MAGDALEN;
OR,
THE PENITENT OF GODSTOW.
VOL. I.
MAGDALEN;
OR,
THE PENITENT OF GODSTOW.
AN HISTORICAL NOVEL.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
BY ELIZABETH HELME,
AUTHOR OF
ST. MARGARET’S CAVE, OR THE NUN’S STORY,
THE PILGRIM OF THE CROSS, &c. &c.
VOL. I.
BRENTFORD:
PRINTED BY AND FOR P. NORBURY;
AND SOLD BY
C. CRADOCK AND W. JOY, NO. 32, PATER-NOSTER-ROW,
1812.
THE
PENITENT OF GODSTOW.
CHAPTER I.
ON the banks of the
river
The interior of the convent was spacious, and the
grounds extensive, the whole forming a dreary melancholy picture, being at a
considerable distance from any town or even habitation. The abbess was a woman
of high rank, and descended from Gualter de Evereaux, Earl of Rosmar, a
Norman, who attending William the Conqueror to England, gave first rise to the
noble family of Salisbury, by grants from his royal master in the county of
Wiltshire; which he bequeathed to his second son, Edward de Salisburie,
leaving to his eldest son, Walter, with the title of Earl of Rosmar, his extensive possessions in Normandy.
The nuns of St. Bertrand were most
of them in years, the boarders being only received in their infancy, and in
general such as were expected hereafter to take the veil; which if they
declined, they were never after admitted within the walls.
Vespers had just concluded in the
convent chapel—the abbess had retired to enjoy the comforts of a good
supper,—the novices were walking solitarily in the garden by moon-light,
lamenting the past, and, with melancholy, anticipating the future;—the devotees
were shut up in their cells,—and a few old nuns, whom even years had not cured
of gossiping, were seated on a bench at the entrance of the chapel, descanting
on the merits and narrow politics contained within the convent walls.
This party was augmented by two
boarders named Esther and Mary, of the age of fifteen, and who, weary of the
monotonous life of the convent, sought alternately in the different groups to
vary the scene.
“Heigh-ho!”
sighed sister Martha, an old nun, who was lean, yellow, withered, and dry as an
Egyptian mummy,—“what a savoury smell issues from the kitchen!” at the same
time distending her nostrils and snuffing the air with peculiar satisfaction.
“Yes,” replied another of the
antiquated group, “the lady abbess has a duck for supper; the abbot has granted
her a plenary indulgence, so she
eats and drinks what she pleases.—There is not a nun in the whole convent looks
half so hearty; why, she is as fat as a sucking pig, and her cheeks are as red
and as extended as those of a trumpeter.”
“No matter for that,” rejoined
another venerable vestal, “her fat, she says, arises from her sedentary life,
and passing so much time upon her knees.
Flatulency also deprives her of her appetite, for though she has every
delicacy in season prepared for her table, she constantly avers that she never
touches any thing but dry bread and a few raisins.”
“What wonderful forbearance amidst a
well furnished table,” answered sister Josephine. “But one thing I am at a loss
to account for; what becomes of the food? as I can swear the dishes always come
out empty, having constantly made that remark.”
“Oh,” said Martha, “what a simpleton
you must be; do not you know that she has four favourite dogs and two cats—they
eat up all, to be sure.”
“And drink up all, mayhap,” answered
Josephine; “for I am sure the store room is frequently replenished with wine.
Well, much good may it do her; but I hate hypocrisy. Do you remember the day I
was so troubled with the cholic, and only sent to her
for a cup of cordial, how she sighed, and turned up the whites of her eyes, and
bade me remember the sin of drinking strong waters in my next confession.”
“Hist! I
thought I heard steps,” said sister Anne, interrupting her in a low tone of
voice. “I hope no one has been listening, and overheard our discourse.”
A pause of a few moments ensued.—“It
is only fancy, I believe,” answered Josephine. “Yet, after the imperious order
which was given a fortnight since, for us all to retire to our cells
immediately after vespers, it is good to be cautious.”
“It is,” added Martha, “for though I
believe we all think alike, yet our Lady Abbess has great power. What all the
changes that have taken place bode I cannot conjecture; four nuns removed to
other convents, and what is still more extraordinary, without any fault
assigned, and you know our Lady Abbess is seldom at a loss in this particular
of accusation and penance.—Well, I will say no more, for the least said is the
soonest mended, and a still tongue betokens a wise head. I have heard the nuns
are sent to England; but I would not have it reported that I said so, for I do
not like defending and proving, and Martha said this, and Martha said that,
when it is well known, there is not a more taciturn nun in the whole convent
than I am; and if they are sent to England”——
“Let them be sent where they may,”
said the youthful Esther, “they cannot be sent to a more disagreeable place
than this is; for though I have been here almost as long as I can remember, so
far from use making me reconciled to the spot, I hate and detest it, and
consider myself as buried alive. For my part, I think convents ought only to be
allowed for such as are too deformed and ugly to appear in the world.”
“That is good indeed,” answered,
Martha, “and shews your ignorance, child, but even if
that was the case, need you exult on a supposition of being excluded on the
score of beauty; for my part, if I was his Holiness the Pope, beauties alone
should become nuns, as they cause the greatest mischief in the world. Lord, I
remember when I was a girl”——
“Do you, indeed,” interrupted Mary,
the second boarder, “that must have been a long time ago. I wonder that your
memory does not fail you; what a blessing!”
“A long time ago,” retorted the
enraged Martha, with a face reddening with rage, “not so long, neither, and, as
to my memory it is indeed a
blessing; for it reminds me of the difference between young people, in this
babbling impertinent age, and in those days that are past;—maids were then
seldom seen, and never heard, now they are continually exposing their unveiled
unblushing faces, and chattering like so many magpies, for fear their boldness
should not sufficiently bring them into notice.”
“I think I can answer for Mary, that
she did not wilfully mean to offend you. It must, indeed, appear to you a long
time since you were a girl, as the years of your youth were passed in a
convent,”—answered Esther, sighing.
This apology somewhat modified the
wrath of the time-stricken Martha, whose loud vociferous tones now softened
into a sanctified whine.
“Why, aye,” said she, “the time has
indeed sometimes appeared long; but we are all prone to sin, and apt to repine
after the pomps and vanities of this wicked world.
But, thank Heaven, I have now, in a great measure, subdued all worldly desires,
and am ready to acknowledge that youth and beauty are most safe in a convent.”
Esther and Mary both stifled a
laugh—“I think I have heard you say, Martha,” said the former, “that you were
placed in a convent merely to increase your brother’s revenues.”
