MAGDALEN;
OR,
THE
PENITENT OF GODSTOW.
VOL.
III.
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.
III.
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
XXVI.
ON the morrow the travellers were busily occupied in preparing their baggage against the arrival of the muleteers, who were to convey it on the road.—About noon, the tinkling of the bells, fastened to the heads of the beasts, proclaimed their approach. The muleteers, exclusive of the beasts destined to bear the luggage, brought with them a light covered waggon, for the accommodation of the females; and two spare mules, one to carry Morgan, the other to relieve occasionally. The animals were furnished with provender, and left to rest for a few hours, that they might be more enabled to perform their journey;—the men, also, were provided with food, and dismissed, to repose on some clean straw spread for that purpose.
In
the cool of the evening, the beasts destined to carry their luggage, were
loaded and began their journey; as the weight they carried would require
frequent stoppages, and occasion them to proceed more slowly than the
travellers.
Morgan now enforced the necessity of an early
separation, they being to commence their journey by sunrise the next morning;
they, therefore, took leave of Geoffry early, Morgan having granted his request
of corresponding with him when he reached
Sorrowfully
mounting his horse, he scarce articulated a last adieu, while Magdalen silently
implored a blessing on a son she dared not acknowledge; and restrained her
tears with feigned smiles of composure, while her heart was throbbing with
agony. In this distress she retired, though not to sleep,—it was the last night
she was to remain in the precincts of a place where she had passed so many
melancholy years; she recalled to her memory all the events that had taken
place from the evening she was first brought thither.—Her tears — her sighs —
her groans appeared to pass in review before her, and to outnumber even the
minutes of her long—long seclusion.—“Detested walls,—receptacles of hypocrisy
and persecution,” said she, mentally, “I quit you at last,—quit you for my
native clime—the land where dwell my dear and honored parents!—the land where
the fair morning of my youth—but what was I about to say?—Alas! it is the land
where the fair morning of my youth was for ever blighted!—I must now
acknowledge no parents—no children!—I have no place of rest until I sink into
the silent tomb!—Oh! I may truly say, with Cain,—“My punishment is greater than
I can bear!”
The
day broke on Magdalen’s sad meditations without her being able to compose
herself to sleep, and she arose to prepare for her journey.—The mules were
already yoked,—Bertha, Ela, and Morgan also were soon ready, for every thing
had been properly disposed the evening before, such as provisions, &c. for
they did not purpose to seek any other accommodation than what the waggon and
the open air afforded, while the weather continued fine, except at night. And
that their appearance might be less remarkable, the nun’s habits were concealed
and disguised by travelling dresses, that they might seem, at least, people of
the world; and, by that means, prevent being gazed at, and subjected to
impertinent inquiries.—As for Morgan, he still retained his priest’s habit.
The
time was now arrived for them to bid adieu to the Convent of St.
Bertrand.—Morgan formally delivered up what remained of the stock, &c. to a
person deputed by the arch-bishop for that purpose, — mounted his mule, and
with the ladies, who had previously ascended their car, took a silent look at
the ruins, ejaculated a prayer for the success of their journey, another for
the soul of the late abbess, then turned their backs on the walls for ever.
Though
the whole party felt no regret in quitting a place where they had experienced
so much sorrow, yet, when memory presented to their recollection its former
flourishing state, the number of inmates—part of whom lay mouldering in their
silent graves, the rest dispersed in different directions, a melancholy gloom
pervaded each countenance; and though the day was fine and the country
beautiful, every eye, save those of Morgan, were bent to earth.—“Your regrets
are useless, ladies,” said he, smiling, “they will not restore the convent, nor
again realize scenes that are past.”
“Heaven
forbid that they should be realized,” said Bertha, “for I was retracing some of
the most distressing ones of my life.”
“My
thoughts were not more pleasing,” replied Magdalen, “though at this time not
strictly personal, for I was reflecting on the uncertainty of all human desires
and wishes, and contrasting the Lady Abbess’s haughty air and demeanor, when
she announced the father Morgan’s dismissal, with her last dreadful appearance
at the grated window.”
“And
I, for my part,” said Ela, “was thinking, what I should have done so long, if I
had not been blessed with my dear mother Magdalen’s company,—for I have ever
considered her as a parent;—indeed, it would seem as if I had no other.—I
wonder what pleasure my father can take in those odious wars, and in wandering
about in strange countries?”
“Your
father’s life, I understand, during that of your mother’s, was a continued
scene of domestic felicity,” replied Morgan;—“at her death all happiness was
banished, every place that reminded him of his loss became hateful,—even the
sight of you, whom he doated on, would throw him into an agony approaching to
madness, from the resemblance you bore to your mother. In this state his bodily
health visibly declined, and a busy and active change of scene was advised, as
the only means of prolonging his life. In compliance to the solicitations of
his sovereign, and numerous friends, he at length consented, and having placed
you with his relation, Madame de Rosmar, he joined the army in Normandy;—from
thence he embarked for Spain, and fought against the Moors.—After signalizing
himself in several encounters with those infidels, he joined a select body of
crusaders and sailed for the Holy Land;—from whence, as you know, he is daily
expected, and it is to be hoped that time has now alleviated the poignancy of
his sorrow, and that he will joyfully recognise in his daughter, all the
perfections of his dear and much lamented wife.”
“I
have nearly lost all remembrance of my father,” returned Ela, “and think I can
more clearly recal my mother’s features;—but that, I suppose, must be from
always considering her like Magdalen;—an idea which she has often told me was
so strongly impressed on my infant fancy, at my admission into the convent,
that I could never be persuaded to the contrary.”
“And
if you were like your mother,” said Bertha, “the mistake is not at all
marvellous, for never was there so striking a resemblance as between your
features and complexion, and those of Magdalen’s.”
“Whatever
similitude there may be in our persons, righteous Heaven hear my prayers, and
mercifully grant that her destiny may be the reverse of mine!” said Magdalen;
“that her ears may be ever deaf to flattery, and that her beauty may never
attract the eye of the cruel and invidious betrayer!”
“Trust
in a gracious
The
farther they advanced on their way, the country appeared to increase in beauty;
for they had passed the heath where formerly stood the castle, the ruins of
which were finally destroyed by the late arch-bishop’s order.—“We are now at no
great distance from Saintes,” said Morgan, “and in a small space of time shall
arrive at the banks of a river, where we will alight, and take refreshment,
under the wide spreading branches of some stately sycamores.”
In
about an hour they reached the proposed spot, and were much pleased with
Morgan’s choice of a place at once so agreeable, convenient, and secluded, it
being situated on a rising ground, out of one part of which a clear spring of
water issued forth, gently meandering down the slope, until it reached the
neighbouring river; watering, in its course, a rich and luxurious soil, thickly
bespread with a number of bushy shrubs, and wild flowers, altogether forming a
scene, to the women, at once so novel and delightful, that while Morgan and the
muleteers were getting ready for the repast, they agreed to walk, and further
explore its charms.
Unused,
for many years, to any thing but the dull uniform convent grounds, new beauties
caught their attention at every step, so that two hours appeared to glide away
as so many minutes, and possibly a much longer space would have elapsed, had
not Morgan gone out to seek them.—The good-natured priest readily admitted
their excuses, and convinced them that he had not been idle during their
absence, for every thing was set forth in a simple order for their repast; the
muleteers also had unyoked their beasts, and put them to feed.
They
now, with the utmost cheerfulness, and good temper, formed into two parties,
each making a hearty meal, and then prepared to renew their journey.—“Our
present sojourn, and method of travelling,” said Morgan, “resembles that of the
patriarchs; we carry our provision with us, and, like them, encamp where we
find good pasturage and water.”
“It
is a delightful life,” said Ela, “and I shall regret when we are obliged to
quit it, and again be confined within the dull walls of a convent.”
“There
is a time when every place has its pleasures and conveniences,” said Morgan;
“but I think in cold dreary stormy weather, you would be inclined to give the
dull walls of a convent a decided preference.”
