The Betrothed Part 14

"What is the matter? What is the matter?" demanded Perpetua, out of breath, of the brothers. They answered her with a violent push, and fled away. "And you! what are you here for?" said she then to Renzo and Lucy.

They made no reply. She then ascended the stairs in haste, to seek her master. The two lovers (still lovers) stood before Agnes, who, alarmed and grieved, said, "Ah! you are here! How has it gone? Why did the bell ring?"

"Home, home!" said Renzo, "before the people gather." But Menico now appeared running to meet them. He was out of breath, and hardly able to cry out, "Back! back! by the way of the convent. There is the devil at the house," continued he, panting; "I saw him, I did; he was going to kill me. The Father Christopher says you must come quickly.--I saw him, I did.--I am glad I found you all here,--I will tell you all when we are safe off."

Renzo, who was the most self-possessed of the party, thought it best to follow his advice. "Let us follow him," said he, to the females. They silently obeyed, and the little company moved on. They hastily crossed the churchyard, pa.s.sing through a private street, into the fields. They were not many paces distant, before the people began to collect, each one asking of his neighbour what was the matter, and no one being able to answer the question. The first that arrived ran to the door of the church: it was fastened. They then looked through a little window into the belfry, and demanded the cause of the alarm. When Ambrose heard a known voice, and knew, by the hum, that there was an a.s.semblage of people without, he hastily slipped on that part of his dress which he had carried under his arm, and opened the church door.

"What is all this tumult? What is the matter? Where is it?"

"Where is it? Do you not know? Why, in the curate's house. Run, run."

They rushed in a crowd thither; looked,--listened. All was quiet. The street door was fastened; not a window open; not a sound within.

"Who is within there? Holla! holla! Signor Curate, Signor Curate!"

Don Abbondio, who, as soon as he was relieved by the flight of the invaders, had retired from the window, and closed it, was now quarrelling with Perpetua for leaving him to bear the brunt of the battle alone. When he heard himself called by name, by the people outside, he repented of the rashness which had produced this undesired result.

"What has happened? Who are they? Where are they? What have they done to you?" cried a hundred voices at a time.

"There is no one here now; I am much obliged to you.--Return to your houses."

"But who _has_ been here? Where have they gone? What has happened?"

"Bad people, bad people, who wander about in the night; but they have all fled.--Return to your houses. I thank you for your kindness." So saying, he retired and shut the window. There was a general murmur of disappointment through the crowd. Some laughed, some swore, some shrugged up their shoulders and went home; but at this moment a person came running towards them, panting and breathless. He lived at the house opposite to the cottage of Lucy, and had witnessed from the window the alarm of the bravoes, when Griso endeavoured to collect them in the court-yard. When he recovered breath, he cried, "What do you do here, friends? The devil is not here, he is down at the house of Agnes Mondella. Armed people are in it. It seems they wish to murder a pilgrim; but who knows what the devil it is?"

"What! what! what!" And then began a tumultuous conversation. "Let us go. How many are there? How many are we? Who are they?--The constable!

the constable!"

"I am here," replied the constable, from the midst of the crowd, "I am here, but you must a.s.sist me; you must obey.--Quick;--where is the s.e.xton? To the bell, to the bell. Quick; some one run to Lecco to ask for succour.--Come this way." The tumult was great, and as they were about to depart for the cottage of Agnes, another messenger came flying, and exclaimed, "Run, friends;--robbers who are carrying off a pilgrim.

They are already out of the village! On! on! this way."

In obedience to this command they moved in a ma.s.s, without waiting the orders of their leader, towards the cottage of Lucy. While the army advances, many of those at the head of the column, slacken their pace, not unwilling to leave the post of honour to their more adventurous friends in the rear. The confused mult.i.tude at length reach the scene of action. The traces of recent invasion were manifest,--the door open, the bolts loosened, but the invaders, where were they? They entered the court, advanced into the house, and called loudly, "Agnes! Lucy!

Pilgrim! Where is the pilgrim! Did Stephano dream that he saw him? No, no, Carlandrea saw him also. Hallo! Pilgrim! Agnes! Lucy! No reply! They have killed them! they have killed them!" There was then a proposition to follow the murderers, which would have been acceded to, had not a voice from the crowd cried out, that Agnes and Lucy were in safety in some house. Satisfied with this, they soon dispersed to their homes, to relate to their wives that which had happened. The next day, however, the constable being in his field, and, with his foot resting on his spade, meditating on the mysteries of the past night, was accosted by two men, much resembling, in their appearance, those whom Don Abbondio had encountered a few days before. They very unceremoniously forbade him to make a deposition of the events of the night before the magistrate, and, if questioned by any of the gossips of the villagers, to maintain a perfect silence on pain of death.