“It is most true,” replied Martha,
“he used to say my pretty face would be best concealed in a nunnery. I remember
I was once at a masque, which followed a tournament, where a certain knight
laid his sword and spear at my feet, gallantly observing, that though he could
not see my face, he had no doubt it was equal to my shape.”
“And la, how could he be so rude,”
interrupted Mary.—
“Rude—rude,” echoed Martha, half choaked with rage.
“Yes,” answered Mary, “for you know
no one can help being ill made.”
“Ill made, indeed; and pray who told
you I was ill made?” interrogated Martha.
“No one,” replied Mary. “I sometimes require no other evidence
than—my own senses.”
“And sometimes you call in a little envy; do you not?”
“Never, where your beauty is
concerned.”
Esther, who delighted more in peace
than in raillery, and who saw a tempest was brewing in Martha’s bosom, now
endeavoured to allay the storm, by saying, “Mary, this is all nonsense. Dear
Martha, I want to ask you a question; pray, why did the knight lay his sword
and spear at your feet? Was he going to kill you?”
“Kill me, no, silly girl; he meant
to—to undermine my virtue, by fascinating my understanding. Oh, if I had
leisure, I could tell you of a thousand schemes made use of by those wicked
men, to delude us poor girls.—Yes, yes, I
know all their tricks, but thanks to my own chastity, and the
vigilance of the blessed saints, I sat them all at defiance.”
“I think,” replied Mary, “your
parents acted very wisely, in putting a stop to your studies of the arts of
those wicked men you speak of, by sending you to a convent; for, by your own
account, you appear to have attained a considerable stock of knowledge for so
young a maiden, as you say you was. What a mercy you escaped pure and
uncontaminated!”
“You forget, Mary,” replied one of
the sisterhood, “that Martha’s guardian saints were upon the alert.”
“True Bertha; their vigilance caught
her up in time, and conveyed her into this convent, where, Heaven knows, there
is no temptation, but plenty of mortification. I wish my guardian saints would
convey me out of it;—Monks and nuns may preach till doomsday, but they never
can persuade me but that human creatures, endowed with health and
understanding, were meant for active agents in life.—I call Heaven to be my
witness, that I had rather possess a clean cottage, and live under the
protection of a good husband, as I have read of them, than be the most renowned
devotee in the whole world; nay even if I was sure they would do me the favour
to canonize my old bones after my death.”
“And I am perfectly of the same
mind,” replied Bertha, “a light heart and a rosy cheek for me. None of your
hypocritical voluntary mortification—no sunken eyes and sallow complexion, if I
can avoid them.”
Esther was too mild and timid to
express a similar sentiment in any other manner, than by a heavy sigh, which
was profoundly re-echoed by all the sisterhood present; though the more old and
professed nuns devoutly crossed their bosoms, as it were to preserve themselves
from the contagion of evil example.
“You, Mary and Bertha,” said Martha,
“are enough to corrupt the whole convent, and ought to be reported to our Lady
Abbess; who, by enjoining penance and abstinence, might, in time, overcome
these wicked propensities of light talking, and railing against sacred
institutions, and I shall take the earliest opportunity to acquaint her of it.”
“Not forgetting the duck, and the
wine, and the four dogs and two cats, that kindly lent the abbess their
assistance,” interrupted Mary; “for should these anecdotes escape your memory,
I shall then also come forward, and, like your knight in days of yore, lay my
weapons at your feet.”
An old nun, by the name of Ursula,
now took up the contest by saying, “Well, well, how times are altered! formerly
there used to be some subordination within these walls; the seniors were wont
to be treated with respect.—Lack-a-day, lack-a-day! Ten or fifteen years ago,
when you and I were girls, Martha.”—
Mary now, in spite of every effort,
laughed outright, saying, “Why I thought you and Martha had been forty years at
least in this convent.”
Martha, stretching out her meagre
neck, with the crimson of anger overcoming the saffron of her complexion,
scowling a look of stifled rage upon her, replied only by the word
“Impertinent!”
The peaceful Esther endeavoured to
soothe her, by observing to Mary, “That the wan complexion and spare form of
Martha, only arose from ill health and austere habits, which made her appear
older than she really was.”
“That is truly observed, child,”
answered the old nun; “delicate and fragile forms, like mine, like the gay and
sweet-scented flowers of the garden, fade the soonest.”
“Your’s
then must have been delicate, indeed,” replied Mary.
Martha construed this into a
compliment, for she replied, “You say truly; indeed I did not enter this
convent at the very infantile age that is now required, but such has been the
purity of my life, even in the world, that it may put guilt to the blush.”
“Perhaps you never met temptation,”
said Mary.
“What do you mean?” returned Martha,
bridling. “Are you ever upon the watch to affront me? I never met temptations!
Do you take me for a stick or a stone? Pray, what young woman with a good
person can be in the public haunts of men, and not be exposed to temptation?
Were even you, Mary, to quit these hallowed walls, though you are not handsome,
I should tremble for your danger.”
“And that is more than I should for
my own,” said Mary aside to Esther; then turning to the old nun she added, “But
do not you think the greater the allurement the more virtue is required to
resist it; for example, in this convent we have nothing to excite temptation,
and therefore we have few sins to confess, except those of envy, malice, and uncharitableness, and Heaven knows they are heinous enough
of all conscience; but amidst the dissipation of the world, my books tell me,
we have to pass a kind of fiery ordeal, from which, if we escape unsullied and
pure, our virtue deserves more commendation than it can possibly deserve, in
the inactive and unassailed routine of monastic
seclusion.”
The nuns having nothing to answer,
at least to the purpose, had again recourse to their usual silent rhetoric,
that of crossing themselves; only Martha, whose volubility was seldom
exhausted, entered into a long dissertation of the hair-breadth escapes which she might have encountered, had not the
saints kindly interfered and snatched her from those embryo trials that
doubtless were hatching into perfection in the womb of time. Having partly
exhausted the topic of what might have been, she began comparing herself to the
young women of that period, losing nothing by her own praise, except the
attention of her auditors, who were universally beginning to yawn, when
suddenly they were aroused by a loud ringing at the convent gate. Fearful of
being discovered and punished for a disobedience of orders, the nuns hastened
to their cells, while Esther and Mary, more bold, or more curious, retreated
behind some pillars, in a dark aisle of the chapel, where they considered
themselves secure from detection, should any one pass through to the interior
of the convent.
CHAPTER
II.
A
FEW minutes elapsed, when the portress hastily
crossed the chapel, and speedily returned with the abbess and an old nun named
Bridget, who was reputed to be admitted into her most secret councils.
