
I make you cry?” said Eustace.
“Oh, no,” replied Magdalen, kissing
one of his hands, which he rested on the grate,—“I am not angry—I am pleased to
see you.”
“Then why do you cry?—See, you have
wetted my hand with your tears—you will make me cry too. If I thought I vexed
you, I would not come again, and that would make me very sorry.”
“What would make you sorry, dear
child?” said Magdalen.
“Not to see you,” replied
Eustace.—“Friar Dominic often tells me of angels, but I never could think what
they were like before.—Are you an angel?”
“No, you little flatterer.—Have you
been long with Friar Dominic?” said Magdalen.
“O yes, a long time—ever since I
came from—but I must not tell—for one day I hid myself in Father Dominic’s
study, and there I heard the arch-bishop and the father talking in a low voice;
I have a good mind to tell you what they said—and I know Morgan loves me, and
will not acquaint the arch-bishop and the father.—Shall I tell, Morgan?”
“Not if it will displease those good
men,” answered Morgan.
“Oh, but I will though, for it is no
harm, and I shall only be whipped.—They said I came from England.”
“From England!” exclaimed Magdalen,
in violent agitation—“and—and—what else did they say?——Yet, stop—Oh, God, what
a situation is mine!”
“Forbear,” said Morgan; “see how ill
you have made the lady,—come, let us be gone, you must not return here any
more,” taking Eustace by the hand.
“Have I made you ill, lady,” said
Eustace, holding the grate with the other hand.—“How can that be, when I feel
that I love you too well to hurt you.”
“Stay, Morgan, one minute,” said
Magdalen,—“I am sufficiently recovered, and do not mean to ask the child any
improper questions.”
“Nay, I have got no more to say,—for
they both spoke in so low a voice that I did not hear any more.—But I asked
Father Dominic one day, if I came from England, and he made me tell him how I
knew, and then he said, I should be whipped, if I ever said any thing about it;
and I never have but to you, for I would tell you any thing, if they did beat
me, and they may beat me every day, if they please, if they will but let me
come and see you.”
The scene now became painfully
interesting.—Magdalen’s feelings almost overpowered her, and she leaned her
whole frame against the grating, which she sprinkled with her tears; while the
boy, on the other side, kissed the cold lattice, against which her face rested,
and sobbed aloud.
Morgan and Bertha were not calm
spectators, though both were sufficiently collected to endeavour to put an end
to these painful effusions.—Morgan, therefore, partly by force, joined to
entreaty, withdrew the boy’s hand from the grate, and hastened back to the
monastery.
The friar, on their return, after
dismissing Eustace, did not fail to interrogate Morgan on what passed at the
convent, and received a just recital.
“It is as I expected,” said the good
old man.—“Oh, nature, how powerful are thy workings! Now, Morgan, mark and
adore the wonderous and mysterious ways of Divine Providence! what you deemed a
great misfortune hath proved the ultimate means of saving two lives, and the
guilty alone have fallen. It appears by your late master’s papers, which fell
into the hands of the robbers, at the time he was murdered, that he was
hastening to Normandy to destroy his uncle, in order to obtain his property,
although he himself needed it not.—Your captivity succeeded his death, and two
remarkable dreams, or rather visions, made you the instrument of preserving the
life of Magdalen.—And now, Morgan, prepare for astonishment!—But first swear,
as you shall answer it at the great day, when all crimes are punished, never to
reveal what I am about to disclose, until you are permitted, or until the death
of some particular persons make concealment no longer necessary.”
“I solemnly swear,”—replied Morgan.
“Magdalen, then, whose life you
saved, is your foster sister,” replied the friar.
“Amazement! what, the daughter of
the Baron and Baroness de——?”
“Hush!” interrupted the friar,
cautiously looking round,—“Not even names must ever be articulated; there are
powerful reasons which render caution necessary—the lives of some of the first
people in the state would be brought into jeopardy, and even Magdalen herself
sacrificed.—She is also solemnly bound to silence.”
“It is strange, but I obey,” replied
Morgan.
“You will do well,” said the
friar.—“The arch-bishop confides in your discretion; he is a good man, and
wishes to alleviate the sorrows of human nature.—He therefore makes you the
agent between the mother and her child.”
“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed
Morgan.—“Eustace the son of Magdalen?”
“Yes! but that circumstance must
still remain unknown to the boy, for he is as yet too young, and too high
spirited, to be entrusted; it is on those conditions that she will be permitted
to see him.—You likewise are also only to recognise her as Magdalen the nun;
she has not beheld him since his infantile years; and probably knew him not.
Had she ought of suspicion, think you, beyond a mother’s sympathetic feeling,
that it was her own child?”
“I know not,” replied Morgan. “And
yet she surveyed him most intently.”
“The arch-bishop will speedily see
her, and enter into proper explanations,” returned the friar,—“the good man has
been long pained at the hardships of the restrictions she has for some years
been shackled with, and has laboured much to soften them. He hath, at length,
obtained permission that she might see this boy, he being placed at so short a
distance from her, but in conformity to her oath at her entrance into the
convent, she is not to make herself known to him, or to any one else.—Indeed,
her strict observance of the stipulations solemnly entered into, has had all
due weight in obtaining this indulgence, as well as the arch-bishop’s
entreaties in her behalf.”
“Her fate is severe and trying,”
said Morgan, with a sigh. “When I recal a few years that are passed, and
compare her then situation with the present, I must per-force feel for her.—Oft
has my mother borne the infant prattler about in her arms.—Methinks I now see
the enraptured parents hanging with fond delight over their darling child.—As
she grew up all eyes followed her, and wondered at so fair a creature;—even
envy was dumb, and malice was softened by her smiles.—Good she was too, as well
as fair, for the poor distressed traveller never departed unrelieved from her
father’s gate.—What a melancholy reverse succeeded this early promise of
happiness!—Forced—torn from the bosom of her family by lawless
power,—sequestered and concealed for years, vindictive rage, as it now appears,
discovered, and hath doomed her to everlasting solitude;—yet every one believed
her dead, and that report, more than the
lapse of years, must have prevented my recognition, though it is
plain she had no doubt who I was, by the surprise she expressed during one part
of my recital, particularly when I told her my name.”
“The service you rendered her,” returned Friar Dominic, “your subsequent good conduct,—your wish to dedicate yourself to the church, together with the possibility of your some time recollecting her, all conduced to determine the arch-bishop that you should be intrusted;—and you will see the propriety, in regard to her oath, that you never converse with her on the subject of her former life.”
“I shall take especial care,”
replied Morgan.—“I understand,” continued he, “that Eustace has an elder
brother,—are the children always to remain in obscurity?”
“Doubtless not,” replied the friar, “for
there are orders, that no expence shall be spared in their education, to
qualify them for the exalted stations in life which they, at some future
period, may be supposed to fill.”
“Is the other boy in Guyenne?”
inquired Morgan.
“He is in England,” answered the
friar, “under the particular guidance of his father; in whose protection he was
when Magdalen and Eustace, as they are now called, were seized and secretly
conveyed hither. At that immediate period, great rewards were offered for their
discovery, dead or alive, but the measures of the injured wife were so well
contrived, that hitherto every effort has proved ineffectual, and now likely to
continue so; for Magdalen has no wish to renew her past errors, the effect
having already proved so fatal, in causing an everlasting dissention between
the husband, wife, and legitimate sons, some of them young men.—These, taking
part with their mother, have ever since been in open rebellion, whereby much
blood hath been spilt.”
“Is it true,” said Morgan, “that the
noble lady herself hath since been in a state of captivity?”