“Ela,”
said Magdalen, “like most young people, surveys the fair sunshine, not giving a
thought to distant storms.—In her experience, too, of a secluded life, she has,
on the contrary, seen only the harsh side of the picture; and therefore does
not think it possible that there can be happiness in a state of retirement.—She
is disgusted and astonished at having beheld hypocrisy, envy, perfidy, avarice,
malice, and uncharitableness, in the confined precincts of a house dedicated to
religious purposes; but how much more will she be shocked to meet, at every
step in her walk through busy life, those, and numberless other vices,
exhibited, in some instances, with unblushing effrontery,—and in others,
artfully concealed, under the semblance of moral rectitude.—If, to these
depravities, which debase human nature, we join the various sufferings and
casualties that, on each side, environ and torture the sympathising beholder,
how much more to be envied is a state that excludes such horrid scenes, or, at
the worst, pourtrays them in a more confined point of view.”
“May
guilt, and its concomitant punishment, be a stranger to Ela,” said Morgan; “but
if, in her sojourn through life, it should ever meet her eye, in the person of
another, may it tend to confirm her in virtue, to strengthen her faith in
divine justice, and make her have a steadfast reliance in God’s holy
protection, which alone can keep us free from sin and——”
Morgan
was here suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a stranger, who, rushing out
from an adjacent thicket, first intently surveyed, and then abruptly accosting
him, said,—“I pray you, if you are what your habit betokens—a priest—for the
love of God come and receive the confession of a dying penitent.”
“Most
assuredly I am what my habit betokens, and therefore it is my duty to
administer to such as need spiritual assistance; but where resides the person
of whom you speak, for I can perceive no dwelling.”
“Within
that opening of the thicket stands my lone hut,” said the man; “for I earn my
daily bread by cutting wood.—Two hours before daylight I awoke, and was
preparing to arise, in order to pursue my labour, when suddenly I heard a
distant sound, like some one calling.—Knowing there were no inhabitants in this
part of the country, save myself and my wife, who lay sleeping by my side, I
listened, and heard the calling repeated, attended with impatient cries of
distress.—Having awakened my wife, I dressed myself speedily as possible, and
opened the door of my hut, when I was convinced the sound came from a large
pit, about an hundred yards distant. I hastened thither, and found at the
bottom of the descent two travellers, the elder of whom, unwarily, having
passed too near the edge, which in places is almost covered with underwood, had
fallen to the bottom, and was so severely hurt, that perhaps, by this time, he
may be dead, though I got him out as soon as possible, for I—”
“No
matter,” interrupted Morgan, “we will hear how you got him out another time.
Lead the way to your dwelling instantly.”
“I
will,” said the man, “and I then must haste and see if I can meet my wife, who
was dispatched with the ass, three hours ago, to see if she could get a little
wine, and find out a priest; but the poor man is so much worse since, that I
was going in search of her when I met with you.”
“You
had better tarry awhile,” said Morgan, speaking to the women, “you will be safe
under the protection of the muleteers, and I will return speedily as
possible.”—He then followed the wood-cutter to his hut, and was presently
introduced into a small darkened chamber, where, stretched on a miserable bed,
lay the wretched sufferer, whose piteous groans only announced that he was
still living.
No
sooner had the wood-cutter withdrawn, than a voice, the sound of which appeared
to be known to Morgan, said,—“Excuse me kind and courteous Sir, that I do not
rise to thank you for this goodness.—I am supporting the head of my unfortunate
parent, which if I let fall, I fear his soul will depart before any holy rites
can be administered—rites, which, alas! we have both ridiculed.—Oh say, good
father, can there be any forgiveness for wretches who have spurned at every
sacred and divine ordinance—whose souls are crimsoned over with sins of the
deepest dye—but whose hearts have happily, for some time past, been pierced
with conviction; and whose repentance has brought them thus far on their way,
to implore forgiveness of the injured, and then to expiate their manifold
crimes by the hand of justice.”
“If
indeed ye truly repent, God hath given power and commandment to his ministers,
to pronounce absolution and forgiveness; but take heed that ye lie not against
the Holy Spirit, for thereby ye only increase your condemnation.—By what means
was your conversion wrought?”
“Aliens
from our native land, and in a foreign country, our subsistence arose from the
piety of one whom we have most basely—most unnaturally injured. But Heaven
would not always suffer this goodness to be misapplied—three times the
remittances never reached us, when, impelled by distress, and instigated by
Satan, we attempted to rob a holy priest, threatening the good man with instant
death for non-compliance.—“Death!” replied he, with a benignant smile, “hath no
terrors, for I trust it will introduce me to eternal bliss.—But it is ye that
are in its dreary paths—for the wages of sin is death, from which, oh, my
erring brethren, let me rescue you.—Go with me, and I will relieve your present
necessities, and, if possible, save your souls from perdition.”—Truth and
sincerity were impressed on his countenance; we entrusted him with our
lives—visited him daily, confessed our enormities, and were at length rendered
sensible of our wretched lost state, without a sincere repentance. Two months
since, the holy man departed this life, in order to receive that reward he had
so ardently sought. Knowing our intent, from which he would have dissuaded us,
he bequeathed a small sum to bear our expences, and we were thus far on our
way, when a retributive Providence hurled my father into the pit where we had
once designed to precipitate another.”
A
loud and deep groan here broke the narration, and the unfortunate sufferer, in
a low and feeble tone of voice, said,—“I feel my last moments rapidly
approaching.—I flattered myself to have received my injured child’s
forgiveness,—a few short miles more would—but I have not strength.—Declare, my
son, to this holy father, without reserve, who and what we are,—and the
particular weight that bends our souls to earth.—Haste, that the few moments of
my life may be employed in prayer.”
“You
see before you, holy father, in that wretched man, and in his no less wretched
son—the once lord—and the heir, of these ample domains,—now nothing pertains to
us but the names of——”
“Philip
and Pierre de Vavasour,” interrupted Morgan; “let all surprise cease at this
knowledge of your persons, and endeavour to collect yourselves.—Time is
precious—prepare for an immediate interview with those, for whom you are most
interested. The pious, filial, Mary de Vavasour, will joyfully embrace a
repentant father and brother; and the nun, Magdalen, willingly also accord her
forgiveness.”
Morgan
then instantly withdrew, leaving the Vavasours wrapped in confused
astonishment.—At his approach Magdalen and Bertha advanced to meet him.
“In
what state,” said the latter, “did you find the dying man?”
“Thoroughly
penitent for his misdeeds, but anxious for the forgiveness of those he has
wronged,” answered Morgan.—“Could we but find them, his mind would doubtless be
at peace.”
“Where
dwell they?” hastily inquired Bertha. — “If my endeavours——”
“Bertha,”
interrupted Morgan, “you have, when very young, exhibited a fortitude beyond
your years. I need your assistance—but first say, can your religion and piety
bear you up against a sight of woe—of death!—Death has no terrors, but when
accompanied with hardened impenitence.—Would you, of your choice, prefer seeing
a dear friend, or near relative, in this state, though in bodily health, or
behold him in the arms of death, and his peace made with heaven?”
“Can
you have a doubt of my sentiments,” answered Bertha. “But why this question?
surely such preparation leads to something wonderful and unexpected. Oh, say
then, at once, and fear me not—what am I to expect?”
“To
meet a dying parent, who purposely comes to supplicate a daughter’s
forgiveness; to receive also a brother, no less guilty, but equally penitent.”
“Great
Father of Mercies!” said Bertha, “enable thy servant to support this arduous
trial, and let me not sink under the weight of my affliction; — thy hand alone,
and not that of chance, hath directed our steps hither, that impious scoffers may
be convinced, and revere thy judgments.”
Morgan
led the way to the hut, while Magdalen, Bertha, and Ela, slowly followed; the
latter seating themselves in the outer apartment, while Morgan went to prepare
the Vavasours for an interview, which they both longed to take place, and yet
dreaded.—“I will arise,” they heard the elder Vavasour say; — “oppose me not —
for what purpose did I come hither? was it not to throw myself at her feet, and
entreat her forgiveness.”