“Are you sure,” interrogated the
abbess, “that all are retired to their apartments?”—Being answered in the
affirmative—“Then close the door that enters the convent, and let the portress unbar the outward portal, that the strangers may
enter,” continued she.
A silence now ensued, which
continued for the space of ten minutes, when the sound of distant footsteps
were heard, which slowly and gradually seemed to approach near to the spot
where Mary and Esther endeavoured to conceal themselves. Presently they
observed a man of a lofty demeanor enter the chapel,
followed by four others, wrapped in long cloaks, and bearing between them,
what, to the inexpressible terror of Esther and Mary, they conceived to be a
dead body, wrapped in a large mantle, which they deposited on the steps leading
to the altar, and at no great distance from the lamp, which burnt before the
image of the virgin.
Having thus far performed their
part, they retreated some paces, and appeared to await, in respectful silence,
the further commands of him, whose outward form denoted a personage of more
than common rank.
The abbess now approached, and with
her arms crossed on her bosom, stood on one side of the body, absorbed in
profound contemplation.
On the other side, with folded arms,
and with an aspect of severity, was placed the stranger. An awful pause ensued;
a deep sigh, which seemed to issue from the apparently lifeless body, at length
broke in upon the death-like solemnity of the scene, and which, in some
measure, recalled the almost fleeting spirits of the appalled Mary and Esther,
who, by this time, were near fainting, and mentally bewailing their ill-timed
curiosity.
“A cup of wine,” said the stranger,
in a deep commanding tone of voice, turning to Bridget. The old nun instantly
obeyed the command; the hitherto inanimate body was then raised, when the
mantle falling off, discovered a woman clothed in a white flowing dress—the
stranger supported her head with his arm, and with great difficulty at length
succeeded in forcing some wine within her lips. In a short space some heavy
moans, and a few inarticulate words, seemed to announce returning animation.
The stranger now addressed her in a
language unknown to either Mary or Esther; she, however, appeared not as yet
sufficiently recovered to reply, or even to support herself. Being immediately
within the beams of the lamp, her person was, in a great measure, discernible
to them. Her arms hung lifeless to her sides; the pallid hue of death was spread
over her countenance, which to them, nevertheless, appeared beautiful, and as
youthful as their own. Her eyes were half closed, and a profusion of
amber-coloured ringlets, in wild confusion, shaded her face and bosom.
“I did not expect you so soon,” said
the abbess to the principal stranger, addressing him in French.—“Though I have
all prepared, and you may depend on the exact performance of my duty.”
“I doubt it not,” replied he; “we
have letters for you from your noble lady.”—As he spoke, he made a sign to one
of his attendants, who immediately presented a large packet, which the abbess,
approaching the lamp, opened and read.
Esther and Mary, at the distance
where they were placed, could only discover a piece of parchment, to which a
large seal appeared to be affixed. Having perused it, she said to the
principal—
“Religion, as well as duty, command
obedience to this mandate. The lady shall be secure from danger; and I make no
doubt will, hereafter, bless the time when she was snatched from the commission
of the most deadly and heinous sin, and placed in the road of repentance.”
“We hope so,” answered the stranger,
in French.—“But say, holy mother, are these ancient sisters, whom you have
entrusted with our secret, to be depended upon?”
“I answer for them; myself, and the
Abbot of Pau, have witnessed their solemn oaths,
sworn and registered at the foot of the altar.”
“It is well—it is only necessary,
then, for me to inform them, that rewards attend their secrecy, and death,
should they divulge the trust reposed in them; and now my task, I think, is
nearly done.—Good sister,” addressing one of the nuns, “take my place in
supporting this weak woman, who sinks under the fatigues of a long and perilous
voyage, and sickens, even to death, to return to those sins that have proved
her destruction; but hope it not,” added he, turning to her, and still speaking
in French, “your scene of power and wickedness is fled, never to return.—Your
whole family think you dead; and so you would have been, but for the mercy of
her you have most injured. Your paramour will mourn his minion, till his fickle
heart fixes upon a new one, when you will be forgotten, as though you had never
been. What I would advise, is to repent, take the oaths required of you,
receive the veil, and renounce not only the vanities of the world, but also
endeavour to forget them; so shall you be at liberty in this convent, as the
other nuns—if you refuse, you are still a prisoner, and will be confined and
treated with rigour.”
Thus speaking, he left his pale and
trembling victim, and drawing aside, held a long and apparently earnest
discourse with the abbess; after which, bidding her farewel,
he, with his companions, left the chapel, and soon after, Esther and Mary heard
the heavy gates of the convent close after them.
On the return of the portress, the abbess commanded her and the old nun, sister
Bridget, to raise the stranger, and bear her into the interior of her own
apartments, where all was prepared for her reception. They obeyed, and, in a
few minutes, Esther and Mary were left alone in the chapel.
They viewed each other with dread,
fearful even of breaking silence, lest they should be overheard. At length,
grasping Mary’s hand, Esther said, in a low voice,—“Are we awake? Good
gracious! is it possible such atrocities can be acted, even at the altar, and
in the presence of Heaven! Were this poor sufferer guilty, there would be no
need of so much secrecy. Did you hear the tall stranger threaten death, in case
the secret was divulged?”
“I did, with horror,” answered
Mary.—“I would we had been in our apartments; for Heaven’s sake, let us steal
away as softly as possible, lest we be discovered—and for your life, Esther, do
not utter a word relative to any thing that has passed to night in the chapel.”
“Be you equally as careful; let us
separate in the cloisters.—Good night.”
CHAPTER
III.
ON
the ensuing morning, Esther and Mary were early stirring, and silently
attentive to all that passed; but no circumstance transpired to announce publicly
that a stranger was in the convent Some
days after, the Abbot of Pau was admitted, and
remained for several hours in the apartment of the abbess; but still the
subject was enveloped in secrecy and mystery. Weeks and even months elapsed,
without any change taking place; and Esther and Mary, when, with dread, they
conversed cautiously in the most retired parts of the garden, on the events
which they had witnessed, were inclined to think that the stranger had been
removed in the dead of night, or yet, more probably, had been released by
death.—Time, however, could never efface from their memory the discourse which
had passed, the features of the lady, nor of those of the person who brought
her. The remembrance redoubled their aversion to a monastic life, and with
tears they frequently deplored the cruelty of their fate, which made it
impossible for them to avoid it.