“Too true,” replied father Dominic,
“for openly avowing that she had destroyed her hated rival, and for ever barred
his access to the child, the revengeful imperious husband swore, in his rage,
to shut her up for life, and immediately put her into confinement. In the first
transports of his grief for the loss of her that is now called Magdalen, he
also caused a coffin, in which she was supposed to be placed, to be taken out
of the ground, and re-interred in a most sumptuous manner.”
“Is it not strange,” said Morgan,
“so many having been intrusted with the execution of this mysterious business,
that Magdalen’s concealment, and being still alive, should never have
transpired; particularly as some of the emissaries employed on the occasion
must have been of the lower order, and consequently not proof against
corruption and the power of gold?”
“They were doubtless well
paid;—besides, though they might have obtained a present reward for betraying
their trust, yet a severe vengeance would await them, whenever the heir
succeeded to power,—an event that might not possibly be far distant.—Added to
which, they would have brought upon themselves the anathema of the church, as
his holiness, the Pope, perfectly concurred in the proceedings, and this on
political as well as on religious principles.”
“How much are the good old baron and
his worthy consort to be pitied, in being deprived of Magdalen,” said Morgan,
“and, to add to their affliction, they have since lost their elder daughter.”
“Was she not thought very like her
sister?” inquired Father Dominic.
“So much,” replied Morgan, “that but
for the difference of eight years you would scarce have known one from the
other.”
“I can readily believe it,” returned
the friar, “for her daughter and namesake, little Ela, at her first entrance
into the convent, would not be persuaded but that Magdalen was her mother.”
“Is the child at the convent
then?—the Earl of Salisbury’s daughter?” inquired Morgan.
“She is,” answered the friar, “and
consequently Magdalen’s niece,—though the child knows it not; neither is the
earl aware that his late wife’s sister is yet alive, and under the same roof
with his daughter.”
“Death, I think, would have been
preferable,” said Morgan, “to being debarred the free exercise of feelings,
which alone make life desirable;—surely, if any torture more cruel than another
can be devised, it must be this,—the torture of the mind.”
“Yet cruel as these restrictions may
appear,” returned Friar Dominic, “they were unavoidable.—The only alternative
that was allowed if she refused this necessary severity, was an immediate
deprivation of life;—and the latter some certain circumstances would have
rendered doubly criminal.—It is true that there are many mitigating pleas that
may be urged in regard to Magdalen’s errors, such as her being forced from her
father’s house, at the early age of fourteen, by one so exalted in rank as to
be above any fear of the law’s controul.—But though too high for an earthly
tribunal, the Almighty has punished this lofty transgressor of divine and moral
justice, with a continued domestic warfare, and an alienation of affection in
every branch of his family.—Even foreign powers have taken a part in the dispute,
and that not only in England, but France, Normandy; nay, this province of
Guyenne, doth rue the day, when the gratification of one lawless passion,
entailed death and misery on thousands.”
“Poor Magdalen!” exclaimed Morgan,
“I now clearly see the necessity, though a bitter one, of thy fate.—Though but
a young man, I have already experienced enough to know that this is a bad
world; and right glad am I to quit the vice and folly of busy life, to enjoy a
calm and peaceful retirement.”
“And right glad am I, my son,”
returned the good old priest, “to find you so disposed;—for though virtue and
religion are not confined to any particular spot, yet amidst the cares and
turmoils of the world, the temptation of pleasure and the force of bad example,
the human mind is too frequently wholly absorbed, or drawn aside from the paths
of rectitude, and from the contemplation of that Being whom it is our duty
never to lose sight of.—But I hear the bell for vespers, let us perform our
evening duty; to-morrow, I doubt not, but that the arch-bishop will see
Magdalen; after which Eustace’s visits there will be frequent.”
CHAPTER XXII.
THE following
morning the arch-bishop was announced at the convent, and after having some
previous conversation with the superior, by his desire, Magdalen was introduced
into the apartment. The benevolent prelate received her with a smiling
countenance, and, after the accustomed salutation and blessing had been given,
he ordered her to be seated.—“Daughter Magdalen,” said he, “I trust I am the
messenger of pleasing tidings;—a certain gracious lady, amidst her own
enthralments has not forgotten you.—She is much pleased with your late conduct,
and wishes to temper justice with mercy.”
“Am I then so happy as to have
obtained her forgiveness?” exclaimed Magdalen, suddenly rising and throwing
herself on her knees.—“Oh, bless her! bless her!—This is one great weight
removed from off my burthened soul.—Oh, may I know if my——”
“Your children are well—your parents
also,” replied the arch-bishop.
“My parents!” exclaimed
Magdalen,—“died not then, my much loved and honoured mother, my lord, of grief
at my unhappy conduct, and supposed death?”
“No, daughter,” answered the
prelate. “It was indeed so rumoured; but after a long and severe illness, she is
now recovered.”
“Oh, my God!” exclaimed
Magdalen—“how doth thy mercies multiply upon thy poor offending creature!
praised be thy holy name!—To have obtained forgiveness from one, whom, next to
God, I have most sinned against, and to know that I have not caused my mother’s
death, transports me almost beyond my bearing.”
“Your thankfulness, daughter, for
these benefits, are truly laudable,” said the arch-bishop,—“and I trust that
reason and religion will teach you to bear good, as well as evil, with moderation.—Your
repentance, I doubt not, has been also accepted by a higher power than her whom
you have injured, for yet another blessing awaits you—receive it with
fortitude. You have lately seen a young stranger—did no maternal feeling
disclose that Eustace was——”
“Oh, yes, my lord, my throbbing
heart confessed what my lips dared not acknowledge—I was convinced my child
stood before me.—I rejoiced to behold him, longed to press him to my bosom,
though shame and remorse, those bitter attendants on guilt, made me shrink
back, abashed and confounded; yet, thankful that my vow of secresy prevented
his knowing that I was his parent, as dreading, at some future period, to hear
his reproaches for his illegitimate birth.”
“Daughter, your feelings are too
acute; and, in this instance, they bear you away from true religion, into
something like pride, fearing your disgrace should be known. The human mind is
prone to err, but a sincere and unaffected repentance can, most assuredly,
obliterate every stain.—“Come unto me all ye that are heavy laden, and I will
make your burden light”—saith the scripture.—Again, “There is more joy in
heaven over one sinner, that repenteth, than over ninety and nine just persons,
that need no repentance.”—What a comfortable assurance—That your repentance
hath been truly sincere, I can have no doubt; and from the representations that
have been made to this effect, you will, henceforward, be allowed to see
Eustace, for at present he is to know no other name.—I need not, I suppose,
add, that the same line of conduct and secresy, by yourself, in every respect,
is still to be pursued.”
Magdalen bowed obedience, and
gratefully thanked the benevolent prelate; who, after having conferred some
time, in private, with the abbess, on the affairs of the convent, summoned the
whole of the sisterhood together in the chapel, for the purpose of spiritual
exhortation; he then bestowed a general benediction and withdrew.
From this time, few days passed
without Eustace appearing at the grate of the convent, to see the lovely nun,
as he called Magdalen; and, if at any time he was negligent in his studies, or
gave way to the natural warmth and impetuosity of his temper, it was only
necessary to debar him of that indulgence, to make him more attentive and tractable
to his instructors.—Indeed a word or a look from Magdalen would, at all times,
have more effect than the most soothing or coercive measures of his
teachers.—He had hitherto, from idleness, and an apparent volatility of
disposition, made but little progress in learning; but, stimulated by the fair
nun’s reproaches, he perfected himself, in all his lessons, with a rapidity
that astonished every one.—His sense, indeed, in many instances, was manly, and
far beyond his years—his conceptions clear and just—his temper bold and
enterprising—his person was uncommonly tall, considering his age, and his
limbs, though they displayed strength, yet were finely formed, and exhibited
grace and ease in every motion. In short, his whole air and mein betokened that
he was cast in no common mould.