Our fugitives for a while continued their flight, rapidly and silently, utterly overwhelmed by the fatigue of their flight, by their late anxiety, by vexation and disappointment at their failure, and a confused apprehension of some future danger. As the sound of the bell died away on the ear, they slackened their pace. Agnes, gathering breath and courage, first broke the silence, by asking Renzo what had been done at the curate's? He related briefly his melancholy story. "And who," said she to Menico, "was the devil in the house? What did you mean by that?"

The boy narrated that of which he had been an eye-witness, and which imparted a mingled feeling of alarm and grat.i.tude to the minds of his auditors,--alarm at the obstinacy of Don Roderick in pursuing his purpose, and grat.i.tude that they had thus escaped his snares. They caressed affectionately the boy who had been placed in so great danger on their account: Renzo gave him a piece of money in addition to the new coin already promised, and desired him to say nothing of the message given him by Father Christopher. "Now, return home," said Agnes, "because thy family will be anxious about thee: you have been a good boy; go home, and pray the Lord that we may soon meet again." The boy obeyed, and our travellers advanced in silence. Lucy kept close to her mother, dexterously but gently declining the arm of her lover. She felt abashed, even in the midst of all this confusion, at having been so long and so familiarly alone with him, while expecting that a few moments longer would have seen her his wife: but this dream had vanished, and she felt most sensitively the apparent indelicacy of their situation.

They at length reached the open s.p.a.ce before the church of the convent.

Renzo advanced towards the door, and pushed it gently. It opened, and they beheld, by the light of the moon, which then fell upon his pallid face and silvery beard, the form of Father Christopher, who was there in anxious expectation of their arrival. "G.o.d be thanked!" said he, as they entered. By his side stood a capuchin, whose office was that of s.e.xton to the church, whom he had persuaded to leave the door half open, and to watch with him. He had been very unwilling to submit to this inconvenient and dangerous condescension, which it required all the authority of the holy father to overcome; but, perceiving who the company were, he could endure no longer. Taking the father aside, he whispered, to him, "But Father--Father--at night--in the church--with women--shut--the rules--but Father!----" "Omnia munda mundis," replied he, turning meekly to Friar Fazio, and forgetting that he did not understand Latin. But this forgetfulness was exactly the most fortunate thing in the world. If the father had produced arguments, Friar Fazio would not have failed to oppose them; but these mysterious words, he concluded, must contain a solution of all his doubts. He acquiesced, saying, "Very well; you know more than I do."

Father Christopher then turned to our little company, who were standing in suspense, by the light of a lamp which was flickering before the altar. "Children," said he, "thank the Lord, who has preserved you from great peril. Perhaps at this moment----" and he entered into an explanation of the reasons which had induced him to send for them to the convent, little suspecting that they knew more than he did, and supposing that Menico had found them tranquil at their home, before the arrival of the robbers. No one undeceived him, not even Lucy, although suffering the keenest anguish at practising dissimulation with such a man; but it was a night of confusion and duplicity.

"Now," continued he, "you perceive, my children, that this country is no longer safe for you. It is your country, I know; you were born here; you have wronged no one: but such is the will of G.o.d! It is a trial, children, support it with patience, with faith, without murmuring; and be a.s.sured, there will come a day, in which you will see the wisdom of all that now befalls you. I have procured you a refuge for a season, and I hope you will soon be able to return safely to your home; at all events, G.o.d will provide, and I his minister will faithfully exert myself to serve you, my poor persecuted children. You," continued he, turning to the females, "can remain at ----. There you will be beyond danger, and yet not far from home; go to our convent in that place, ask for the superior, give him this letter, he will be to you another Friar Christopher. And thou, my Renzo, thou must place thyself in safety from the impetuosity of others, and your own. Carry this letter to Father Bonaventura, of Lodi, in our convent at the eastern gate of Milan; he will be to you a father, will advise you, and find you work, until you can return to live here tranquilly. Now, go to the border of the lake, near the mouth of the Bione" (a stream a short distance from the convent); "you will see there a small boat fastened; you must say, 'A boat;' you will be asked for whom, answer, 'Saint Francis.' The boatman will receive you, will take you to the other side, where you will find a carriage, which will conduct you to ----. If any one should ask how Father Christopher came to have at his disposal such means of transport by land and by water, he would show little knowledge of the power possessed by a capuchin who held the reputation of a saint."