Six months had thus passed, when one
morning, about the hour of vespers, two visitors were announced to the abbess,
and were conducted through the aisle of the chapel to her audience chamber. The
one was in pontifical robes, and the other a man in mourning weeds, and in
whom, to the horror of Esther and Mary, they recognized the tall stranger, who
had conducted the unhappy woman, who had given them so much concern.—Vespers
were no sooner concluded, than the abbess retired, while Esther and Mary,
curious to see the strangers return, entered into a vague conversation with
some of the nuns. They had thus been engaged about half an hour, when a loud
and piercing scream reached their ears. The nuns looked at each other with
amazement; and, after a short pause, some retired to enquire from whence the
alarm had proceeded.—Esther and Mary, however, attributed it to a cause, secret
to all but themselves, except the parties concerned; they judged the young
female, whom they had seen brought into the chapel, was still alive, and
concealed in the abbess’s apartment, and dreaded she was enduring some fresh
persecution, in consequence of the tall stranger’s arrival.
They instinctively grasped each
other’s hands, and fearful of betraying their emotion, walked into the
cloisters. A few moments after, they heard the voice of the old portress, by the command of the abbess, ordering all to
retire to their cells.
Esther and Mary, however their
curiosity was excited, found no means to satisfy it for near three months, when
one morning the abbess, with apparent carelessness, informed some of the elder
nuns, that she had, some short time before, admitted a young novice on her
probation, but who, from ill health, she had been induced to keep entirely
within her own chamber, that she might superintend the instructions bestowed
upon her. Nuns, as well as those more actively situated in life, understood
that flattery was a ready road to favour, they therefore did not fail to extol
their superior’s humanity and devotion, offering their assistance in the pious
undertaking; she however declined their proffered aid, and the conversation
ceased.
Some few days after, the portress and sister Bridget, led from the apartment of the
abbess, the stranger, whom she had announced as a new comer; but in whom Esther
and Mary both immediately recognized the unhappy victim, whose secret arrival
they had witnessed, while concealed behind the pillars of the chapel. The nuns
supported her to the foot of the altar, where, after remaining some time, they
led her into the outward cloisters for air, for she was too weak to conduct
herself.
Esther and Mary both considered with
pity, the change which had taken place in her person. Her face was wan, and
much reduced—her eyes wild and sunken—her lips livid, and her whole form of
such shadowy thinness, that had any of the inhabitants of the convent seen her
unexpectedly, and unsupported, they would have deemed her to have been a
wandering spirit. She was passive and silent; and, after having remained some
time in the air, they reconducted her to the
apartments she had left.
From this period she was seen daily,
but never unattended; though, by slow degrees, her person appeared to gain
strength.—She entered into no conversation, not even observing the accustomed
salutations, when passing any of the inmates of the convent, being strictly
enjoined silence; and the nuns and novices were forbidden, on pain of
punishment, to address her. She passed much time at the altar of the Virgin,
apparently in fervent prayer, and deep depression; for her tears were observed
to flow abundantly, and her sighs were so heavy, that they appeared to shake
her fragile form almost to dissolution.
The Abbot of Pau
frequently visited her, but his counsels, if he bestowed them, appeared to
afford her no comfort, for she was usually more depressed after his visits.
The comments respecting her were
various, according to the different tempers and dispositions of the inmates of
the convent—the younger members pitied her, and insisted that she was a paragon
of beauty, and not more than sixteen, and, at the most, seventeen years old;
that they had no doubt she was in love, by her melancholy, but that innocence
was depicted in every feature.—Some of the elders, on the contrary, at the head
of which was old Martha, insisted she was nineteen or twenty, at the least;
that to be sure, she had a fair complexion, tolerable features, and good eyes,
considering they were blue, but, upon the whole, her person wanted dignity, and
could not, by any means, claim pretensions to beauty.—“For my part,” continued
Martha, “I say nothing, for comparisons are odious; and swans have no right to
set themselves in competition with geese. But this I will say,—I have known
those that would have put her out of countenance.”
“Of that I make no doubt,” replied
Mary; “for Heaven knows, there are shameless
women enough in the world, who are ever on the watch to depreciate
beauty, and put innocence to the blush.”
“Shameless women!” echoed Martha;
“you are a pert chattering baggage, and would provoke a saint, but I am not to
be moved.”
“Is that because you are only a
sinner?” returned Mary.
“There, there, do you hear,”
spluttered Martha, almost choaked with passion.—“She
calls me sinner! the abbess shall be told that I am a sinner; and——”
“Why, did not you acknowledge just
now,” answered Mary, calmly, “that you knew those that would put our young
novice out of countenance? and, if you are acquainted with such miscreants, who
would attempt to insult a broken spirit like her’s?
You must, at least, allow that they are the worst of sinners.”
“I did not mean any such thing, I
only spoke in regard to beauty; and I still maintain, that I have seen (one at
least) that, according to the old saying, your beautiful novice is not worthy
to be compared to.”
“And that one, I suppose,” replied
Mary, “was either yourself, in days of yore, or else Queen Guineuar,
wife of the renowned King Arthur.—Though, on second thoughts, I do not think
you can be quite so ancient as to remember her.”
“You have nothing to do with my age;
but if I am old, good manners, at least, should teach you to pay me some
respect.”
“Where wisdom keeps pace with
declining years, our reverence is justly excited; not so when envy, malice, and
detraction, deform the hoary brow, even more than the wrinkles of a thousand
ages.”
“I think Mary much to blame,” said
Ursula. “Sister Martha did not give her opinion; and, for my own part, I must
own, I think the young novices’ features are too regular to be striking,”
continued she.—“In my mind, prominent features are necessary, for they give an
expression and grandeur to the countenance.”
“A long nose and chin are the
characteristics of beauty,” replied Mary, significantly, fixing her eyes on
Ursula.
“I understand your impertinent
insinuation, child,” answered Ursula, angrily, “but you are too insignificant
to vex me; my thoughts are not placed on such transitory toys as my beauty or
person.”
“I am glad to hear that,” replied
Mary, “with all my heart.”
“You are glad; and why so, I pray?”
“Why, because then you will not
grieve at your homeliness.”
“Notwithstanding your insolence,”
resumed Ursula, “and though I have done with the vanities of the world, there
are many who can remember what I was.”
“They, doubtless, must be very wise
people then; for I have been told, that wisdom increaseth
with years,” answered Mary.
“I cannot say any thing about wisdom,”
replied Ursula, “for I was never vain of Heaven’s gifts; indeed I always
thought my chin too prominent for perfect beauty, though I can remember a
handsome knight once telling me, a full chin was a mark of wisdom.—However, of
that I do not pretend to judge, but then my nose was of the perfect shape was
allowed by painters.”