Little of moment passed in the next
seven years, that was very interesting, either to Magdalen or Bertha, though,
in the course of that period, several of the old nuns paid their debt to
nature; among them was the mother, of the latter, Martha, Bridget, and
Josephine, who were replaced by others.
In this space of time, Eustace had
nearly completed his studies, and was grown up almost to manhood—handsome in
person, and accomplished in his manners. His attachment to Magdalen, also, so
far from decreasing with his boyish years, appeared daily to strengthen, so
that almost every vacant hour was passed at the grate of the convent.
Ela too had grown up almost to the
stature of a woman; beautiful in person, mild, pleasing, and gentle in her
manners.—She had received every branch of education that the nuns could bestow,
and now only waited her father’s return from abroad, to quit the convent; yet,
much as she wished to behold her parent, she could not reflect on the time that
was to separate her from Magdalen, without the deepest sorrow and regret.—Nor
could Magdalen herself, though inured to misery, and deeply practised in
resignation, look forward to that event without feeling the most lively pain;
and only consoled herself, that when deprived of her, she would still have
Eustace left. But Providence, often for its own wise purposes, counteracts the
wishes and designs of mortals, for, about this time, the Abbot of Pau, soon
after he had made a hearty meal, was taken off by a fit of apoplexy. Father
Dominic was also removed from this transitory world to a state for which he had
been long preparing.
The good arch-bishop was now grown
so old and infirm, as daily to expect his dissolution. Maturely reflecting on
the situation of Eustace, when that event happened, the reverend prelate had
written to those in England, who placed the boy in Guyenne, and shortly after
received from them an order to return him to his father, with proper vouchers
of his authenticity.
On the receipt of these papers, the
good old man lost no time, but had himself conveyed in a litter to the convent,
and explained to the abbess and Magdalen, the necessity there was for taking
this step, that the young man might not be left without proper guidance, nor
have his future prospects clouded.—This separation was doubtless an
augmentation of Magdalen’s sufferings; but she was, at the same time, too much
aware of the propriety and justice of the measure to oppose it.—What was still
more severe, on the occasion, she was, by cruel necessity, restrained from
exhibiting the feelings of a mother; while the young man, on his part, though
unknowing he was her son, let his grief know no bounds, but alternately
exhibited such paroxysms of sorrow and rage, that appeared little short of
madness. In vain they told him that he had a noble father in England, and that
wealth, rank, and honours, awaited his arrival.
He could neither love nor esteem a
father, he replied, that for so many years had banished him his presence;—that
wealth, rank, and honours, were, in his estimation, mere baubles, and unworthy
the consideration of one that alone prized quiet and retirement—for which
purpose, he continued, it had, for some time past, been his determination to
devote himself to the church.
The arch-bishop, at this
declaration, appeared astonished, and expressed his surprise, that so young a
man should voluntarily resign what was so alluring to persons of his age.
“But your decision, in this case,” continued
the prelate, “does not depend on yourself, it must rest with one, who,
doubtless, will consult your true interest, but who, nevertheless, is powerful,
arbitrary, and will be obeyed.”
“I know no power that can controul a
free and independent mind,” replied Eustace.
“Fallacious argument,” said the
prelate, “and void of existence; while man acknowledges himself a member of
civil society, he must be
governed, his whole happiness and safety depend on his acquiescence.”
“If I must give up every tender and
endearing affection of the soul, I would rather relinquish a society that
exacts so cruel a sacrifice,” answered Eustace.
“Own you no duties then,” questioned
the arch-bishop, “to a parent—to a sovereign?—and say, what are the affections
which you place in opposition to these duties?”
“I have, indeed, my Lord, heard and read
of such duties; but never having experienced that, which I have been taught a
parent owes his child, may it not
be supposed that I am unpractised in the reciprocal duty of a child to a
parent?—And, secluded from my earliest years in a monastery, can I know ought
of sovereigns?—My daily and nightly allegiance there, has been offered to the
King of Kings!—You also ask me, my Lord, of my worldly affections,—where could
I,—where ought I,—I in my turn demand, place them? if not on those who labored
for my happiness.—On yourself then, Father Dominic, Morgan, and—. But why need
I hesitate—away with all base and disingenuous concealment!—who could behold
the more than mortal perfections of Magdalen and not adore?—Who could listen to
the divine and moral truths she uttered, without conviction?—Why, oh, why! my Lord, was I placed in
Guyenne?—Why was I permitted to form connections which promised a long and
happy continuance, and then have them at once dissolved into—”
A loud groan from Magdalen here
interrupted the sentence,—“Oh! my God!” she exclaimed, “where will my miseries
end?—If this, indeed, is the wages of sin, ’tis worse than death.—Alas! alas! why did I wish to elude the
fatal stroke, to experience such complicated torture?”
“Cruel destiny!—Dreadful
concealment!” said the arch-bishop.
“Sin!” re-echoed Eustace, replying
to Magdalen’s words, and not attending to the prelate’s exclamation, “I’ll not
believe it, though even yourself should proclaim it.—No, your unsullied soul,
long accustomed to start at visionary offences, is prone to self accusation
only.”
“Eustace forbear!” said Magdalen, in
a firm and determined tone of voice, “prepare to obey the arch-bishop,—your
eternal happiness or misery depends on it,—fatal necessity commands that we now
part.—Nay, hear me,” continued she, seeing him about to speak, “on your
compliance alone rests whether we meet again.—Bear one thing also in
remembrance,—that among your future connexions not a word or ought relating to
Magdalen ever transpire, and this as you value her future peace—nay her life
itself.—Farewel,—angels guard you.”—Magdalen’s emotion was now too strong to be
concealed,—she groaned with anguish, sobbed aloud, and, accompanied by the
abbess, hastily retired.
Eustace for some moments appeared
motionless as if he had received the stroke of death, his eyes bent on the
earth.—At length, raising them, he wildly gazed around,—“And is this a
reality?” he exclaimed. “So then, I have only had a transient gleam of
happiness—a momentary vision!—Happiness did I say?—O, fool!—fool!—did I not
know she was a nun—professed—for ever secluded?—How could I then indulge and
cherish a——”
“Eustace!” said the arch-bishop.
“Happiness!” resumed Eustace, “what
has an unknown, friendless being to do with happiness?—One that never knew the
fond caresses of a mother—thrown upon the world—left to the mercy and pity of
strangers!—Ha! ha!” continued he, wildly laughing, “and yet, though hopeless
and despairing, was it not happiness daily to behold her—to hear her
speak!—even her chidings were harmonious!—Perhaps I may never again behold
her!—But madness and desperation is in that thought!—Yes, yes there is one way, and the tortured soul rests in
peace!”
“Never! rash young man!” exclaimed
the good old prelate.—“The spirit of the suicide shall never know rest nor
peace,—his own guilty hand bars all repentance;—he at once throws off his
allegiance to the power that alone could raise him from sorrow and misery, to
make an everlasting league with demons, who dwell in regions dark and gloomy as
his own desponding soul.”
Eustace raised his eyes with a
vacant stare, and fixed them on the arch-bishop.—Having surveyed his
countenance for some time most intently, recollection appeared to re-visit
him,—“I pray you, my Lord,” said he, “did not Magdalen say, that my eternal
happiness or misery depended on my going to England,—and it was upon that
condition we ever met again?”
“She did,” replied the arch-bishop,
“and rest assured your speedy compliance alone will hasten, or, on failure,
will for ever prevent your again
beholding her.—A mystery, not to be as yet explained, binds her in impenetrable
shackles;—time may develop this secret, and remove some of those evils of which
you now complain.”