Bertha
could bear no more—she longed to fold her repentant parent in her arms; and
suddenly breaking away from Magdalen, she rushed impetuously into the inner
chamber.—Startled at the noise, the old man turned his head, shrunk from her
extended arms, and prostrated himself at her feet.
“Mercy!
— mercy and forgiveness!”— he attempted to ejaculate, but the exertions of
almost exhausted nature, rendered the sounds inarticulate;—respiration appeared
to cease, and animation was, for a time, suspended.
After
some time, Morgan succeeded in restoring the elder Vavasour to a knowledge of
the objects by whom he was surrounded; and soon after, he raised his hands and
eyes pitifully to Bertha, in a supplicatory posture.— “My God! support and
bless my father,” said she.—“Oh, my father, bless your child!”
“Hear,
and record, O ye blessed angels!” at length said he — “the oppressed,
persecuted child, does not curse her unnatural parent! — Oh, Pierre, let us
bend our stubborn knees, and bow our obdurate hearts, that she may pronounce
those blessed words, pardon and forgiveness. — Oh, my child, delay not—my
peace—my happiness depend;—my eyes grow dim—my senses
fleet—pardon!—mercy!—forgive!”
Vavasour’s
speech faltered; he motioned to his son, caught his hand with a convulsive
grasp, and both sunk to the earth, before Bertha.—The nun kneeling also,
supported her dying parent in her arms,—“Witness, O my God!” said she, “such
pardon and forgiveness as my soul implores of thee! do I accord my father.”
“Those,
indeed, are words of peace,” said he; “sounds which my soul long hath
coveted.—The injured Magdalen too—she whose life was doomed to fall a
sacrifice, to hide our guilt.—Oh, I shudder at the recollection.—Will you not,
my child, intercede with her to forgive our foul trespass, and more foul
intention of murder.”
Bertha
for a moment retired, but presently returned, leading Magdalen up to her
father.—“May your soul’s felicity be now your care,” said the latter.—“My
forgiveness I cannot withhold to penitence, or how dare I supplicate for mercy.
— Here, then, take my pardon and pity, with this kiss of peace—and rest assured
you shall ever be remembered in our prayers.”
“One
thing more now only remains,” said Vavasour, “and I have done with the world
for ever.—My child, of whom I was unworthy, behold your guilty brother! — Shame
and remorse hath riveted his eyes to earth.—I do not ask you to love him, it is
impossible—purity and guilt cannot associate!—yet angels glance an eye of pity
towards erring mortals, and—horrid recollection, my example and false
indulgence, have, doubtless, more than contributed to his ruin.”
Bertha
held forth the hand of forgiveness to her brother, which he kissed, and bathed
with his tears, and sobbed aloud;—for the lion-hearted chief of the robbers—he
who had dared to meet his friend, and slay him in single combat, was ashamed
from conviction, and softened by penitence.
The
elder Vavasour’s end rapidly approached—his tongue faltered, and his limbs grew
convulsive.—“I pray ye,” said Morgan to the nuns, “retire for a short space to
Ela, for I perceive we must tarry here, at least until the morrow. I will
speedily, therefore settle with the muleteers about our
accommodation.”—Magdalen then retired to the outward apartment, where she was
soon after joined by Bertha, she having taken a melancholy, though
affectionate, farewel of her father.
The
dying man was now left to the spiritual consolation of Morgan, without either
him or the son recognizing in the priest their former associate.—So much had
the sacerdotal habit, and some years passed in piety and sober living, altered
his appearance; though both the Vavasours were speedily recollected by Morgan.
The
good priest, earnestly devoted to religion, administered the last sacred rites
to the suffering penitent, comforting him by prayer and exhortation, as long as
his mental faculties permitted; and only quitted him when—he resigned his
breath.
Bertha
received the melancholy tidings of his death with piety and resignation;
abstracted from the world, and weaned, as it were, from all the tender ties of
affection, by the unnatural conduct of her family, little, except moral and
religious duty, on her part, could be expected.—She had long endeavoured to
protect him from worldly want, and only felt a pang when she reflected on the
state of his immortal part.—This anxiety was now happily removed, for she had
no doubt of his sincere penitence; and though she was grieved, and deplored his
sad end, she could not, at the same time, look upon their meeting in any other
light, than brought about by the especial direction of Providence.
By
this time the wood-cutter and his wife were returned, and brought with them an
ass laden with necessaries, which the younger Vavasour had sent for; though the
wife had not been able to find either a priest, or any one to examine the hurts
of the old man, her inquiries after both, and the length of way, having so long
detained her, her husband reached the village to which she had been dispatched,
before her purchases were completed.—These two, with the addition of the
muleteers, were now all busily employed in preparing a place for the women to
rest that night, the outer chamber being put in order for the purpose. — The
younger Vavasour, by choice, remained with the body of his father.—Morgan was
accommodated in a kind of loft—the wood-cutter and his wife occupied a place in
which they piled their faggots, and the muleteers declared that it would be no
hardship for them to sleep, for one night, on some straw and rushes in the
waggon.
This
business being settled, they all partook of some refreshment, after which
Morgan went out, and employed the men to dig a grave, where the remains of
Vavasour were meant to be deposited the day following.—The spot had formerly
belonged to an old chapel, long since gone to decay, and had been appropriated
for the reception of the dead; but the despoliations of war having ruined an
adjacent village, the inhabitants had removed to more peaceable habitations,
leaving the bones of their ancestors to moulder in quiet by themselves.
Though
this was the first day of their travels, it had proved an eventful one, and
tended more strongly than ever to confirm both Magdalen and Bertha in their
predilection of a conventual life. Harassed and fatigued, either in mind or
body, all parties chose an early retirement—the laborious division to rest, and
the thoughtful to meditate on the various changes, chances, and casualties, of
mortal life.
CHAPTER
XXVII.
THE returning morning brought with it
indispensable duties.—Morgan was first stirring, and summoned every individual
that bore the name of Christian, to public prayer. The usual early meal then
took place, after which the body of Vavasour, decently placed on a bier, being
brought forth, preceded by Morgan, and accompanied by every body on the spot,
was, with as much solemnity as circumstances would allow, borne to the grave.
This
necessary rite performed, and a becoming admonition pronounced to those who
attended, they silently returned to the hut, where Morgan had a long conference
with the younger Vavasour, and, in the end, finally prevailed on him to forego
his former intention of surrendering himself to the secular powers; but in lieu
thereof to accompany them to England, and enter himself into some religious
order, where, by a life of piety and mortification, he might make atonement for
his former crimes.
Nothing
remained but to offer remuneration to the wood-cutter, which was done both by
Vavasour and Bertha, and the cavalcade again set forward, Vavasour being
accommodated with the spare mule.—A melancholy silence, which continued for
some miles, took place, each reflecting on the late events.—Fatigue too had
some effect on their spirits, for, added to the little inclination they had for
sleep, during the last night, their lodging was none of the best; which made
Ela confess, that notwithstanding the pleasure of travelling, a comfortable
convent would, sometimes, be far from disagreeable, provided the Lady Abbess
was good-natured.
“In
our journey through life,” said Morgan, “we must be content to take the evil with
the good; but this is one of the wise dispensations of Providence, otherwise we
should forget ourselves,—become thankless for the benefits we receive, and look
for no other happiness than what is sensual and corporeal.—But you remind me,”
continued he, “that Magdalen complained of want of rest the night before we
quitted the convent, we will therefore endeavour to gain some town, as speedily
as possible, and retire early to repose;” and being then near St. Jean, they
agreed to conclude there the short stage of their second day’s travel,
especially as the muleteers assured them, they would otherwise meet with no
other tolerable accommodation for many miles.
