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 appe