“Heaven grant it, and preserve
Magdalen,” returned Eustace.—“Come, my Lord, if my compliance will expedite our
meeting, let us depart.—Farewel, ye sacred walls,—soon, O, soon may I again
behold ye—and what my soul holds most precious!—Oh! Magdalen, rest assured your
last words shall indelibly be written on my memory;—not a word, or ought
relative to Magdalen, shall ever transpire,—not even a murmur of your name
shall escape my lips, though my heart should burst.”
The arch-bishop now prepared to
depart, accompanied by Morgan and Eustace;—the sighs of the latter, as the
portal closed against him, deeply proclaiming the agitation of his mind. Every
step he moved from the walls appeared to increase his distress.—The arch-bishop
entered his litter, and the attendants led forth the mules belonging to Morgan
and Eustace.—The heart of the latter appeared to die within his bosom as he
mounted and turned from the convent. Silent and slowly he re-measured the
ground which led to the monastery, turning often to catch one more, and still
another glimpse of those walls from whence he had departed; at length even the
highest pinnacle was lost to his view, and an unbounded prospect was before
him, but, though beautiful, had no charms for Eustace.
In a few days he was to embark for
England, in which interval often did he solicit for an interview with Magdalen,
but in vain.—The time at length arrived which was to be the period of his
sojourn in Guyenne.—The good old prelate blessed,—strained him to his arms, and
took a last farewel;—for the day that Eustace gained his native shore,
terminated the good man’s mission here on earth, and gave him to that master
whom he had so long and faithfully served.
CHAPTER
XXIII.
THE tidings of
Eustace’s departure and the arch-bishop’s death, reached Magdalen at one and
the same time, which, joined to her former afflictions, on account of what
passed during her last interview with Eustace and the arch-bishop, occasioned
her a severe fit of sickness; under which she undoubtedly would have sunk, but for
the unwearied care and attention of Bertha, joined to the consolatory aid of
Morgan, who, for a considerable time past had been admitted into full orders,
and now officiated as spiritual director at the convent of St. Bertrand.
Two months had elapsed from the
commencement of Magdalen’s illness, and nearly three from Eustace’s departure
from Guyenne, before the disorder gave way to the goodness of her constitution,
and indicated a speedy restoration to health.—One day that she was in more than
ordinary spirits, Morgan inquired if she knew whether the abbess had lately
received any news from England?
“I know not,” she replied, “I pray
ye, good father, hear ye ought from thence?”
“I have letters,” answered the
priest, “Eustace and his brother are well, and in the road to greatness.—The
elder has rank in the army, and their father would fain persuade Eustace to
follow his example;—but he has expressed so warm and decisive a preference for
the church, that it is supposed his parent will acquiesce, particularly as he
is very fond of him, and enabled to bestow such high preferment, when Eustace
attains a proper age, and is duly qualified.”
“Comes your intelligence immediately
from Eustace?” inquired Magdalen, after a little pause.
“It doth,” replied the father, “for
he particularly, before his departure, solicited a correspondence.”
“Would my perusal of the letter from
Eustace be improper?” said Magdalen.
“Highly so,” returned he, “for it
breathes all the ardent impetuosity of a young man, forgetful that Magdalen is
professed—devoted—and unknowing that she is his mother.—Nay, in indulging the
fatal delusion, he seems to have forgotten humanity itself, rejoicing that the
flames of civil discord is likely to be again renewed in Guyenne, as the surest
means of bringing him hither in his father’s company.”
“Ah me! unhappy in every point of
view.—How did my heart yearn with maternal fondness, when the good arch-bishop
said, I should again behold my son.—Fatal renewal of an affection that had
better been lost and buried in oblivion!—Henceforward, let no one say, thus far
only shall my punishment extend.—Erring mortals only view the gilded surface,
nor discover, till too late, that the effects of guilt, in its complicated
consequences, spares not even the children, who suffer for the crimes of their
parents, unto the third and fourth generation.—But in this the great and Divine
Being shews mercy unto thousands, for being thus warned by his holy word, they
wisely fly from vice, and escape the wrath that is sure to follow.”
“That punishment follows the
commission of sin is most true,” said Morgan—“but God is merciful as well as
just, and, in no instance, is his mercy more shewn to the offender, who truly
repents, than when he suffers in this world pain and sorrow from the effects of
guilt; for, this kind of suffering, only, in most instances, brings conviction
to the mind.—Were mankind to prosper in sin, their hearts would be hardened,
and their offences would multiply with their years, even unto the hour of death,
and beyond the reach of forgiveness.”
“If, in that dreadful hour,” replied
Magdalen, “I may obtain mercy, let my sufferings still increase, till their
weight bow down my exhausted frame to the silent tomb.—And oh, my God! spare
those whom my guilt, alone, hath involved in misery; nor let the blood that
hath been already shed cry out against me in the day of retribution.”
“I trust it will not,” replied
Morgan;—“nor doubt I, but that the ambition of turbulent faction would have
formed some pretext for executing its designs, had you never existed.—Should,
however, the English army and their leader again oppose the rebellious princes,
and in Guyenne, it may be necessary, perhaps, for the abbess to remove you, for
a short space, to a place of more security, but it will be time enough to
concert measures when we hear they are on their way hither; in the mean time,
take comfort, and do not let your sorrows again prey on your health.”—Magdalen
promised to attend, to this advice, and the priest withdrew.
Though the abbess was, by this time,
well stricken in years, yet did not the spirit of avarice appear to abate, but
seemed rather to increase with her length of days.
From the time the arch-bishop had
taken upon himself to inspect, minutely, into the affairs of the convent, this
passion, though far from conquered, had been suffered to lay dormant. Her
temper too, though not a whit amended, she had confined within due bounds; but,
from the good prelate’s death, having none to controul her,—for his successor paid
little attention to any thing besides the revenues of his diocese, she began
again to harass Bertha, and to curtail, by little and little, many of her and
Magdalen’s indulgences; and though Bertha regularly and liberally presented her
with a large portion of her annual receipts, she contrived, under various
pretences, to borrow a great part of the remainder.—When she found that this
artifice was likely to prove no longer successful, she, at once, threw off the
mask, and told her, that as the whole of her revenues was a free gift from her
to St. Bertrand, she had no right to appropriate any part of it to her own use;
and although the folly and sacrilegious connivance of the late arch-bishop had
so long tolerated it, the injustice, if continued, would, doubtless, bring down
divine vengeance upon the convent.
“Had not the late arch-bishop,”
Bertha replied, “been convinced that he was acting conscientiously and
uprightly, he never would, in full convocation, have sanctioned the business,
nor since, on maturer consideration, have empowered Morgan to receive money in
trust for my use; for my own part,” added she—“the stipend that I choose to
appropriate, is not for my own immediate expenditure, but to sustain those in
misfortune, whom I think it my duty to succour.”
“There again you act erroneously,”
replied the abbess, “by fostering the wicked and evil doer.—They were, besides,
your bitterest enemies.”
“They were so; but are we not
instructed to bless them that curse us, and to help them that despitefully treat
us?—If we alone render benefit for benefit, what advantage have we over the
Heathen?”
“I see,” answered the abbess, “that
though you have been so long professed, yet the same wicked spirit of obstinacy
still guides you.”
“No, lady,” said Bertha, “my
firmness, not obstinacy, is occasioned by being truly devoted to a religious life, and not
merely from my having professed and taken upon me the habit of a nun of St.
Bertrand.”
“Impertinent!” replied the
abbess;—“but know there are ways to reduce your haughty spirit.—If one of my
high birth, and holy station, is to be thus insulted, we must see what the Pope
and assembled conclave will say to it.”
“If I do wrong, lady, I incur
censure and punishment, without the trouble of having recourse to such high
authorities,” answered Bertha spiritedly.—“But, on the other hand, if I am
injured, I will most assuredly, through the medium of Morgan, appeal to the
Sovereign himself, whom, I understand, is daily expected to arrive with his
army in Guyenne.”