On
reaching the place where they meant to pass the night, Morgan gave immediate
orders for their lodging, and to prepare their evening’s repast, for Vavasour
appeared to be so much absorbed in melancholy, as to be incapable of attending
to any thing—his eyes were ever bent to the earth, to avoid meeting those of
Bertha and Magdalen.—The nuns saw and pitied his distress, and endeavoured to
draw him into conversation.—“Let us not grieve, my brother,” said Bertha to
him, “like those without hope—I trust the loss to us of our parent is his
eternal gain.”
“Brother—parent,—”
repeated Vavasour.—“Can a tyger—an unprincipled monster of barbarity, deserve
the name of brother? parents I might have had too.—Oh
recollection—villain—villain—no! there can be no pardon for such a wretch as I
am—it would be injustice!”
“To
have a due sense of the grievousness of our offences, is necessary to true
repentance,” said Morgan,—“but let us beware of that worst of sin—despair,
which often leads to a crime for which there can be no forgiveness. There is
mercy for every one that asks with a sorrowful and contrite heart; have we not
an assurance of it in these words—“Come unto me all ye that are heavy laden,
and I will make your burden light.”
“You
know not the extent of my offences,” said Vavasour.—“My excesses first injured
my father’s large possessions, and made him unjust to my mother, and inhuman to
his innocent daughter.—My enormities caused me to imbrue my hands in blood—to
join with robbers—to be guilty of sacrilegious violence.—Alas, alas! how many
sinful souls may I not have been the means of condemning, by the force of
example, or persuasion?—One I obliged to herd with thieves and murderers, and
afterwards bribed to be a party in that diabolical attempt for which we were
compelled to fly our country.”
“Herein,”
said Morgan, “was the interposing arm of Providence most conspicuous, as it
prevented the commission of a still greater crime—nay, it exhibited vice to
that very individual you allude to — in such strong—such detestable colours,
that—Behold him here!—your late associate in vice—now, I trust, a sincere
convert to virtue.”
“Impossible!”
exclaimed Vavasour, starting up, and intently surveying him;—“and yet I think,
notwithstanding the lapse of time, and the disguise of dress, that I have some
recognition of—of—scenes that I shudder to reflect on.—And can you then be
truly and sincerely a minister of that holy faith which speaks peace and
pardon.”
“Do
you think it impossible a sinner should turn from the evil of his ways, and do
that which is lawful and right?—Was not the zealous St. Paul a persecutor of
the church? and with humble reverence and thankfulness, I trust, I may, without
profanation, say, with the blessed apostle, that from a vile offender — “I am
what I am—and hope the grace of God was not bestowed on me in vain.”
“The
hand, indeed, of all ruling Providence has been in this; and I will not
despair, but humbly hope you are the agent allotted to complete what the good
priest began, and submit myself therefore to your guidance and direction.—Yet,
wretch that I am, how can I presume to bring a dead weight—a clog—a vile
incumbrance, on those I have most injured?—Do not think it is pride—say, should
I be that abject thing, would you not deem me a base fawning
hypocrite—distrust—loathe, and despise me?”
“The
first principle of Christianity,” replied Morgan, “is charity—universal
charity,—by which is not to be understood the mere bestowing an alms.—It
teacheth us likewise to harbour no mean, ungenerous suspicions, and to render
good for evil,—for though we are cautioned to be as wise as serpents, we are
instructed to be harmless as doves—to bless those that curse us, and to do good
to those that despitefully use us.—It is a divine attribute, or rather an
emanation of the Deity, affixing no limit to offences.—“How often shall my
brother offend against me—seven times?—Yea, verily, I say unto you, even unto
seventy times seven.”
“If
my brother,” said Bertha, “can think so meanly of me, as to suppose that I have
only quitted the world in outward shew, and retain those warring passions which
set man against man, I here inform him, that I hold a part of my late parents’
estate in trust only;—that parent no longer needing it, it is now his.—Should
that be insufficient, I will willingly supply the deficiency, and think myself
amply repaid, that I have gained a brother, and Heaven a proselyte.”
“How
mean and ungenerous, indeed, O, my sister!” said Vavasour, “are those jarring
doubts which distract a mind long accustomed only to worldly
policy;—henceforward I renounce them, and will endeavour to direct my soul in
search of those divine truths, by the attainment of which all grosser ideas
will be done away.”
The
conversation was here interrupted by the introduction of supper, and the whole
party sat down to their meal with chearful thankfulness; after which, Morgan
repeated the evening service and prayers, and, together with the nuns and Ela,
sang some hymns, before they retired to rest.
Next
morning they arose, thoroughly refreshed, and after having performed their
accustomed orisons, and finished their usual repast, they again set forward,
resolving to make up, if possible, for the deficiency of the former day’s
travel, and to reach St. Maxient;—but before they had proceeded two miles,
there suddenly came on a heavy rain, which so much swelled a brook they had to
cross, that it appeared even to Morgan a formidable stream.—However, as the
muleteers affirmed it could be passed in safety, they entered the water at the
usual fording place, when about midway, the mules, frightened at the height and
splashing of the water, became unmanageable; and notwithstanding the utmost
exertions of their drivers, overturned the waggon in the midst of the stream,
which was then running with the utmost violence. Vavasour, with great presence
of mind, leaped off his mule, caught his sister, and bore her to land;—but
Magdalen and Ela, not so fortunate, floated down the rapid current, where, in
all probability, their earthly pilgrimage would have terminated, but for the
brave and humane exertions of two travellers; who, at a small distance below
the ford, saw the accident, and plunged into the stream at the hazard of their
own lives, rescuing those of Magdalen and Ela, though not before they were both
rendered insensible. — “It is Magdalen!” said one of the strangers, in a tone
of grief and despair,—“Oh, fool that I was to quit her for a moment!—If she is
dead what have I to do with life?—William!—Inhuman!—haste, help me to restore
her!”
“Restore
her!” re-echoed the other stranger, with a deep sigh, “pray Heaven I may be
able!—How young!—how beauteous!—But see, she recovers—assist me to bear her to
the house.”
“Oh,
torture!” exclaimed his companion. — “Alas, she is dead! — Flower of the world!
— Magdalen, look up—she hears me not!”
“Magdalen—my
mother dead!” repeated Ela, starting up, and awakening to sudden
recollection.—At that instant Magdalen also gave signs of returning animation,
and was soon sensible enough to find she was supported in the arms of
Geoffry.—By this time Morgan, Vavasour, and Bertha, came to the spot, and aided
the strangers to convey Magdalen and Ela into an adjacent house, appropriated
for the accommodation of travellers, who had to wait the subsiding of the
stream, when it was occasionally swelled by land floods.
This
accident having put a stop to their further proceeding on that day’s journey,
Morgan and Vavasour, after having given their assistance for the restoration of
the sufferers, took care for the drying the baggage, and for repairing the
mischief the waggon and its appendages had sustained.—Amidst this necessary
business, suitable acknowledgments were not wanting to Geoffry and his
companion; and when the nuns and Ela were sufficiently recovered, and their
attire changed, their adventurous deliverers were introduced, to receive their
personal gratitude.
“The
brave and humane,” said Magdalen, as they entered, “covet not the meed of
thanks; within their own breasts, the plaudits of an approving conscience sits
enthroned—May he who best can,
reward you!—may you ever be good, prosperous, and happy.”
“The
actions of a true knight, lady,” replied the elder, “can never be more worthily
displayed, than in the service of those devoted to religion, when to such,
beauty is also joined,” added he, falteringly, “it would be sacrilege to
withhold our aid;—and right joyful am I, that I yielded to the importunities of
my brother Geoffry, in making this excursion, which, under the special guidance
of Providence——”
“Is
Geoffry then your brother?” hastily inquired Magdalen.
“He
is,” answered Elas’s preserver, “yet I knew not you had ever met.”
“I
was, as you know,” said Geoffry, “educated in this province, near unto the
house in which the nun Magdalen was professed, and even in my early days I
received impressions—that is to say, precepts, which, I can never forget.”
“It
is not wonderful,” replied the other; “there are indeed impressions which never
can.—This lovely maiden—whose amazing similitude to you, lady,” addressing
himself to Magdalen, “by her habit does not appear to be professed — forgive me
if I am too presumptuous.”