“Lord! Lord!” exclaimed Mary—“how it
must have grown since that time; perhaps it has increased so for a punishment
of your sins.”
Ursula’s passion to hear this favorite feature spoken thus lightly of, exceeded all
bounds; she raised her hand to strike Mary, but, probably reflecting that this
might bring on a disagreeable discussion, she contented herself with stamping
with her foot, grinning horribly in her face, and, in a rage, hobbling away
from the place of contention.
A silence for some minutes succeeded
her departure, the elder sisterhood, who formed the majority, being doubtless
not more pleased, at the sarcastic ebullitions of the young novice, in regard
to Ursula. Not that either their respect, or affection, operated in her favour,
for, as an individual, they did not care a whit what vexation she received; but
it was a common cause—out of the dull routine of the conventual
life, they had no other mode of filling up the intervening hours, than by
recounting to each other what their persons had
been, before the austerities of the order, and not their age, had marred their
charms. These agreeable conversations, intermingled with a portion of scandal,
for the moment, appeared to unknit even the gloomy
rigid brow of age, and gave to the antiquated sisterhood the only degree of
complacency towards each other, that their contracted minds were capable of
feeling; but thus to be broken upon, by a few young novices, in the flower of youth
and beauty, was an intolerance much to be dreaded, as it left them no
resource—no relaxation.
While the elders were ruminating on
this new grievance, their meditations were interrupted by Esther, saying, “I
considered the young stranger’s face attentively this morning, and compared it
with the paintings round the chapel, but not one of them is half so
beautiful—the expression of her countenance is most like that of St. Catharine,
but the painting is far inferior, in point of beauty, to the reality.”
The nuns appeared shocked at
Esther’s comparing the stranger to St. Catharine, and, after a general concert
of sighing and groaning, they retired to their cells.
CHAPTER
IV.
THE
stranger had assumed the dress of a novice, and though youth and strength
appeared to struggle against a fixed and deadly grief, she still continued
silent; and, as at first, never appeared out of her chamber, unless accompanied
by either the abbess, the portress, or Bridget.—Thus
passed a year from her first admission, when the abbess informed the nuns that
the Abbot of Pau had, for weighty and powerful,
though private reasons, ordered that the young novice should enter immediately
the holy pale,—that henceforward they would know her by the name of sister Magdalen,—and that the sacred ceremony of her renouncing
the world would take place in a few days.
The old nuns highly applauded the
goodness of the abbot who had kindly shortened the probation of the novice,
while the young boarders sighed at the prospect of a sacrifice which might soon
be their own lot.
At length the day arrived, but the
ceremony, contrary to general custom, was private; no one being present but the
inmates of the convent, the Abbot of Pau, and some
monks devoted to his service.—All prepared, the victim was led forth, but had
refused the ornaments usual on such occasions.—The solemn music resounded, high
mass was performed, and the agitation of the pale and trembling victim made it
requisite to support her till the moment approached for her to take the vows
which separated her for ever from the world.
As the ceremony proceeded she seemed
to gain strength, and raising her eyes to Heaven she approached the altar;—the
abbot attended to administer the vows, and with indecent celerity appeared in
haste to conclude the sacrifice.
No one but those immediately
attending the abbess had yet heard the young stranger speak, and all felt a
lively interest to hear her voice.—On the abbot asking her whether she
willingly renounced the vanities of the world, she replied, in a soft but firm
accent,—“Aye, the vanities I willingly relinquish, but I dare not lie at the
foot of the altar and in the face of Heaven.—There are objects in the world
which can never cease to be dear to me;—if the vows I take are sinful, Heaven
remove the weight from my soul, fatal necessity compels, and I obey.”
The abbot affected to take her words
in a sense which were evidently not their true meaning.—“Daughter,” replied he,
“while we are enveloped in frail mortality, our hearts, in spite of our firmest
resolutions, will partake in worldly things.—In renouncing the allurements and
temptations to err, you take the first step towards repentance; and I commend
the candour which prompts you boldly to confess your sins.”
“Purity alone, father, should be
offered to Heaven, and the unhappy woman before you, as you well know, hath not
purity to offer.”
“Alas! daughter, none are pure!—your
sins are indeed great, but not, I trust, beyond the reach of mercy.”—Then, as
if fearful she should reply, he turned hastily, and requested the nuns to sing Misericordia; which performed, he hurried through the
remainder of the ceremony like a man who was in haste to conclude a business at
once disagreeable and disgraceful to him, but which he was obliged to accomplish.
On her beautiful ringlets being cut
off, according to the custom of assuming the veil, both Esther and Mary, in
spite of their utmost endeavours, burst into tears, and were severely
reprimanded by the abbess.
Their emotion was not lost upon the
votary,—“Alas!” said she, “is pity then a crime within these walls dedicated to
Heaven?—Humanity and mercy are the attributes of Holy Spirits,—crush not,
therefore, the divine emanation in these young maids.”
The high swollen spirit of the
abbess could ill bear this public reproof, but it was no time to resent it; and
the ceremony being concluded, the priests returned to their monastery, and the
nuns to their cells.
Though Magdalen,
as she was now called, had taken the veil, and was for ever secluded from the
world, yet sister Bridget, or the old portress, as
usual, attended her steps for several months; when, finding that she formed no
particular acquaintance, nor held much conversation with any one, their cares
began to relax, and she was suffered to walk in the garden alone, from whence,
however, it was next to impossible to escape.
In one of these melancholy
recreations she was met by Esther and Mary, who seeing her alone, ran to her,
and each taking one of her hands, with the warmth of youthful feeling, pressed
it to their lips,—“Dear, dear sister,” said Mary, “we have long wished to tell
you that we love you, that we commiserate your misfortunes, and, though we
never before dared avow it, witnessed the cruel and unjust manner in which you
were brought into the convent.”
Magdalen
started, trembled, turned pale, and appeared oppressed almost to fainting,—“For
Heaven’s sake, peace!” said she,—at length looking round and being convinced no
one was near, she added,—“Come with me into the more retired part of the
garden, where we may speak with greater freedom,—here we are in momentary
danger.”
So saying, Magdalen
led the way in silence to a part of the ground particularly shunned by the
inhabitants of the convent. It was a deep dell, at the extremity of the
enclosed land, thickly planted with trees; and which, from the underwood, and neglect, were almost in some parts
impenetrable. A brook separated it from the cultivated part of the garden, to
which it only was united by a rustic bridge, in so decayed and neglected a
state, that a short time only appeared to be requisite to cut off all
communication.