This unexpected reply startled the
abbess, who was aware that Henry, having sustained much vexation from
churchmen, was, by no means, favourable to those that presided over religious
orders.—She knew, too, that this business would not bear investigation, and might
also possibly lead to discoveries, dangerous in their consequences, not only to
herself, but which would involve some of the first characters in the realm in
ruin.—She, therefore, though ready to choak with passion, thought it best not
to continue the altercation, but await a more favorable opportunity to effect
her purpose; that is to say, after the king had quitted Guyenne, when she would
no longer be in danger from Bertha’s threatened appeal.
The abbess, therefore, deigned not
to reply, but, with a haughty look, which she meant should convey, both
defiance and contempt, she quitted the apartment; leaving Bertha in no pleasant
frame of mind, she being much vexed, that this unwelcome theme should again be
renewed, after having been so long suffered to sleep.
It also made her again regret losing
so powerful a friend as the arch-bishop, the loss of whom was no less severe on
the part of Magdalen, she now having no one left to interpose in her behalf,
should the abbess chuse to make her situation uncomfortable.—Morgan, it is
true, was, at present, the spiritual director of the convent, but he was not
pliant enough to the superior’s humours to be a favorite, and therefore liable
to be removed at the abbess’s pleasure; an event which appeared to be not very
distant, as she had, for some time past, expressed herself dissatisfied, on
account of too much indulgence being allowed in the convent, and a relaxation
of discipline in regard to rigid penances.—These complaints were now strongly
enforced, she having, since her dispute with Bertha, resolved to remove Morgan
previous to the king’s arrival in Guyenne, as the nun would then have no one
left to stand between her and oppression.
The abbess had conducted her schemes
with that cunning and address, which low minds are often capable of, though not
gifted with extraordinary talents; so that before either Magdalen or Bertha had
an item of Morgan’s removal from the Convent of St. Bertrand, an order reached
him for that purpose, signed by the new arch-bishop, and giving him only ten
days notice to prepare himself for a voyage to England.
On the receipt of this mandate,
which was expressed in the most peremptory terms, Morgan, without loss of time,
communicated the unwelcome contents to Magdalen and Bertha, who were almost
reduced to despair by the intelligence; the latter nothing doubting but that it
was occasioned by her threat of appealing, through the medium of Morgan, to the
King, whom Morgan now informed them was, with his army, then on his passage to
Guyenne.
Morgan had scarce concluded, when
they were interrupted by the presence of the superior, who, with a malignant
grin, told him that he was no longer spiritual nor corporeal director of that
house.—“I, therefore,” continued she, “most
holy father,” at the same time making a low reverence, “wish you a
good voyage to England, where I advise you to attend only to your religious
mission, and not interfere in worldly
concerns.—As for you, Magdalen and Bertha, I command you instantly
to your apartments, that you may hold no further converse with—a wolf in
sheep’s cloathing.”—Then seeing Morgan about to speak,—“I want no explanation,”
continued she, “nor shall await any,”—so saying, almost forcing the two nuns
away before her, she retired, and left Morgan alone; not a little surprised at
the superior’s behaviour, and no less concerned at the unprotected state in
which he should leave Magdalen and Bertha, when solely under the conduct of a
woman so avaricious and tyrannical as the Lady Abbess of St. Bertrand.
The superior having thus achieved
her main object, namely, removing the only earthly protector of two defenceless
women, she began to exult, and retired to her apartment to ruminate on the best
means of gaining possession of the papers relative to Bertha’s property.
Preparatory to this purpose, she had, some time before, ordered two small
apartments, adjoining the tower where Esther and Mary used to perambulate
during their noviciate, to be got ready, and without any previous notice,
caused Magdalen and Bertha to be removed thither soon after they quitted
Morgan.
Her
impatience to gain the wished for prize, would have tempted her
immediately to begin the search, but prudence, or rather cunning, whispered,
that it would be better to delay it until the nuns had retired to their
respective dormitories; she, therefore, contented herself for the present with
securing the doors of Magdalen and Bertha’s late apartments, and with ordering
a huge iron door, which terminated a long stone passage that led to their new chambers,
to be bolted, though it had hitherto, at least for many years, been left open.
These precautions taken, nothing now remained but to seize the prey. The nuns
were fast asleep, Magdalen and Bertha secured by the iron door;—the abbess,
therefore, silently stole forth,—gained the unoccupied chambers,—explored every
corner, and found—nothing that she wanted!—for the treasure she longed to
possess had first passed into the hands of Dominic, from thence they were
transferred to the good arch-bishop, and finally to Morgan.
Stung to the quick, and indignant at
being thus foiled, she returned to her own chamber, resolving on the morrow to
pursue such a line of severity as should force an acknowledgement of where the
deeds were concealed, and make Bertha gladly compound to produce and regularly
assign them over to St. Bertrand.—But Providence, that had long forborne to
chastise and punish this irreligious and hardened hypocrite, was now about to
stretch out its just and avenging arm, and to let it fall with dreadful weight
on her guilty head.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE troubles of Magdalen and Bertha prevented their sleeping,—and the latter, deploring their present situation, and contrasting it with the calm and unruffled period they enjoyed during the life of the arch-bishop, said,—“I fear my guardian angel, that urged me in my dream, to persevere, has now forsaken me, and it only remains to quit my property.”
“Say not so, Bertha,—the hand of the
Almighty that raised you up such a friend as the arch-bishop, can still protect
you;—even now your guardian angel
may be commissioned to your relief.”
“Heaven grant it, and forgive my
enemies and persecutors.—Good night, dear Magdalen.”
Bertha was about to retire to the
adjoining chamber, when a fearful and continued shrieking, for a minute,
rendered her motionless.—Pale, and trembling they gazed wildly on each other;
then suddenly rushing to an aperture, which overlooked the main building, they,
with horror, beheld the abbess’s apartment enveloped with flames, by the light
of which they also saw her endeavouring to force through the window bars—but in
vain.—The devouring element pursued her on every side.—“Oh, Magdalen!—Mary!—”
she exclaimed.—“Help!—I burn!—I die!—Mercy!—mercy!—mercy!”
The two friends now speeded towards
the door at the end of the passage, which being fastened with strong bolts on
the contrary side, resisted all their efforts.—“Oh, my God!” exclaimed
Magdalen, “Ela, my dear Ela, will perish!”
Magdalen’s senses were about failing
her, when suddenly she heard the bolts hastily withdrawn, and Morgan presented
himself, bearing Ela in his arms, almost unclothed.—Mean time the fire rapidly
spread on every side, and threatened a speedy destruction to the whole
building.—“We have not a moment to waste,” said Morgan to Magdalen, who was
embracing Ela, “the flames will prevent our return by the way we came; we must,
therefore, promptly resort to other means of escape.”
“There is a door at the foot of the
stairs, which leads from the tower, that must, I think, communicate without,”
said Bertha.
“Proceed we thither,” said Morgan.
Bertha immediately led the way, and,
in a short space, reached the postern, which Morgan, with some little
difficulty, forced open, and the whole party presently found themselves secure
in the convent garden, amidst the assembled nuns and domestics of the house,
not an individual being missed but the superior; who, it was supposed, having
fastened the door of her apartment, had fallen into such a profound sleep, as
not to awake before the flames had so surrounded the chamber, that to escape
was impossible.
The fire continued to rage the whole
of the night with the most ungovernable fury, alternately seizing different
parts of the building, and causing large fragments of the massy walls to give
way, with a tremendous crash, as the timbers were consumed; so that, by break
of day, the Convent of St. Bertrand exhibited only one vast ruin.