The charge of the houses remained to be thought of; the father received the keys of them; Agnes, on consigning hers, thought with a sigh, that there was no need of keys, the house was open, the devil had been there, and it was doubtful if there remained any thing to be cared for.

"Before you go," said the father, "let us pray together to the Lord, that he may be with you in this journey, and always, and above all, that he may give you strength to submit cheerfully to that which he has ordained." So saying, he knelt down; all did the same. Having prayed a few moments in silence, he p.r.o.nounced with a low but distinct voice the following words: "We pray thee also for the wretched man who has brought us to this state. We should be unworthy of thy mercy if we did not earnestly solicit it for him: he has most need of it. We, in our sorrow, have the consolation of trusting in thee; we can still offer thee our supplications, with thankfulness. But he--he is an enemy to thee! Oh wretched man! He dares to strive against thee: have pity on him, O Lord!

touch his heart, soften his rebellious will, and bestow on him all the good we would desire for ourselves."

Rising hastily, he then said, "Away, my children, there is no time to lose; G.o.d will go with you, his angel protect you: away." They kept silence from emotion, and as they departed, the father added, "My heart tells me we shall soon meet again." Without waiting for a reply, he retired; the travellers pursued their way to the appointed spot, found the boat, gave and received the watchword, and entered into it. The boatmen made silently for the opposite sh.o.r.e: there was not a breath of wind; the lake lay polished and smooth in the moonlight, agitated only by the dipping of the oars, which quivered in its gleam. The waves breaking on the sands of the sh.o.r.e, were heard deadly and slowly at a distance, mingled with the rippling of the waters between the pillars of the bridge.

The silent pa.s.sengers cast a melancholy look behind at the mountains and the landscape, illumined by the moon, and varied by mult.i.tudes of shadows. They discerned villages, houses, cottages; the palace of Don Roderick, raised above the huts that crowded the base of the promontory, like a savage prowling in the dark over his slumbering prey. Lucy beheld it, and shuddered; then cast a glance beyond the declivity, towards her own little home, and beheld the top of the fig-tree which towered in the court-yard; moved at the sight, she buried her face in her hands, and wept in silence.

Farewell, ye mountains, source of waters! farewell to your varied summits, familiar as the faces of friends! ye torrents, whose voices have been heard from infancy! Farewell! how melancholy the destiny of one, who, bred up amid your scenes, bids you farewell! If voluntarily departing with the hope of future gain at this moment, the dream of wealth loses its attraction, his resolution falters, and he would fain remain with you, were it not for the hope of benefiting you by his prosperity. The more he advances into the level country, the more his view becomes wearied with its uniform extent; the air appears heavy and lifeless: he proceeds sorrowfully and thoughtfully into the tumultuous city; houses crowded against houses, street uniting with street, appears to deprive him of the power to breathe; and in front of edifices admired by strangers, he stops to recall, with restless desire, the image of the field and the cottage which had long been the object of his wishes, and which, on his return to his mountains, he will make his own, should he acquire the wealth of which he is in pursuit.

But how much more sorrowful the moment of separation to him, who, having never sent a transient wish beyond the mountains, feels that they comprise the limit of his earthly hopes, and yet is driven from them by an adverse fate; who is compelled to quit them to go into a foreign land, with scarcely a hope of return! Then he breaks forth into mournful exclamations. "Farewell native cottage! where, many a time and oft, I have listened with eager ear, to distinguish, amidst the rumour of footsteps, the well-known sound of those long expected and anxiously desired. Farewell, ye scenes, where I had hoped to pa.s.s, tranquil and content, the remnant of my days! Farewell, thou sanctuary of G.o.d, where my soul has been filled with admiring thoughts of him, and my voice has united with others to sing his praise! Farewell! He, whom I wors.h.i.+pped within your walls, is not confined to temples made with hands; heaven is his dwelling place, and the earth his footstool; he watches over his children, and, if he chastises them, it is in love, to prepare them for higher and holier enjoyments."