Though Esther and Mary had resided
in the convent from their infancy, they never had ventured to cross this
bridge, at the foot of which stood the image of St. Bertrand; being placed
there as a kind of centinel, to prevent the evil
spirit, which was reported to haunt the wood, from straying beyond its
precincts. The story handed down by tradition, and firmly believed in the
convent, was, that near a century before, one of the Dukes of Guienne, having seduced a maid of inferior degree, named
Agatha, his wife, in his absence, caused her to be seized and forced into St.
Bertrand’s, where she was delivered of a son, who was immediately taken from
her, and placed she knew not where,—or perhaps destroyed.—The latter
supposition preyed upon her spirits, until her intellects gave way, and she
became raving mad.—After a time her malady settled into a desponding
melancholy, notwithstanding which, she was suffered to stray by herself to any
part of the extensive inclosure. The wood, though
gloomy, was then cultivated, and was her almost constant retreat; in the
deepest recess she constructed, with her own hands, a kind of cell, or rather
hut, by first interweaving the branches of the trees, upon which she spread
clay, until she rendered it proof against the weather. This employment she was
suffered to enjoy, as it injured no one, and to keep her in a quiet state was
far more desirable than to venture a relapse into the furious ravings that had
before afflicted her. She even passed her nights in this retreat, and
frequently, had not food been brought her, would have remained till too weak to
come forth to seek it. After one of these absences, two of the sisters, as was
their usual custom, carrying her a basket of food, to their great terror found
her dead, and lying upon the earth with a dagger in her side. This act was, by
the then superior of the convent and her partizans,
denominated suicide; and the effects of her crime first madness, then
self-murder, which last they seemed to have no doubt would plunge her into
everlasting perdition, their charity making no allowance for insanity.
Some of the inmates of the convent,
however, dared to think otherwise, though they were fearful to express their
thoughts;—nay, some few thought it might even be possible, that her own hands
did not direct the fatal blow.
The Duke of Guienne
was just returned from Constantinople, where he had been for two years, and it
appeared not impossible but that the jealousy of the duchess might have
impelled her to remove for ever a dreaded rival, who was already dead to the
world, and to effect which was no difficult matter, as Agatha was often at such
a distance from the convent, that no alarm could reach them. The walls that
enclosed the grounds were indeed high, yet not to that degree, as not to be
scaled on the outside by determined ruffians.
To corroborate this opinion, one of
the nuns had, on the first discovery of the unfortunate Agatha, started a very
formidable objection against the act of suicide, namely,—“how she could obtain
a dagger?” such a weapon not being within the sacred walls.
The vindictive spirit of the
superior, however, soon crushed this kind of argument, upon pain of the most rigid
penance being inflicted upon those who should dare to be contumacious, where
the honour and profit of her house were so intimately concerned.—She likewise
recapitulated and exaggerated the errors of the simple Agatha, whose madness
she affirmed was nothing more nor less than an actual possession of her sinful
frame by the evil spirit, who first tempted her to sin, and then, doubtless,
furnished her with the means to accomplish her dreadful purpose.
“This opinion, though as before
mentioned, not implicitly believed by all, at least, came from too high an
authority to be disputed. Consecrated ground was, therefore, out of the
question, and a hole was dug in poor Agatha’s cell,
where her body was deposited; the act, sanctified by no holy rite, nor hallowed
by one friendly tear!
The murderous dagger was cast into
the Garonne, and the nuns prohibited from frequenting
the wood where so foul a deed had taken place, and where there was no doubt the
perturbed spirit of the frail Agatha would wander and hover, in painful penance
for her earthly crimes, until time should be no more.
As tales of horror seldom lose by
frequent repetition, it was soon reported that Agatha, with a dagger in her
hand, had been in reality seen; and caused such terror, that the superior found
it necessary to place the image of St. Bertrand at the foot of the bridge,
holding a crucifix, to prevent the wandering spirit passing into the garden.
It was at first in contemplation, to
destroy the bridge, but as it was composed of timber, that had grown on
consecrated ground, it was suffered to remain; leaving to time to interrupt the
communication between the garden and the wood.
Magdalen,
fearlessly, passed the bridge—Esther started and drew back—but the strong mind
of Mary needed no more than example; and, taking Esther’s hand, she said, “Come
on, we have never injured any one; and if the spirit does not molest Magdalen, it will surely not hurt us.”—
Esther, thus encouraged, crossed the
brook, and entered the wood, where Magdalen, turning
round, said,—“Fear nothing, this is my daily haunt, I have forced a rude path,
with great difficulty, through the underwood, and
visited poor Agatha’s grave; all there is quiet, and
I trust her guilty, but persecuted spirit, rests from its labours in the bosom
of peace and infinite mercy.”
Esther and Mary acquired fresh
courage as they advanced; when Magdalen addressing
them, with great emotion, said,—“We are now, I think, safe, tell me therefore,
I conjure you, by my soul’s peace, and in the name of the Holy Virgin, tell me
all you know respecting me.”
“Sweet lady,” answered Esther, “we
would not injure you for worlds, for well do we know that you have been cruelly
oppressed.”
“I believe you, but again conjure
you to disclose all you know, and relieve my anxiety—never will I betray your
confidence.”
Mary then related their concealment
in the chapel,—the bringing in of what they thought, at first, a dead body—the
tall stranger, speaking to Magdalen in a language
unknown to them—his addressing the abbess, in French, and the same afterwards
to Magdalen,—his giving the abbess a letter, with a
large seal—his caution respecting secrecy—and his threats in case of the
secret’s being developed.
Magdalen
listened to the relation with trembling anxiety, which, when concluded, she
said,—“Tell me, I pray you, for my memory retains few of the occurrences which
then passed. What did the tall stranger name me? From whence did he say he
brought me? And what said he were my connexions?”
“He did not name you, lady; it was
evident that the abbess had, for some days, expected your arrival, by her
orders for all to retire early to their cells.—Other changes had also taken
place in the convent, but whether on your account, we know not.—The brutal
stranger, who came with you, said to the abbess, that he brought her letters
from her noble mistress, and she respectfully replied, that she would be
careful to execute her commands with the greatest punctuality. He also spoke of
you, lady, in a manner which I am convinced you do not deserve; for, if virtue
and goodness dwell not in so sweet a form, where shall we seek them?”
“My good girls, your innocence
misleads you; the fairest bodies do not always contain the purest minds—this
unhappy form hath wrought my destruction. Mark me well! so shall ye save me
from renewed sorrow,—those dearer to me than life, from ruin, and yourselves
from bodily danger; nay, perhaps, from death.”