This awful spectacle could not fail
to attract the attention of the inhabitants for miles round, and numbers
assembled, in order to check the progress of the flames, or to satisfy their
curiosity; the attempts of the former were completely abortive, while the
latter were abundantly gratified in viewing, once in their lives, a scene so
awful and terrific.
The distressed nuns sought for
refuge among their friends, or otherwise disposed of themselves until they
could be settled in another religious house; but the case was different with
Magdalen—she was firmly bound by oath, and did not dare to take any decisive
step in regard to her future disposal, without orders. And the abbess being
dead, she knew not where to apply.
In this dilemma she had none to
consult except Morgan; for Bertha, bred in a convent from her childhood, knew
no more of the world than an infant.
“I know not what to advise,” said
Morgan;—“but must give some hours to reflection.—For the present we cannot do
better than to make some of the outbuildings, which the fire hath spared, our
dwelling.—I will employ the servants to make this temporary lodging as
comfortable as the present circumstances will permit; and, in the mean time, I
must repair to the arch-bishop, and acquaint him with the sad tidings of the
demolition of the convent, and of the death of the Lady Abbess.—Fear not,
during my absence, for I shall particularly commend you to the care of the
domestics.—Farewel!”
Morgan then departed to give the
necessary orders; and afterwards pursued his way to the arch-bishop, who, he
found, had already heard of the fatal accident.—He inquired minutely into the
supposed cause of the conflagration, and whether any of the nuns had perished.
Being informed of these particulars, he, at Morgan’s request, gave him a power
to delay his journey to England, according to his own discretion, the latter
having pleaded, that, in consequence of the fire, he should have further
provision to make for his subsistence, and for that of two nuns, whose friends
were not immediately on the spot.
The arch-bishop then informed him,
that the king was hourly expected in Guyenne, and that Prince Richard was
arming against his father, in Normandy, with a number of the queen’s adherents,
and particular friends; on which account he could not then determine, whether
the convent should be rebuilt, or the nuns removed, until peace was restored in
the province.
During Morgan’s absence, Magdalen
and Bertha became collected enough to discourse on the subject of the last
eventful night.—“Good heaven!” said the latter, “how have the circumstances of
my remarkable dream been verified, and at the very moment these words passed
your lips—“Even now your guardian angel may
be commissioned to your relief.”—“In that same moment too, the
dreadful words of my dream were repeated by the abbess.—Almighty God!”
continued Bertha, “grant her that mercy she so loudly called for. Oh, the
fearful sound will for ever vibrate upon mine ear, and dwell within my soul!
Willingly, most willingly, would I surrender that fatal bequest, if, by so
doing, I could recal the mischiefs it has occasioned in tempting so many to
sin;—and Heaven bear me witness, it should not so long have been a subject of
contention, but on account of a poor unfortunate misguided parent!”
“The ways of Heaven are doubtless
just, though often awful to the extreme,” said Magdalen; “in order to terrify
the hardened sinner into repentance, and save his soul alive.”
The two nuns assisted in disposing
and placing what little of the furniture was saved from the flames, so that
before Morgan’s return, a large granary and barn, detached from the convent,
were divided into temporary places of residence; and as the cellars, common
kitchen, and larder, also remained untouched, the provisions they contained,
joined to the stock in the piggery and poultry yard, with the aid of the fish
ponds, dove houses, &c. precluded the dread of wanting necessary food, even
for a much longer time than they could possibly think of remaining within the
walls of the desolated convent of St. Bertrand.
Morgan was surprised to find so much
order and regularity restored in so short a space, and in buildings originally
appropriated to such different uses to what necessity had now assigned
them;—“In truth,” said he, “I see that need is our best friend, for it makes us
call forth the energies of the mind, which otherwise would lie dormant within
us.—Heaven, therefore, be praised for our mental faculties! I doubt not,”
continued he, “you have been thankful for your late preservation; but our great
perturbation of spirits having subsided, and calmness being, in some degree,
restored, it more particularly behoves us to assemble together, and to
prostrate ourselves before that Great Being, whose mighty arm was so mercifully
stretched forth to save us from the devouring element.”
The chapel being separated from the
convent by a stone cloister, had escaped the conflagration; thither the two
sisters Magdalen and Bertha, with the domestics, assembled, when Morgan, after
a most impressive prayer of thankfulness, made a pathetic address, suitable to
the occasion. He then selected the psalms of de Profundis, Laudata Dominum,
&c. and concluded with a prayer for the soul of the late abbess.—This duty
being performed, the little congregation retired, partook of a frugal meal, and
composed themselves to rest.
Eight days had elapsed since the
fire before a word had passed as to their future destination; for Morgan had
been almost constantly occupied in attending the arch-bishop, chiefly for him
to determine on what was to be done with the servants, for whom there remained
now no duties to fulfil, and for whom there would soon be no provision.—The
prelate, for some days, appeared irresolute and wavering, but at length told
Morgan, that they must be forthwith discarded; repeating the former excuse,
that, during the unsettled state of the province, he could not think of
restoring the convent. This plea, however plausible, Morgan had reason to
suppose was wide from the truth; and that the prelate rather wished to keep the
revenues, which were most ample, in his own hands.
“And what is to become of us,” said
Bertha, when this was related, “for I unfortunately have but little money left;
and the writings of my estate being consumed, I dread, lest any demur, in
regard to the rents, should arise.”
“They are not consumed, but safely
deposited under the chapel,” replied Morgan, “and I meant to ask, whether I
should demand your rents that are in arrear.”
“Doubtless,” said Bertha.—“But by
what fortunate circumstance were they preserved, when your dormitory was
consumed?”
“I immediately removed them, on
hearing that the abbess had renewed her old pretensions; as doubting their
safety in my own immediate custody, and where she was absolute mistress.”
“Your guardian angel has not, you
see, forsaken you,” said Magdalen, “and you now will have it abundantly in your
power to perform your filial duty without any controul, and to choose your own
convent.—For me, I know not how to act.”
“Know you not where to find the tall
stranger that first introduced you to the convent, on that memorable night when
Esther and I concealed ourselves?” said Bertha.
“Oh, yes!” replied Magdalen, “but
how far an application to him might be deemed to infringe upon my oath, I know
not.”
“Yet the urgency of the occasion may
well excuse it,” said Morgan; “dwells he within a reasonable distance from this
place?”
“He hath large domains in this
province,” replied Magdalen, “and must, I think, ere this, if living, have
heard of the destruction of our convent.”
“My advice is then,” said Morgan,
“that we tarry here a few days longer, to await any inquiry; in which time, I
can also collect Bertha’s rents.—Should we not, by that period, gain any
intelligence, by which you are to regulate your future conduct, we must,
ourselves, determine on a method best adapted to the circumstances of the
case.”
The third day after this
conversation, a stranger was announced as having some intelligence to impart to
the nun Magdalen.—On being introduced, Magdalen surveyed him intently, and was
about to inquire his business, when the stranger, with a smiling and courteous
demeanor, said,—“I perceive you do not recognise me;—years and some affliction
hath doubtless made great alteration in Ralph de Faie, but better known as the
near relative of the noble mistress of this province.”
Magdalen made a low obeisance,
appeared somewhat confused, and remained silent; for she now perfectly
recollected the tall stranger, under whose conduct she was brought to the
convent so many years back.
“Sit you down,” said he, taking her
hand and leading her to a stool. “These ladies,” turning to Bertha and Ela,
“and the holy father here, I deem are your friends.”
“They are, sir,” said Magdalen, “but
should you have any thing to impart, that my solemn obligations render
necessary to remain secret, they will retire.”