Of such a nature, if not precisely the same, were the reflections of Lucy and her companions, as the bark carried them to the right bank of the Adda.

CHAPTER IX.

The shock which the boat received, as it struck against the sh.o.r.e, aroused Lucy from her reverie; they quitted the bark, and Renzo turned to thank and reward the boatman. "I will take nothing--nothing," said he: "we are placed on earth to aid one another." The carriage was ready, the driver seated; its expected occupants took their places, and the horses moved briskly on. Our travellers arrived then at Monza, which we believe to have been the name of the place to which Father Christopher had directed Renzo, a little after sunrise. The driver turned to an inn, where he appeared to be well acquainted, and demanded for them a separate room. He, as well as the boatman, refused the offered recompence of Renzo; like the boatman, he had in view a reward, more distant indeed, but more abundant; he withdrew his hand, and hastened to look after his beast.

After an evening such as we have described, and a night pa.s.sed in painful thoughts both in regard to recent events and future antic.i.p.ations--disturbed, indeed, by the frequent joltings of their incommodious vehicle,--our travellers felt a little rest in their retired apartment at the inn highly necessary. They partook of a small meal together, not more in proportion to the prevailing want, than to their own slender appet.i.tes; and recurred with a sigh to the delightful festivities, which, two days before, were to have accompanied their happy union. Renzo would willingly have remained with his companions all the day, to secure their lodging and perform other little offices. But they strongly alleged the injunctions of Father Christopher, together with the gossiping to which their continuing together would give rise, so that he at length acquiesced. Lucy could not conceal her tears; Renzo with difficulty restrained his; and, warmly pressing the hand of Agnes, he p.r.o.nounced with a voice almost choked, "Till we meet again."

The mother and daughter would have been in great perplexity, had it not been for the kind driver, who had orders to conduct them to the convent, which was at a little distance from the village. Upon their arrival there, the guide requested the porter to call the superior: he appeared, and the letter of Father Christopher was delivered to him. "Oh, from Father Christopher!" said he, recognising the handwriting. His voice and manner told evidently that he uttered the name of one whom he regarded as a particular friend. During the perusal of the letter, he manifested much surprise and indignation, and, raising his eyes, fixed them on Lucy and her mother with an expression of pity and interest. When he had finished reading, he remained for a moment thoughtful, and then exclaimed, "There is no one but the signora; if the signora would take upon herself this obligation----" and then addressing them, "My friends," said he, "I will make the effort, and I hope to find you a shelter, more than secure, more than honourable; so that G.o.d has provided for you in the best manner. Will you come with me?"

The females bowed reverently in a.s.sent; the friar continued, "Come with me, then, to the monastery of the signora. But keep yourselves a few steps distant, because there are people who delight to speak evil of others, and G.o.d knows how many fine stories might be told, if the superior of the convent was seen walking with a beautiful young woman--with women, I mean."

So saying, he went on before: Lucy blushed; the guide looked at Agnes, who could not conceal a momentary smile; and they all three obeyed the command of the friar, and followed him at a distance. "Who is the signora?" said Agnes, addressing their conductor.

"The signora," replied he, "is not a nun; that is, not a nun like the others. She is not the abbess, nor the prioress; for they say that _she_ is one of the youngest of them; but she is from Adam's rib, and her ancestors were great people, who came from Spain; and they call her the _signora_, to signify that she is a great lady,--every one calls her so, because they say that in this monastery they have never had so n.o.ble a person; and her relations down at Milan are very powerful, and in Monza still more so; because her father is the first lord in the country; for which reason she can do as she pleases in the convent,--and moreover people abroad bear her a great respect, and if she undertakes a thing, she makes it succeed; and if this good father induces her to take you under her protection, you will be as safe as at the foot of the altar."

When the superior arrived at the gate of the town, which was defended at that time by an old tower, and part of a dismantled castle, he stopped and looked back to see if they followed him--then advanced towards the monastery, and, remaining on the threshold, awaited their approach. The guide then took his leave, not without many thanks from Agnes and her daughter for his kindness and faithfulness. The superior led them to the portress's chamber, and went alone to make the request of the signora.

After a few moments he re-appeared, and with a joyful countenance told them that she would grant them an interview: on their way, he gave them much advice concerning their deportment in her presence. "She is well disposed towards you," said he, "and has the power to protect you. Be humble, and respectful; reply with frankness to the questions she will ask you, and when not questioned, be silent."