Esther and Martha were much
affected, trembled exceedingly, and requested an explanation of her words.
“Should you ever reveal what you
have witnessed, my kind girls, my death, or perpetual imprisonment, and, in all
probability, yours’ would be the consequence. Not only so, but the innocent,
who never injured human soul, would bleed, and for whose safety, behold me
buried in this living grave.—Swear, then, my young friends, here, in the face
of Heaven, unseen but by the saints, never to disclose, to any one, what you
saw or heard on that eventful night; and, in return, I swear to you an
inviolable love and friendship, if you will accept it from one so lost as I
am.”
Shocked and alarmed, they both
knelt, and called upon the Holy Virgin to witness the oath of secrecy which Magdalen required; after which, kneeling by their side, she
took a hand of each, and, raising her beautiful eyes to Heaven, exclaimed with
fervour,—“Ye holy saints, who are never deaf to the supplications of the
sorrowful, hear and witness the friendship I vow to these young maids.—Oh,
guard them with a watchful eye, direct their youth, protect them from the
beguiling snares of greatness; deliver them from this prison where chastity is
the punishment, not the glory of woman—if single, make them examples of purity
in a corrupt world—or, if wedded, make them virtuous wives and happy mothers.”
The young maids hung round her, and,
with youthful enthusiasm said, they would share her fate.—“Heaven forbid,”
replied she. “My oaths, though in some measure constrained, are sacred, and
bind me ever in oblivion. For you I will not despair, but let us now separate;
for should our intercourse be discovered, it would ruin all, and redouble the
rigour of my situation—we can occasionally meet here, and communicate our
thoughts.”
The party now separated and retired
to the convent, where their trepidation insensibly subsided, and in a little
time their meetings, though cautiously conducted, became frequent; as from a
similarity of situation and disposition they were soon warmly attached to each
other.
Mary, in the course of one of their
conversations ventured to ask Magdalen the events of
her life, but received an answer which precluded all further inquiry.—“Mary,”
replied she, “repeat that question no more, or we must separate for ever.—A
sacred and everlasting silence closes my lips; nor can even the hour of death
release me from my vow of making no verbal disclosure.”
Thus passed above a year after Magdalen had taken the veil;—her health gradually returned,
but the depression of her spirits remained the same.—She seldom conversed with
any one except Esther and Mary, and then only in their secret meetings; for it
was evident she was careful to give no rise to suspicion.
At one of those meetings, observing
that Magdalen was even more heavily depressed than
usual, and that her eyes were swollen with weeping, Esther and Mary pressed her
to disclose the cause.
“My kind girls,” replied she, “this
is my unhappy birth day,—this morn I compleated my
nineteenth year. Alas! what complicated miseries have darkened the morning of
my days!—the retrospect is dreadful!—my heart sickens, and my head grows giddy
at the remembrance!—Oh! my sainted mother, if you be permitted to witness the
sorrows of your wretched daughter, supplicate that her earthly miseries may be
shortened!—Ah! no,” continued she, after a pause, “rather entreat that her
corporeal anguish may be prolonged, until her spirit, purified by suffering,
may be more worthy to join with your’s in bliss!”
Esther and Mary wept with
her.—“Alas!” said the former, “Mary and I, confined to this convent from the
age of seven years, have drawn nothing but flattering presages, and formed
perhaps false pictures of the world;—I much fear our imaginations have beguiled
us.”
“A certain portion of suffering is
attached to all human creatures,” replied Magdalen,
“but virtue is a shield against which the arrows of shame, malice, slander, and
disgrace strike harmless;—their barbed points fix and rankle only in the guilty
breast, and leave wounds no earthly medicine can cure.”
Fearful of causing suspicion by too
long an absence, they soon after crossed the bridge, and by different ways
returned to the convent.
CHAPTER
V.
ESTHER
was of the family of the Count de Maltravers, not
particularly rich, but honorable; and who, anxious to
increase the revenues of an elder son, doomed his young and unoffending
daughter to perpetual celibacy in a convent. He was, however, saved from the
atrocity of this act by an accident which human knowledge could not foresee,
nor paternal prudence prevent.
The darling son, who was to transmit
his boasted honours to posterity, and for whom Esther was to be sacrificed, was
himself slain in a licentious quarrel respecting a courtezan.
Secluded from the world, this news
was unknown to Esther, who seldom saw her parents above once in two years, and
then only in the presence of the abbess, and at the grate of the convent. The
death of the son left Esther sole heiress of their possessions, and as they had
no inclination to enrich the convent, at the expence
of the extinction of their boasted pedigree, they now became as anxious to see
her married, as they had been before to doom her to a single life.
They therefore informed the abbess
of their intention of removing her, which however she divulged to no one till
the moment the count came to claim his daughter; and even then she did not
suffer her to leave her presence till she quitted the convent.
Esther, at the first intelligence,
appeared wild with joy; but looking round, and fixing her eyes on Mary and
sister Magdalen, she burst into tears. Mary threw her
arms round her for a last embrace, while Magdalen,
viewing her at once with a smile of congratulation and a starting tear, hastily
left the chapel where they were assembled, lest either their feelings or her
own should betray them.
“Away with this folly!” said the
abbess, haughtily;—“your parents wait, Esther.—I pity their delusion, which
snatches you from peace and safety, to plunge you into the allurements of the
world.—Look round for the last time, for no more will you be permitted to defile
these walls by your presence.”
Esther made no reply, but pressing
Mary once more to her bosom, followed the portress
who waited to conduct her to the gates.
Mary de Vavasour
was not so highly born as Esther, but her father, the Sieur
de Vavasour, was immensely rich;—he had three sons
and only one daughter, whose maternal aunt had left her a considerable
property. To enrich his sons with this wealth, and to ennoble his family, he
resolved to provide for her in a convent; and for that purpose had carefully
confined her, from her early youth, in St. Bertrand’s.
An old nun, who had been a
particular friend of her aunt’s, insensibly became attached to her, and Mary
returning her affection, her infancy scarcely missed the attention of a parent.