“For a moment then,” said the
stranger, bowing politely to Morgan and Bertha, as they quitted the place.—“I
should have seen you ere this,” continued he, “for I have known of the fatal
accident some days, and that you remained on the spot;—the prince, however,
being in Normandy, I thought it fitting first to hold a conference with him on
the subject.—Time and due reflection have made a material alteration in the
sentiments of the aggrieved parties, and, joined with a consideration of your
long suffering and sincere repentance, they are desirous of mitigating their
former severity;—say, then, what are your wishes in regard to your future
disposal?”
“I have no desire, my lord, but to
pass the remainder of my life in calm retirement, and to endeavour, by
penitence, to atone for the sins of my early life.—There is, however, one
favor, could I obtain it;—the good father who left us even now, with the nun,
Bertha, is about to repair to England, as spiritual director to a convent of
English nuns;—if Bertha and myself might be permitted to accompany him thither,
and enter the same house, I should have no further wish remaining.”
“Your desire shall be granted, and
an order made out for your reception on your arrival.—A suitable provision
shall also be made, in regard to expences. Have you long known the father, and
the nun, Bertha?” said the stranger.
“Many years, my lord; the father was
our spiritual guide, when the convent was destroyed—Bertha was there from a
child, and long before my arrival. The younger lady was a boarder in the house,
left by her father when he went to the wars.”
“Means she to accompany you in your
voyage to England?”
“If it so please you, my lord.—The
Friar Morgan will take charge of her.”
“Be it so,” replied de Faie, “when
purpose you to leave this place?”
“Having seen you, my lord,” answered
Magdalen, “we have but little to impede us; as I understand the business of the
friar, and that of Bertha, can be settled in a few days.”
“You shall then have letters for
England and supplies of money tomorrow, after which I would advise your speedy
departure by the nearest port; for, in a little time these provinces will be
overspread by troops whose interests are contrary, so that you might find
travelling dangerous.—The King will also be in this vicinity. Fare you well,
lady,—health and peace be with you.—Should you need it, Ralph de Faie will be
your friend while living;—should I not exist, Prince Richard, by desire of his
mother, will protect you.—He is noble and generous, and though at variance with
his father, much notices your sons,—especially William, whose martial spirit
more particularly accords with his own.—Once more, farewel, lady.”
“Farewel, my lord,—and if the
prayers of a sinner may reach the throne of Grace, Magdalen’s shall ever be
offered up in gratitude for the man who was an agent in the hands of the
Almighty to bring her to repentance.”
“It was a rigid, but necessary
duty,” returned he, “and I would the task had devolved on any but me;—yet, I
trust, your future peace and happiness will more than compensate for the
fleeting pleasures you have been deprived of.”
De Faie now left her, and presently
after, Morgan, Bertha, and Ela returned.—They were much pleased at the result
of this conference;—particularly as they would not now have any impediment
thrown in the way of their departure.—The severity of Magdalen’s restrictions
would also be done away, and at her entrance into another religious house, she
would only be considered in the same point of view with the other nuns.
On the following day arrived the
recommendatory and introductory letters, in which Magdalen was mentioned as a
branch of a noble Norman family;—these papers were accompanied with two hundred
marks for her expences.
Nothing now remained but the
completion and settlement of Bertha’s affairs; and those, through the assiduity
of Morgan, were speedily arranged as to future payments, and a good sum
obtained from the rents then due.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE afternoon
preceding the day fixed for their departure from a place where Magdalen and
Bertha had experienced so much sorrow and trouble, at length arrived, and both
walked forth to take a last survey of the desolated convent, accompanied by
Morgan and Ela; for all the domestics had been discharged early that morning.
Every part of the building that would admit, was explored, and the recollection
of past scenes occasioned some tears and many bitter sighs.—With difficulty
they at length reached the bare walls of the abbess’s apartment,—an awful
memento of her sad catastrophe.—Here, all the party kneeling on the ruins,
offered up their prayers for the soul of their late persecutor; for whose
remains, no other holy rites could be performed, as not a vestige of them was
to be found.
Arising, sad and melancholy, from
paying this last tribute, they slowly proceeded to the garden, and retraced
their former walks, not forgetting to visit, for the last time, the grave of
hapless Agatha.—“Here the wicked cease from troubling!” said Morgan, “peace to
thy manes!—I trust that thou wast not thy own destroyer, and that thy
sufferings and repentance hath procured thy soul an abode among the blessed.”
Farewel!—a long farewel, poor
persecuted dust!” said Magdalen, “our spirits may one day meet in glory!—My
fate has been too similar.—But I must forbear.—Oh! could the fell destroyers of
innocence—the votaries of vice, in the moment of guilty pleasure, have the veil
of delusion torn from before their eyes, and behold the end of all their
fancied joys!—Low are now the destroyer and the destroyed,—the persecutor and
the persecuted,—the tongue that flattered to betray, and the heart that
believed and was deceived!—Agatha, once lovely, now crumbled to dust, farewel
for ever!”
Magdalen now kneeled and kissed the
sod, an example that was followed by Bertha and Ela.—The party then returned
towards the ruins, at a short distance from which, by the little light they
had, for the evening was far advanced, they discerned a man who appeared to be
just issuing from the common portal. Near the place where they then stood, was
a building from whence the convent was supplied with fuel,—it was open on each
side,—thither they retired, and silently watched his motions.—His gestures
appeared wild and extravagant, alternately quitting the desolated walls, then
returning with an hurried step, striking his forehead, and groaning aloud.—“Ah,
no!—I will not—dare not for a moment suppose it—the thought is death!”—He
loudly exclaimed,—“Oh, Magdalen! Magdalen!”—He then threw himself with violence
on the earth, and, for some moments remained silent.—Morgan, in this interval,
slowly moved towards him,—“No, it cannot be!” the stranger resumed, raising his
head, “they cannot all—all have perished!—Magdalen—Bertha—Ela—Morgan!”
“Are here,” said Morgan.
The young man, Eustace, or rather Geoffry, for it was no other, sprang upon his feet, recoiled some steps from the place where Morgan’s voice appeared to issue, and stood aghast;—nor could he, for some moments, believe, that the individuals, whose names he had rehearsed, were now before him.—He gazed with wonder and delight;—at length returning recollection broke at once upon him, and in a wild tumult of joy and rapture, he threw himself at the feet of Magdalen.
“May the sins of the parents be not
visited upon the children!” said Magdalen.—“May Geoffry and his brother be
virtuous—and bless them, Almighty God!”
“Geoffry is indeed blessed,” replied
he, “though a short space since the most wretched of mortal beings!—Oh, never,
never have I lost sight of this dear spot!—Amidst the splendor of palaces and
the favor of princes, the Convent of St. Bertrand was ever present to my
view;—judge then of my horror and despair when I beheld it desolate and in
ruins.”
“The ardent and extravagant
imagination of man,” said Morgan, “often pourtrays scenes of happiness which
never can be realized;—when such is the case, reason should in time check the
delusion, and restore the wandering senses, which otherwise might produce most
fatal consequences.—In the present instance, it appears to have caused a total
deprivation of memory, or Geoffry would not have forgotten that his old friends
Bertha and Ela were present.”
“Pardon me, ladies,” said Geoffry;
“bewildered with joy to find Magdalen—I mean, to find my friends safe, I, for a
while, lost sight of courtly compliment to the whole.”
“In order to pay adoration,
individually,” said Ela, smiling; “that I must confess, does not favour of the
courtier,” continued she sarcastically, “unless it accords with his interest.”
“You are too severe, Ela,” said
Morgan.—“Geoffry owes the nun, Magdalen, much; she hath, for years, been unto
him even as a mother—her pious precepts and instructions, will, I trust, never
be by him forgotten.”
The features of Geoffry now appeared
grave and perplexed, and, with a faltering voice, he addressed Bertha, Ela, and
Morgan, expressing how glad he was to see them in safety.—“For, my first alarm,
on beholding the destroyed building, and the supposition that my friends were
lost, almost transported me beyond my reason,” said he; “happily, I now feel
more composed.—Will the building be restored?”