“She
is not,” answered Magdalen, smiling.—“And now may I inquire your name?”
“William,”
replied he; “my companions call me also Long Espeé—I know not
why.”
“It
is for his undaunted bravery,” said Geoffry, “signifying that his sword reaches
to every part of the field.”
“Oh,
no, there is no such meaning,” hastily exclaimed William.
“Thus
it ever is,” said Geoffry, “when his own commendation is the subject—mark how
he blushes.”
“I
have heard of this before,” said Morgan; “with the especial addition, that he
never yet had cause to blush for a base or immoral action.”
“Unhappy
mother! lost to such a son,” exclaimed Magdalen, with a sigh.
“Lost,
indeed, lady—foully murdered, while I was an infant!—Perhaps you have seen
her;—even now my father dwells with rapture on her name.—Full oft has he
described her,—insomuch that I think I could take her portrait; and so strongly
has fancy implanted each lineament in my memory, that when I first beheld this
beauteous maid, I mentally exclaimed—“Such once was my angelic mother!”
“Forbear,
Sir,” said Morgan,—you distress the nun Magdalen—her nature is pitiable—she
cannot bear a tale of woe.”
“Forgive
me, gentle lady,” said William, “I grieve to give you pain.—Geoffry tells me
you are for England—may I sometimes be permitted to ask of your health, and
that of this fair maid?”
“We
shall ever, I trust, gratefully remember our preservers; and, as far as the
rules of the house will permit, gladly receive your visits.—Our prayers shall
likewise be daily put up for your safety.—Fate will not permit your mother to
be restored—consider me then her substitute, while I implore that blessing,
which she, under the tender name of parent, cannot give.”
There
was something so awfully impressive in Magdalen’s manner, as she slowly arose,
lifted her clasped hands, and raised her eyes to heaven, that all in the
apartment quitted their seats; when Morgan, taking the young men by the hand,
led them towards her, each bending the knee, while she solemnly
pronounced,—“Father of mercies—thou who sitteth enthroned in the highest
heavens!—if a sincere penitence and sorrow, for the offences of my youth, have
been acceptable in thy sight,—hear—O hear my humble petition;—not for
myself—not for myself, O Lord, do I now entreat.—Bless—bless and protect these
thy servants; direct them in the way of truth—teach them early to seek thee,
their God.—Let not the specious names of greatness, power, or fame, turn them
aside from the paths of rectitude and humanity—but of thy gracious goodness, so
order every action of their lives, that the spirit of divine grace, in their
hearts, may be made manifest by their good works; and when this weary
pilgrimage of my days shall cease, and time shall also render their souls into
the hands of their Creator,—may the sons—may Magdalen—may the happy mother—all
meet in bliss!”
Magdalen
having concluded her prayer, returned in silence to her seat, a silence which
no one seemed inclined to interrupt, so much did she attract the reverence of
all present.—Geoffry appeared uncommonly agitated, and at length exclaimed —
“Yes, I will henceforth endeavour to merit thy blessing—thou more than
parent;—from my childish days thou hast endeavoured to train my mind to
virtue—but amazed and bewildered with the beauty of the instructress, my ears
only caught the sounds—my eyes gazed — my soul sickened with delight! I beheld
only a paragon of mortal creation, for my clouded sight then knew not that the
earthly mould inclosed the soul of an angel.—From this time I will indeed
consider Magdalen as a mother, or rather think the spirit of my early lost
parent, purified from mortal stain, dwells within her bosom. — Those divine
truths, which she so early inculcated, shall now sink deep within my heart.—I
will no longer waver in irresolution—from this hour I devote myself to the
service of the church.”
“Our
minds, in early life,” said Morgan, “from various causes, often receive
impressions, which precipitate us into hasty resolutions, and into rash
actions—of which, in an hour of calmness, we frequently repent.—I will not say
that such is your present determination,—but my advice is, that you at least
deliberate for a time on the subject;—weigh well your nature—commune with your
own heart—examine whether no worldly disappointment influences your
conduct,—for, be assured, no sacrifice can be acceptable to the Almighty, the
origin of which is not pure and unspotted.”
“That
I have entertained other views, and held forth visionary prospects, which calm
reflection convinces me never can be realized, I confess,” said Geoffry. “The
heated imagination of the brain, I trust, hath now subsided.—I have been used,
from my earliest youth, to dwell in cloistered retreats—my father wishes me to
make a choice; the profession of arms accords not with my liking—where then can
I fix?—Where can I find examples more worthy imitation than the good
Arch-bishop—Father Dominic—Morgan, and Magdalen?”
“My
brother,” said William, “has indeed, when warmly pressed on the subject, ever
given the study of our holy religion a most decided preference.”
“The
determination being influenced by no worldly consideration,—far be it from me
to hold out any opposition,” said Morgan; “for I would that all mankind were
ministers of peace, and practisers of godliness—the vengeful sword might then
rust in its scabbard, and innocence securely dwell in safety.”
“There
would then indeed be no occasion for the soldier,” said William, smiling; “but
as long as ambition, fraud, treason, and rebellion, usurp the throne of
rectitude, the hand of vengeance must be reared, to punish such crimes.—Bred in
the field from almost my infancy, the practice of arms hath been my delight,
yet never has my sword been drawn in a base or ignoble quarrel.”
“Deem
you the present contest will be speedily terminated?” inquired Morgan.
“I
know not,” answered William. “The disputes between the king and prince would
have been long since adjusted, but for the ambitious interference of the King
of France, who seeks to aggravate the quarrel between father and son, that both
parties may be weakened, and the rich provinces, by that means, fall under his
domination.—He has likewise, it is supposed, a powerful enemy in this province,
in the person of Ralph de Faie, the secret partisan and uncle of Queen Eleanor,
whom I more than suspect of being many years since, one of the perpetrators of
a foul crime, and which I would have called upon him to affirm or deny in the
open field, but, on account of his extreme age and debility; notwithstanding
which, should proofs of his baseness and treachery sufficiently appear, neither
his rank nor age will screen him from the king’s resentment.”
Morgan
was aware that this was a subject particularly ungrateful to Magdalen, and that
all further discussion would only perplex and discompose her; he therefore
changed the discourse, by intreating them to partake of the refreshments that
had been prepared, and which were now introduced.—The conversation soon became
general, Vavasour, Bertha, and Ela, joining in entertaining them, until the
lateness of the hour made it necessary to think of repose; previous to which
they joined in thanksgivings for their late preservation.
The
whole party were early stirring, and the accustomed duties being performed, a
slight repast took place.—The mules were then brought out and yoked; the
brothers also, having their request granted of attending them a few miles on
their way, mounted their horses, and made a part of the cavalcade.—The waters
now being drained off, nothing remained but a shallow brook, scarce overtopping
the fetlocks of their beasts.—This being crossed, William took the first
opportunity that presented, of singling out Morgan, and of desiring a few
minutes conference with him, on a subject wherein he professed himself much
interested.—Morgan immediately checked his mule, and each loitering some paces
behind, William addressed him as follows.
“Deem
me not abrupt and rude, holy father, that I trouble you with a few
questions.—You were yesterday pleased to express satisfaction on hearing me
favourably reported; believe me, I possess no impertinent curiosity, nor am I a
trifler, but I would fain——”
“Propound
son,” said Morgan, smiling, “I am thoroughly disposed to afford you a patient
hearing; though I think I can already give more than half a guess at the
tendency of your questions—but proceed.”
“The
fair Ela,” said William, “whose life yesterday I had the good fortune to
preserve——”
“Is
a maid of condition,” replied Morgan, “and richly gifted.”
“Magdalen,
likewise, said she was not professed.”
“Nor
intended for seclusion; she is the sole prop and stay of a noble family, whose
alliance would be an honour to princes.—In virtue and endowments, herself, a
gem beyond purchase.”
“Affianced,
perhaps,” said William with a sigh; “if so, I feel I must be wretched.”