When she was thirteen, sister Adeline, as she was called, died, and Mary having
ever decidedly shewn a dislike to a conventual life, being of a cheerful and giddy temper,
sister Adeline, at once impelled by rectitude and affection, considered it a
point of duty to inform her of every particular respecting herself and family;
at the same time advising her to conceal what she had thus divulged, till
necessity obliged her to reveal it, as it might make her situation yet more
disagreeable in the convent, and, she feared, would not be able to preserve her
from taking the vows, should her father persist in forcing her to make the
sacrifice.—“Three or four years,” continued the old nun, “may, my dear child,
give you more serious thoughts, and a life of retirement may lose its
horrors;—for, believe me, the world is full of sorrows.—Your father was in
England when your aunt died, and as they had not been on terms of friendship
for many years, he did not even know of our acquaintance. She died when you
were only two years old, and that same year I retired to this convent, and
candidly confess, that when I saw you here, and learned your family, I judged
the reason was the enriching of your brother.—I, however, kept my suspicions to
myself, for a disclosure would only have procured me ill-will, and you, to whom
I have ever been warmly attached, would have been separated from me, for the
abbess doubtless knows every circumstance; and though she would willingly have
the whole of your wealth settled upon the convent, yet she had rather take a
part than lose all.”
Three days after this communication
the sister died, and Mary first experienced sorrow. The words of her friend she
treasured in her memory, and to no one but Esther had ever mentioned the
circumstance.—Days and nights did she pass, as her years increased, in devising
means for her release, but all appeared vague and uncertain; she resolved,
however, to make the trial before she entered upon her noviciate, and was
strengthened in her resolution by the departure of Esther, since when the
convent had become detestable to her, the private meetings she had with Magdalen being her only consolation.
In the mean time the abbess, vexed
at losing Esther, whose seclusion would have brought money to her coffers,
resolved that no delay should take place in Mary’s entering upon her noviciate,
lest some unlucky chance should deprive the convent of her also. She,
therefore, sent the Sieur de Vavasour
word of her intentions, and in return received his entire consent and
approbation.
Ordering Mary to be sent into her
apartment, she informed her of her father’s resolution, and desired her to
enter on her noviciate immediately. Well aware of her temper, she expected
tears and resistance, but to her great surprise observed she received the information
with apparent calmness, and without any marked reluctance.—“I have long
expected this command, Madam,” replied she, “and rejoice at it, as it enables
me to disclose a secret which has been very painful to me.—All I request is, to
see my parents, and in their presence to make the necessary communication,
after which I am at their command and your’s.”
The abbess would fain have persuaded
her to give up this request, saying, that if she thought to persuade her
parents from their determined purpose,—a plan which had been settled on the
most mature deliberation, it would be vain. Mary replied, that she had no such
intention, and not only requested the presence of her parents, but that also of
some of the elders of the convent; as what she had to say was of the utmost
moment to the whole house.
“To whom does it relate?” demanded
the abbess, in a quick tone of voice,—“the affairs of this community have no
right to be discussed with any one but myself.”
“It relates only to myself, Lady, and the enriching this
establishment,” answered Mary, “which a minor, like me, has no power to do,
however I may have the inclination.”
The abbess viewed her with some
surprise, then replied,—“True, child, and you gain my good will by the
remark.—Your parents, though not rich, will give a respectable sum on your
entering our holy community, and the pious intention must be received as it
merits.”
“Yet, Lady, could I make it more——”
“It would be most praise-worthy; but
it is impossible, you are dependant on your parents.”
“Undoubtedly, you will therefore
please to grant my request of seeing them, when I shall relieve my conscience,
and all will be arranged, I hope, for the best.”
So saying, she left the abbess, who
had hitherto regarded her only as a giddy girl, and now felt extreme surprise
at her serious and determined conduct.—She well knew that Mary was heiress to
some estates, but was not aware of their great value; and, convinced that no
one in the convent knew ought on the subject, had no suspicion that she, who
had been an inmate since the age of seven years, could have gained any
information. She, however, resolved to write to her parents, and request their
presence as a preliminary step to her entering on her noviciate. At the first
moment of Mary’s demand, a suspicion of Magdalen’s
being concerned pressed her thoughts; but the improbability of the surmise, and
the subsequent behaviour of Mary, completely banished the idea.
On the other hand, when the abbess’s
letter was received by the Vavasours, Mary’s request
was far from affording them any satisfaction.—Not that they feared being moved
from their determined purpose by natural affection, or by her tears and
entreaties, but knowing they were acting wrong, their consciences, for the
first time, presented a fear of they knew not what.—However, being unable to
form any plausible excuse for their non-attendance, they appointed a day, and
in the presence of the abbess, two priests, sister Bridget, the portress, and two other nuns greatly devoted to the abbess,
prepared to take a final farewel of their devoted
child.
Mary threw herself at the feet of
her parents, but the contracted brow of her father repelled tenderness; while
her mother, in spite of her efforts, burst into tears and pressed her to her
bosom.—Mary’s heart beat too high too admit of words, but her eyes plainly
spoke to her maternal feelings, and accused her of cruelty.—“And was it for
this I was summoned here?” said the Sieur de Vavasour, sternly.—“You, holy mother,” addressing the
abbess,—“I think said, Mary had something her conscience required her to
disclose, previous to her taking the veil.”
The harshness of the Sieur de Vavasour, at once
recalled Mary’s courage.—“It is most true, Sir,” replied she. “The business on
which I requested your presence should not be a secondary consideration; for I
well perceive, that sordid interests hold a primary place, and unnaturally
banish that affection, which even brutes, instinctively,
feel towards their progeny.—You have chosen St. Bertrand for my patron, and are
determined to seclude me for ever from the world. I appeal to your own
conscience, whether your motive is dictated by piety; for, in that case,
justice must also influence your conduct. At the age of eighteen, I might
naturally expect to enter the world, or, at least, to see my parents entertain
some compunction at sacrificing a child to their ambition.—Say, holy mother,
and you reverend fathers, had I been suffered to wed a mortal husband, would he
not have been entitled to those estates, which at twenty-one I inherit in
Normandy.”
The Sieur
de Vavasour startled, turned pale, and endeavoured to
interrupt her, as did also the abbess; but, regardless of their efforts, she
continued with encreased energy.—
“Peace, I pray you, this time I will
speak, whatever may befal.—If I relinquish the world,
and devote myself to Heaven, St. Bertrand then becomes my spouse, nor shall he
be defrauded of my patrimony. My resolution is not sudden; it is the effect of
reflection, nor shall death itself force me to retract it. Three years will I
remain on my noviciate, and when I attain the age of twenty-one, settle my
whole wealth on the convent, and take the vows. This is my demand, and the
business for which I required your presence.”
The Sieur de Vavasour was enraged beyond his patience; he almost cursed his daughter, and accused the abbess of filling her mind with vain thoughts of enriching her convent.—The abbess, in her turn, not being gifted with the most patient disposition, replied with acrimony to his unjust charge, till the spirit of discord made one party forget prudence, and the other almost the assumed appearance