They pa.s.sed through a lower chamber, and advanced towards the parlour.

Lucy, who had never been in a monastery before, looked around as she entered it for the signora; but there was no one there; in a few moments, however, she observed the friar approach a small window or grating, behind which she beheld a nun standing. She appeared about twenty-five years of age; her countenance at first sight produced an impression of beauty, but of beauty prematurely faded. A black veil hung in folds on either side of her face; below the veil a band of white linen encircled a forehead of different, but not inferior whiteness; another plaited band encompa.s.sed the face, and terminated under the chin in a neck handkerchief, or cape, which, extending over the shoulders, covered to the waist the folds of her black robe. But her forehead was contracted from time to time, as if by some painful emotion; now, her large black eye was fixed steadfastly on your face with an expression of haughty curiosity, then hastily bent down as if to discover some hidden thought; in certain moments an attentive observer would have deemed that they solicited affection, sympathy, and pity; at others, he would have received a transient revelation of hatred, matured by a cruel disposition; when motionless and inattentive, some would have imagined them to express haughty aversion, others would have suspected the labouring of concealed thought, the effort to overcome some secret feeling of her soul, which had more power over it than all surrounding objects. Her cheeks were delicately formed, but extremely pale and thin; her lips, hardly suffused with a feeble tinge of the rose, seemed to soften into the pallid hue of the cheeks; their movements, like those of her eyes, were sudden, animated, and full of expression and mystery. Her loftiness of stature was not apparent, owing to an habitual stoop; as well as to her rapid and irregular movements, little becoming a nun, or even a lady. In her dress itself there was an appearance of studied neglect, which announced a singular character; and from the band around her temples was suffered to escape, through forgetfulness or contempt of the rules which prohibited it, a curl of glossy black hair.

These things made no impression on the minds of Agnes and Lucy, unaccustomed as they were to the sight of a nun; and to the superior it was no novelty--he, as well as many others, had become familiarised to her habit and manners.

She was, as we have said, standing near the grate, against which she leaned languidly, to observe those who were approaching. "Reverend mother, and most ill.u.s.trious lady," said the superior, bending low, "this is the poor young woman for whom I have solicited your protection, and this is her mother."

Both mother and daughter bowed reverently. "It is fortunate that I have it in my power," said she, turning to the father, "to do some little service to our good friends the capuchin fathers. But tell me a little more particularly, the situation of this young woman, that I may be better prepared to act for her advantage."

Lucy blushed, and held down her head. "You must know, reverend mother,"

said Agnes--but the father interrupted her;--"This young person, most ill.u.s.trious lady," continued he, "has been recommended to me, as I have told you, by one of my brethren. She has been obliged to depart secretly from her native place, in order to escape heavy perils; and she has need for some time of an asylum, where she can remain unknown, and where no one will dare to molest her."

"What perils?" demanded the lady. "Pray, father, do not talk so enigmatically: you know, we nuns like to hear stories minutely."

"They are perils," replied the father, "that should not be told to the pure ears of the reverend mother."--"Oh, certainly," said the lady, hastily, and slightly blus.h.i.+ng. Was this the blush of modesty? He would have doubted it, who should have observed the rapid expression of disdain which accompanied it, or have compared it with that which from time to time diffused itself over the cheek of Lucy.

"It is sufficient to say," resumed the friar, "that a powerful lord--it is not all the rich and n.o.ble who make use of the gifts of G.o.d for the promotion of his glory, as you do, most ill.u.s.trious lady--a powerful lord, after having persecuted for a long time this innocent creature with wicked allurements, finding them unavailing, has had recourse to open force, so that she has been obliged to fly from her home."

"Approach, young woman," said the signora. "I know that the father is truth itself; but no one can be better informed than you with regard to this affair. To you it belongs to tell us if this lord was an odious persecutor." Lucy obeyed the first command, and approached the grating; but the second, accompanied as it was with a certain malicious air of doubt, brought a blush over her countenance, and a sense of painful embarra.s.sment, which she found it impossible to overcome.

"Lady----mother----reverend----" stammered she. Agnes now felt herself authorised to come to her a.s.sistance. "Most ill.u.s.trious lady," said she, "I can bear testimony that my daughter hates this lord as the devil hates holy water. I would call him the devil, were it not for your reverend presence. The case is this: this poor maiden was promised to a good and industrious youth; and if the curate had done his duty----"