“Not
so,” replied Morgan, “nor do I conceive she hath yet formed any attachment,
save for Magdalen and Bertha, unless she yesterday caught the impression from
her deliverer, for the maid has a grateful heart.—Your ardent stolen glances
were not lost on any of the company, nor the modest pleasure she took in your
attentions.—I will, therefore, confer with Magdalen on this business; for,
believe me, the son of—that is to say, the character of William stands too high
in my esteem, for me not to take an interest in his happiness.”
William
expressed the most lively thanks, and the rest of the party stopping and
alighting, they rode up to join them, dismounting likewise.—An unusual
thoughtfulness and silence had taken possession of Ela during this little
absence, which, on their approaching the car, appeared to subside; a smile of
satisfaction again dimpled her artless cheek, which was only clouded when the
idea of a long separation stole upon the present happiness. — “Already,” said
Bertha, jestingly to William, “have you proved yourself a truant knight, in
leaving the ladies, to converse with that sage counsellor,—preferring wisdom to
beauty.”
“Perhaps
beauty was the theme,” answered Morgan, “and wisdom was only postponed to a
future day, when time shall have meliorated the gay trifler into vanity and
vexation of spirit.”
“We must not permit our knights, if such you call them,” said Magdalen, “to escort us any further; already will they have several miles to traverse a country, unsafe, from civil commotion, and doubly dangerous, if night overtakes them, unsheltered by any habitation.—We are now, as I understand from Morgan, within a few miles of St. Maxient, which we shall reach ere the day closes; let us therefore prepare to take leave, trusting to a happy meeting in England. Nuns have but few remembrances to bestow, and those of no intrinsic worth.—I have, however, preserved a few precious relics, for they were the gifts of my parents—two rubies set in gold; I pray ye, wear them, they will sometimes remind you of one who will never forget you in her prayers.—Ela also begs her preserver to accept a token of gratitude, and bade me make her excuse, that she had not at present any thing better worth bestowing, but trusts that time may yet come.”
Both
the young men received Magdalen’s gifts, which they respectfully raised to
their lips, and afterwards deposited in safety.—Ela’s present to William was
lodged in a small gold box, which, when he opened, presented a likeness of
herself; it was an exact copy of one done by an artist, and sent to her father
into the Holy Land, by his express desire.
“Not
worth bestowing!” exclaimed he, in rapture, on viewing the picture; “nothing
can exceed its value, save the fair original,—nor should this rich dukedom
purchase it from me!—I have not, indeed, any thing in return, to requite such
an inestimable gift,—but may I, Lady,” said he, addressing Magdalen, “be
permitted to present her with a token—insignificant in value—but of my
unalterable regard and high respect?”
“What
say you, Lady Ela,” said Morgan, “are you disposed to accept his unalterable
regard,—or would you rather decline it?”
“The
Lady—Magdalen—will determine—what I ought;—yet surely there can be no
impropriety,—for I must perforce regard—I mean respect, the preserver of my
life,” said Ela, blushing, and with hesitation.
“Though
long unused to the manners of the world,” said Magdalen, “I see no
impropriety,—nor doubt I, were her father present, but that he would sanction
the acceptance.”
Thus
emboldened, William drew forth a valuable ring, which he placed on Ela’s
finger, respectfully kissing her hand as he gently let it fall.—“Farewel,
lovely maid,” said he, “angels that watch over innocence ever guard and protect
you!—should you sometimes look on that ring and think on William, he will deem
himself happy.—Lady,” continued he, addressing Magdalen, “you have permitted me
to call you by the revered and endearing name of parent, and in that name have
bestowed a benediction most valued,—may not the adopted son claim then a
parting embrace and renewed blessing?”
“Most
willingly,” replied Magdalen, folding him in her arms,—“Bless—bless—O, my God,
bless and protect William!”
“Has
then my more than parent,—the guide and instructress of my youth, but one
blessing to bestow?—Bless me—even me also,” said Geoffry.
“O,
yes,” answered Magdalen, “equally beloved. — Bless, O, my God, this my
other—adopted child! and, if he devotes himself to thy service, inspire his
heart with thy holy spirit;—unfold to his mind thy sacred truths, that he may
prove a worthy member of the Divine mission, and be the messenger of salvation
to thousands!”
Bertha,
Vavasour, and Ela, also took an affectionate leave of the two brothers; the
eyes of the latter being diffused in tears. Morgan, likewise, who had ever been
warmly attached to Geoffry, and now little less so to William, was much
affected; he blessed and strained both in his arms, while William, amidst his
last adieus, pressed his hand and said,—“I pray you be not unmindful of my
dearest interests—Remember.”
The
brothers then turned their horses heads to depart, after wistfully looking
back, while the nuns and their company were in view; who on their parts also
strained their visual organs, to catch a last glimpse of the young men, until
an envious copse of trees at length interfered and completely shrouded them
from sight. An universal silence then took place, which lasted until they
reached St. Maxient, at which place they purposed to take up their night’s
repose; and Morgan, as was his usual custom, gave orders for their lodging and
entertainment.
CHAPTER
XXVII.
THERE being a religious house at St. Maxient,
and the travellers arriving early enough for vespers, they attended the regular
service, for the first time since the demolition of the convent of St. Bertrand.
Morgan being recognized by some of the late sisters of that house, who had now
taken up their residence in that of St. Maxient, the nuns and Ela had the
pleasure to salute their old friends; who would fain have persuaded them to
terminate their journey there, urging, among many other reasons, the length of
way they had to travel—the danger they had already encountered, — and what they
most probably might expect—both by sea and land — before they had finally
accomplished so weary a pilgrimage.
Magdalen
pleaded, in excuse, herself and Ela, being natives of England, and already
engaged by their friends to a house in that country.—Bertha being also under
like engagements to accompany them — they therefore took a final farewel of
their former inmates, and returned to their inn; where, with the cordiality of
friends that have but one interest—one great end to pursue—they sat down to
supper.
“This
is the fourth day of our travel,” said Morgan, “in which we have not, as yet,
made any great progress in respect to distance;—but this small space of time
has brought about some wonderful events, which ought to convince us, that what
we often deem chance, in our own affairs, is conducted by the especial
interposition of Divine Providence, which is always watchful for those that put
trust in its protection.”
“The
hand of Heaven may be seen throughout,” said Vavasour; “nothing did the souls
of my father and myself long for more ardently than my sister’s
forgiveness.—Three nights before the fatal event, which cost him his life, for
I will not call it accident—he dreamed, that he fell into a deep abyss, from
which she released him;—and the night before we crossed the brook, I dreamed
that I stood on the margin of a deep and rapid stream, when, suddenly, I beheld
my sister, and, at some little distance, Magdalen, and the lady Ela, struggling
amidst the waters.—That, devoid of terror, I plunged in and safely brought
Bertha to land, when, looking to see what was become of Magdalen and Ela, I
beheld two figures, bearing the form of angels, bursting from the clouds, who,
darting down upon the waters, bore them triumphantly to heaven; and so strongly
was this vision impressed on my imagination the next day, that when the
disaster happened to the waggon, and I had safely landed my sister,—viewing the
rescue of Magdalen and Ela, from the waters,—for a moment, and before
recollection took place,—I really expected to have seen them borne aloft in
air.”
“The
two young men were, no doubt, the embodied instruments appointed for their preservation,”
said Morgan, “as you likewise were for your sister’s; how far the whole of your
dream may be verified heaven only knoweth. Should Geoffry devote himself to the
church, he may likewise be the instrument of promoting the salvation of
Magdalen, and also of many others,—for that is the only way I can at present
interpret part of your dream,—Magdalen being doubtless the occasion of his
adopting the resolution of entering into holy orders.”
“When
time shall have abated somewhat of his ardent impetuosity of temper,” said
Bertha, “he may become one of the church’s brightest ornaments; at present I
think William and he should exchange dispositions—for William, though report
says he is a brave soldier, — is yet mild, calm, and steady.”