“I doubt not speedily,” said Morgan,
“unless the contentions which disturb this province should be amicably
adjusted, and the army withdrawn.”
“Which at present is very unlikely,”
replied Geoffry, “for Prince Richard’s demands are what the king cannot comply
with—both have therefore taken up arms.”
“It is a pity,” said Morgan, “that
such an unnatural contest should be carried on between father and son.—The
prince has many good qualities,—I hear your brother William is a great
favourite with him.”
“He is, and most deservedly; for he
once, in the heat of action, saved the prince’s life.—Indeed, in heroic spirit
and fire, he is much like Richard, though in filial duty and affection widely
different; for, on the first rumour of this quarrel, he then serving with
Richard, demanded his discharge.—This the generous prince immediately complied
with, and not only dismissed him with grace and favour, but gave him safe conduct
to the king, with whom he is now in Guyenne.”
Morgan and Magdalen, at the
conclusion of this speech, expressing some apprehension at the seat of war
being in that immediate vicinity, Geoffry assured them, that they need not be
alarmed, as he had sufficient interest with the king to protect them from
danger.
“I trust we shall not want it,” said
Morgan, “but we had better now retire out of the damp air;—besides, we must
make some provision for Geoffry’s accommodation, as it will be too late for him
to return to-night.—I fear you will find your lodging here not equal to that
you have recently inhabited,” continued he, addressing Geoffry.
“I shall, notwithstanding, prefer it
to any other,” said he, “and can turn my horse, which I have fastened at some little
distance, into one of the inclosed pastures of the convent.”
“Have you no attendant?” inquired
Morgan.
“None,” answered Geoffry; “for I
strictly bore in remembrance what I promised when we last parted, that not a
word, or aught relative to Magdalen, should ever transpire; on this account
too, I gave out that my intended excursion was only to view the scenes of my
youthful days, and to greet those who had been my instructors.”
“Your caution was highly
commendable, and at the same time your assertion strictly true,” said Morgan,
“but here is our mansion,” continued he, lifting a latch that fastened the
door.—“Enter—what think ye of our habitation, I pray?”
“It is a sorry dwelling for ladies,”
replied Geoffry, with a sigh.
“To those pampered in palaces, it
may appear so,” said Morgan; “but nuns and priests, long inured to their humble
cells, feel not the hardship; content and humility to those who have few wants,
are ample substitutes for pomp and pride.”
“Mean you to continue here any
time?—The Lady abbess, I suppose, is preparing another mansion,” inquired
Geoffry.
“The Lady Abbess needs no other,”
replied Morgan, “she perished in the conflagration. The nuns and novices have
retired elsewhere, and we purpose to commence our journey for England
to-morrow, a religious house there, being appointed for our reception.”
“To England! and to-morrow!
Surely—surely not so soon; where is the necessity? and is this then the
happiness I promised myself in Guyenne, after so many tedious months absence.—If
pecuniary matters occasion this speed, I have now the means.”
“Not so,” replied Morgan, “we are
amply supplied, but forget ye, that Magdalen and Bertha are irrevocably devoted
to a conventual life, that, though forced by dire necessity, without the grate,
that should for ever have enclosed them, yet a wilful continuance in that
society, which they have solemnly renounced, would be indecent, scandalous, and
wicked. Besides, the world has no longer charms nor allurements for Bertha and
Magdalen; grown sage by reflection, mature in years, and mortified in spirit,
all passions are dead and cold.—Say, Bertha, and you in particular, Magdalen—do
I speak your thoughts?”
“Most truly,” replied Magdalen.
“Were even his holiness to sanction a revocation of my vows, and declare them
null and void, I would not again enter a world which I now look upon with
detestation, abhorrence, and horror, and in which there is no safety from
daring vice and insult.”
“In humble and lonely society, the
strong and powerful, too frequently, oppress and injure the weak and
unprotected,” said Geoffry.—“Such violence, I shudder to think, three females
may sustain in a long and tiresome journey, with only one man to defend
them—one whose profession and
habit is a bar to resistance.”
“I know no profession, however sacred,” replied Morgan, “that precludes a resistance to violators of the divine commandments, in the maintenance of which, even life itself ought to be accounted a mean and trifling sacrifice.”
“You may be somewhat ambitious to
obtain the name of a martyr,” said Geoffry, apparently vexed; “but, however
well the name of St. Morgan might sound in romantic legends, would not all wise
men deem it rashness to madly adventure your own life, and endanger those of
three females, by crossing this province, into that of Normandy, in their
present disturbed state, filled as they are with a wild and ungovernable
soldiery?”
“My ambition, if such you call it,”
said Morgan gravely, “is not of so lofty a turn; and, as I would not wish to incur
the censure of wisdom, and be accounted rash, will therefore ask, what you
might deem a safer expedient.”
“To repair forthwith to the camp,
where I will present you all to the king; he will prove a most powerful
protector.”
“Never! horror and distraction is in
the thought,” exclaimed Magdalen. “Rash and ungovernable young man! what demon
could suggest such an idea?—Have you forgot your former impious declaration
to—one devoted to Heaven—and whose life and eternal salvation rests on her
privacy?—Henceforth, bear it in remembrance—or we must meet no more!”
“How cruel is my destiny, yet per
force I must obey,” said Geoffry, with a deep sigh.
“You have only to combat a weak and
ill-judged impression,” said Morgan, “which circumstances made it madness ever
to indulge.—Your sufferings, if such you call them, are a deserved punishment;
to Magdalen they are an increase of misery, almost beyond human nature to
support,—nay, doubly so, because all explanation is impossible.”
A melancholy silence of some minutes
ensued, which Morgan interrupted by asking Geoffry to accompany him, while he
procured his horse some provender, and made ready a place for his repose.—“In
the mean time,” said he, “you, ladies, will set out our humble repast, for we
do not abound in superfluities; but peace and thankfulness has hitherto
sweetened the frugal meal.”—So saying, they retired for a short time, and at
their return found the board spread, and eggs, milk, bread, and some fruit
placed thereon.
Morgan blessed the food, and,
accompanied by Ela and Bertha, made a hearty and cheerful meal;—but Magdalen
and Geoffry ate little, and in silence.—“Is it then irrevocably determined,” at
length said the latter, “that you depart to-morrow, and that after being
flattered so many years with your friendship and that of Morgan, the only
solace of my younger days, the chill and blighting frost of cold neglect should
now take place to mar my opening prospects;—for, alas! I feel it is not fortune
that can render Geoffry happy.—When I listened to your instructions, you forbad
me not to love, to esteem my instructress.”
“Nor do I now forbid the same
affection and esteem which a son owes a parent,—this observed, Geoffry will
ever have Magdalen and Morgan’s friendship.—For our departure, I see the
necessity of it more than ever,—but with Morgan’s approbation, we will, on your
account, delay it for another day. Your own sojourn in Guyenne will probably
not be long;—remember, therefore, that on yourself alone depends the renewal of
that friendship, in England, which you seem desirous of continuing.”
“It is the sole happiness of my
life,” replied Geoffry, “and upon any condition would I preserve it; judge
then, whether your personal safety is not dear to me, you will, therefore,
permit me to procure an escort, and to accompany you part of the way.”
“We can agree to neither, for it
would take away from the privacy with which we choose to travel,” said Morgan;
“I am well acquainted with the roads, shall take those that are safe, and mean
only to journey by daylight, to avoid danger and fatigue.”
Geoffry, completely foiled, both in
his attempt to detain them longer in Guyenne, or to make himself a companion in
their journey, now gave over the trial, and after some little conversation,
they all retired for the night.
END OF VOL. II.
______________________
Norbury, Printer, Brentford.