“Geoffry,
nevertheless, has a good heart,” said Morgan, “and we ought to make great
allowance for a fervid youthful imagination; particularly when under the
domination of such peculiar circumstances, that might have betrayed even more
advanced age into misconception and error.”
“I
pray ye,” said Ela to Morgan, “be not unmindful of William’s last injunction—he
told you to remember——”
“I
do remember,” said Morgan.
“And
have you performed what he desired?” said Bertha.
“Curiosity
ruined our first mother,” replied Morgan.
Ela,
who had eagerly raised her head to hear Morgan’s answer, now fixed her eyes on
the ring which William gave her, and twirled it round on her finger; Magdalen
smiled, and remained silent.
“You
just now asked me a question,” said Morgan, addressing Bertha; “I will now
propose one to you, and desire you will ponder ere you reply.”—As this was
uttered with great apparent gravity, every one present became very
attentive.—“This is my interrogatory,” continued he. “What is William now
doing?”
“Pooh,
nonsense!” replied Bertha.
“Nonsense,
indeed,” re-echoed, Morgan, “for I should suppose he is engaged in viewing a
certain young lady’s picture, who is so insensible of the favour, that she is
only contemplating a paltry ring.”
“I
was not thinking of the ring,” said Ela.
“Nor
he of the mere copy, I dare be bound,” answered Morgan; “and now having, in part, complied with William’s
injunction, and been, I trust, innocently pleasant, we will perform our serious
duties, and retire to rest.”
The
next morning they arose at a very early hour, and proceeded towards Poictiers,
on their road to which place they were overtaken by numerous detachments of the
military, hastening towards Normandy.—From some of these they learned, that the
king was bringing up the rear guard of the army, and would pass them in the
course of a few hours.—This was unwelcome tidings to some of the party, and
occasioned a conference between Magdalen and Morgan, the result of which was,
that under a supposition of Poictiers being filled with the passing troops,
Morgan should propose to vary from the direct path, and take up a lodging at
some obscure village for a day or two, until the main road became clear,—a
point that was acceded to by all, as soon as it was mentioned.—They therefore
turned a little to the west, and took up their sojourn at a small village near
Ardin, where they remained three days. On the morning of the fourth,
understanding that the country was now tolerably clear, they again set forward,
and striking into the direct road, in due time reached Poictiers, without
experiencing any interruption.
At
Poictiers the inhabitants had been terribly distressed from the number of their
late visitors, so that the travellers found but poor entertainment, the
provisions being mostly consumed, or carried off. They learned here, that the
king’s affairs were far from being in a prosperous state;—that his spirits were
much depressed, he having almost lost his wonted vigour of mind, and activity
of body. In short, that age and domestic calamity, bore heavy upon him, and
aided his enemies more than all their accumulated force; and it was thought he
would soon accede to the hard conditions they wished to impose.
It
was not his foreign dominions alone that were in a state of insurrection, but
also a majority of the most powerful of the English Barons; in which rebellion
was linked his favourite and darling son John, whose name, among the list of
conspirators, appeared to have struck him with such horror — that in his first
paroxysm of grief and rage, he had bitterly cursed him, which malediction he
never could be prevailed on to retract. Thus totally deserted by his own
family, he had been alone soothed and comforted by his two natural children,
William and Geoffry; who scarce ever quitted his presence, but endeavoured, by
their affection, attention, and assiduity, to make up for the barbarity of his
lawful progeny, who were endeavouring to wrest from the arms of a feeble old
man, what a short time would give them possession of, without the crime of
rebellion, and the names of parricides.
These
tidings were imparted to Magdalen by Morgan.—“Alas! unhappy man,” said she,
“how are the mighty fallen!—He who made kings tremble at his frown—whose will
was law, and power absolute;—from the breath of whose mouth, the holy altar was
stained with blood, and who feared not to violate the sacred rights of
hospitality,—as a parent, thou now feelest—by the rebellion of thy sons—those
pangs thou hast made others feel, to gratify thy guilty pleasures. — In thy
illicit offspring, thou alone findest comfort. — Oh! may they never be visited
for the sins of their parents.”
“I
trust they will not,” said Morgan, “nor are we so to interpret the words of
God’s holy ordinance, revealed unto Moses, for he is just, abundant in pity,
and will not punish us for faults committed by others—but shew mercy unto such
as love him, and keep his commandments; and I hope these young men,
uncontaminated by the vices of courts, will merit divine grace, and prove rich
in virtue. The king’s ill health, and unsuccessful fortune, are, at present,
unpropitious to their worldly establishment; but neither are past recovery, or,
if they were, a provision would be made for their support. Prince Richard has
also recognized them as his natural brothers, and has a particular affection
for William, of which indeed he appears every way deserving. — I know not how,
but he attaches every one to him;—marked you not the sudden impression he made
on the Lady Ela.—He is also equally smitten—if an alliance could, at some
future day, be effected between them, it might not prove unworthy either party,
but be alike an union of affection,—both propitious and advantageous.”
“I
know not,” replied Magdalen, “any thing in this world, that would give me more
pleasure, than the alliance you mention, particularly as report speaks so much
in favour of William. — Of the goodness of Ela’s disposition I am well
assured.—I would not, however, encourage a clandestine correspondence between
them, that might end in disappointment, for we know not what other views the
earl, her father, may have entertained.”
“We
must leave all to time and Providence, hoping for the best,” said Morgan;
“doubtless the king, if he was acquainted with William’s affection for the
maid, would further his wishes, and would then make a suitable provision. Nor
do I see how the earl could object to the alliance,—particularly when he knew
who was the preserver of his daughter’s life; and it is not likely, that, in so
many years passed in camps, that he should have formed any engagements in
regard to her disposal.”
During
this conversation, Ela, Bertha, and Vavasour, were engaged in discussing the
occurrences and events that had befallen them; Ela saying, that travelling,
though perilous, in some respects, still had its pleasures. From thence,
adverting to their late accident, she extolled, in the highest terms, the
gallant behaviour of the two brothers, in hazarding their own lives, for the
preservation of her’s and Magdalen’s.—“I wonder whether we shall see them
again, while we remain in France?” continued she, sighing, and looking at the
ring.
“It
will not be at all marvellous if we do,” said Bertha, “if we consider the
character of the two gallant champions, who doubtless can give a pretty
accurate guess at our route; but you seem to forget, in the commendation of
your heroes achievements, that I am also as much indebted to my brother.”
“Ah,”
replied Ela, “that was natural enough—to save a sister.”
“And
unnatural indeed,” said Vavasour, “to attempt to destroy her.”
“Distress
me not,” replied Bertha; “you are now, indeed, my brother, and every thing past
must be no more remembered.”
Magdalen
and Morgan having finished their conference, rejoined the rest of the party,
and supper being introduced, the conversation became general, and related to
the safest way of pursuing their route, during the troublesome warfare in which
the whole country was involved; and which made the nuns regret their not taking
up their abode with those of St. Maxient, till peace was again restored.
“It
is an event that may not speedily take place,” said Morgan, “for the dispute
appears to encrease every day between the contending parties, and to be more
complicated and perplexed.—It is besides much aggravated by Philip, King of
France, who, enraged that so many fine provinces of his kingdom should be in
possession of the English, endeavours to foment jealousies between the king and
his son, Prince Richard, whose naturally impetuous and fiery temper needs no
spur to his restless ambition.”
“The
example of his brother Henry’s death-bed repentance,” said Vavasour, “on
account of his unnatural rebellion, has had no effect upon Richard.”
“For
about three years he was peaceable,” replied Morgan; “at length, being weary of
a state so dissimilar to his humour, he repaired to Guyenne, and took upon
himself the government, where he found himself supported by the people. From
thence he went to Poitou, and from both provinces, having collected some
troops, he attacked his brother Geoffrey, in Bretagne, whom he defeated.—But
hearing his father was coming with a large army, he retired to Poitou, where
the king sent him an absolute command, to meddle no more with the affairs of
Guyenne, threatening to disinherit him for non-compliance,—a consideration,
that for a time kept him quiet, particularly as the king agreed to leave him in
possession of Poitou. The motives on which Prince Richard grounds his
complaints, in the present war, and in which he is joined by King Philip, are
twofold,—The first is, that his father detains from him the Princess Alice, to
whom he was betrothed, and meant to marry her to his younger and favourite son,
John.—The other was, that Henry absolutely refused to have him crowned, in his
own lifetime; to this last he would by no means consent, having experienced the
ill consequences before.—Indeed, whatsoever is the reason,” continued Morgan,
“he seems in no haste to perform the contract in regard to Alice, or to restore
her to her brother; notwithstanding which, he has made various overtures for
peace, but at every attempt his adversaries advance some new and degrading
article, which being rejected, Philip has lately received Richard’s homage, for
all the provinces in France, belonging to England—as pretending, that Henry has
incurred the guilt of rebellion, in making war against his sovereign—in
consequence of which, most of his subjects in France have revolted, and joined
his son.”
The
provinces through which they meant to travel being in this state of danger,
Morgan advised the nuns and Ela to take up their abode, for a short space of
time, in a convent near Loudun, a few miles further, while himself, leaving
Vavasour at Laudun, re-measured his steps back, to counsel the Arch-bishop on
the propriety of the measure, and to get it approved by him.
This
proposition was unanimously agreed to, and immediately pursued. Morgan then
forthwith took his departure from thence, and reached the archipiscopal palace
in three days; when the prelate, on hearing the circumstances recited, that
prevented their proceeding, gave his permission to delay their journey,
according to the circumstances that might occur.—And indeed this indulgence
appeared, soon after, highly necessary, for the king’s affairs became every day
more and more in disorder, till at length he had the mortification to see
himself deserted by all, except William, Geoffrey, and three or four nobles;
his troops also were every where defeated, and at last so reduced, that he was
no longer able to continue the war.—He had now no other alternative left, than
to desire the Pope to interpose, and procure a peace. As it was not his
holiness’s interest that one Christian potentate should become too powerful, at
the expence of another, he complied with Henry’s request, and dispatched his
legate to France; who threatened Philip with excommunication, in case he did
not desist from a war, which he affirmed, prevented Henry from turning his arms
against the Infidels.
Philip,
however, grown haughty from success, replied, that the Pope had no business to
intermeddle with the affairs of his kingdom—that he was only chastising a
rebellious vassal, adding—“No doubt the King of England’s money has been
largely distributed to make the legate plead in such a cause.”
This
was Henry’s last resource, for finding the Pope could render him no service, he
was obliged to submit to a peace, on the most degrading and humiliating terms,
which, together with the ingratitude and defection of his children, nobles, and
the friends of his prosperity, made this hitherto high-spirited and successful
monarch, give himself up to grief and despair; so that falling into his last
sickness, at Chinon, in that exigency, he was deserted by even the few who had,
till then, remained, — William and Geoffry excepted.
These
tidings speedily reached Loudun, with the addition, that the unfortunate
monarch had not even a spiritual assistant, in this his most fatal extremity. —
Deeply impressed, and zealous in the cause of religion, Morgan immediately
departed, and soon reaching Chinon, presented himself to William and Geoffrey; who
were no less astonished than gratified at his appearance, particularly when
they learned the praise-worthy cause of his journey thither.—The brothers
confirmed the report of their father and sovereign’s deserted state, adding
likewise, that the king would be much pleased to see him, as he had expressed
great compunction for his past life, and deeply deplored his neglect of the
duties of religion.—“But we should be wanting in love to our parent to delay
your admission,” said William, “in this his last extremity; I will therefore
announce your benevolent errand, and return forthwith, that our father’s last
moments may be rendered comfortable.”
William
presently returned, and, together with Geoffrey, introduced Morgan into the
king’s presence. At their entrance, Henry said—“Where is he?—let the holy man
enter and stand before me, that I may see him.”
“Peace
be with you, my liege lord,” said Morgan.
“Amen!”
replied the king. Then fixing his eyes, for some moments, on Morgan, he
continued, in a languid voice, and with a faint smile—“You see here but little
to betoken the sovereign;—behold what a small space contains the King of
England, and lord of many mighty provinces!—Here lies fallen greatness!—Where
are now my numerous courtiers? that herd of lying sycophants, whose smiles were
nurtured by prosperity, and chilled by adversity—all, all fled.—Misfortune and
death level all distinctions!—My children too!—Children, did I say?—yes, I have
children!—Draw near, William and Geoffry, ye
are, indeed, my natural children!—Bless ye, my sons!—for the present
leave this holy man with me, I need some converse with him.—Anon ye shall again
be admitted.”
William
and Geoffry then withdrew, while Henry, for the space of two hours, was
assisted in his devotions by Morgan, who, afterwards, by the king’s command,
made note of several things, which he wished to be performed after his decease,
particularly recommending William and Geoffry to his successor.—To these
injunctions, among others, he affixed his hand and seal, and gave them into the
keeping of Morgan, who constantly attended him during his illness.
At
length, finding his end approaching, he caused himself to be carried into the
church, and laid before the altar, where, having confessed himself, and
expressed signs of repentance, he expired.
CHAPTER
XXIX.
THE same ingratitude attended this last sad
scene, as had been before exhibited by his courtiers; for no sooner were his
eyes closed in death, than his domestics forsook him, having first plundered
the dead body, and left it naked in the church.
Such
was the end of Henry the Second, one of the most illustrious Princes of the
period in which he lived—as famous for genius as he was for the extent of his
dominions; but whose vices more than preponderated, and turned the scale
against his virtues.—He was courageous, generous, deeply skilled in politics,
studious, and learned; but these were counterbalanced by haughtiness, ambition,
and lust—for he assailed the chastity of all the women that came in his
way—historians say, the princess designed for his son, not excepted.
The
beginning of his reign was the happiest that the subjects of this country ever
saw.—There was not a king in Europe more feared or respected, until the fatal
catastrophe of Becket disturbed his felicity, and created him many
troubles.—Next followed the dissentions in his own family, which ever after
imbittered his peace, and most probably shortened his days.
Morgan
being charged with the last commands of the deceased monarch, attended his
remains to Fontevrault, accompanied by William and Geoffry; it having been his
express desire, that his body, after death, should be deposited in the choir of
a nunnery, which he had there founded.—Richard, like his brother Henry, a late
repentant, came forth to meet, and attend the royal corpse to the silent
tomb;—moved at the sight, and conscience-struck at his undutiful conduct, he
burst into tears, and, with many bitter lamentations, openly accused himself of
his father’s death.
William
and Geoffry were affectionately received by the new king, who promised
implicitly to obey his father’s commands in regard to their future fortunes;
nor did he fail in his word, bestowing several lordships on William, and
considerable church preferment on Geoffry, who, agreeable to his former declaration,
had undergone priestly ordination. Neither was Morgan left unrequited for his
attention to the late king, he being rewarded with a rich benefice, and
promised still further elevation in the church; and, as if Richard was not only
resolved to bestow favours on such as had been attached to his father, but also
to punish such as had been disobedient, he shewed his displeasure, by banishing
the most criminal, and treating others with marked and contemptuous neglect —
and if they had the boldness to complain, forbade them ever after to appear in
his presence.
Henry
being laid in his grave, Richard’s complaints in regard to Alice were no more
remembered, nor his pretended jealousy of his brother John. As he continued in
France above a month after Henry’s death, his first care was to do homage to
Philip for the ducal crown of Normandy; at the same time he did not neglect to
send an order to England, for his mother, Queen Eleanor’s release, who had been
confined sixteen years.—He also sent a commission for her to take the
administration of the government, during his absence; empowering her, likewise,
to release what prisoners she pleased.—Taught by her own sufferings, to pity
the misfortunes of others, she willingly exercised the power thus delegated to
her; nor did she, during the remainder of her life, omit any opportunity of
exercising her charity to such as were debarred the sweets of liberty—the value
of which she had learned during her own confinement.