The Monk And The Hangman's Daughter Part 7

Not wis.h.i.+ng to see her secret sorrow, I hastened to make known my presence, and addressed her as gently as I could. She was startled, but when she saw who it was, smiled and blushed. She rose and came to greet me, and I began speaking to her almost at random, in order that she might recover her composure. I spoke as a brother might speak to his sister, yet earnestly, for my heart was full of compa.s.sion.

'O Benedicta,' I said, I know your heart, and it has more love for that wild youth Rochus than for our dear and blessed Saviour. I know how willingly you bore infamy and disgrace, sustained by the thought that he knew you innocent. Far be it from me to condemn you, for what is holier or purer than a maiden's love? I would only warn and save you from the consequence of having given it to one so unworthy.'

She listened with her head bowed, and said nothing, but I could hear her sighs. I saw, too, that she trembled. I continued: 'Benedicta, the pa.s.sion which fills your heart may prove your destruction in this life and hereafter. Young Rochus is not one who will make you his wife in the sight of G.o.d and Man. Why did he not stand forth and defend you when you were falsely accused?'

'He was not there,' she said, lifting her eyes to mine; 'he and his father were at Salzburg. He knew nothing till they told him.'

May G.o.d forgive me if at this I felt no joy in another's acquittal of the heavy sin with which I had charged him. I stood a moment irresolute, with my head bowed, silent.

'But, Benedicta,' I resumed, 'will he take for a wife one whose good name has been blackened in the sight of his family and his neighbours?

No, he does not seek you with an honourable purpose. O Benedicta, confide in me. Is it not as I say?'

But she remained silent, nor could I draw from her a single word. She would only sigh and tremble; she seemed unable to speak. I saw that she was too weak to resist the temptation to love young Rochus; nay, I saw that her whole heart was bound up in him, and my soul melted with pity and sorrow--pity for her and sorrow for myself, for I felt that my power was unequal to the command that had been laid upon me. My agony was so keen that I could hardly refrain from crying out.

I went from her cabin, but did not return to my own. I wandered about the haunted sh.o.r.e of the Black Lake for hours, without aim or purpose.

Reflecting bitterly upon my failure, and beseeching G.o.d for greater grace and strength, it was revealed to me that I was an unworthy disciple of the Lord and a faithless son of the Church. I became more keenly conscious than I ever had been before of the earthly nature of my love for Benedicta, and of its sinfulness. I felt that I had not given my whole heart to G.o.d, but was clinging to a temporal and human hope.

It was plain to me that unless my love for the sweet child should be changed to a purely spiritual affection, purified from all the dross of pa.s.sion, I could never receive holy orders, but should remain always a monk and always a sinner. These reflections caused me great torment, and in my despair I cast myself down upon the earth, calling aloud to my Saviour. In this my greatest trial I clung to the Cross. 'Save me, O Lord!' I cried. 'I am engulfed in a great pa.s.sion--save me, oh, save me, or I perish forever!'

All that night I struggled and prayed and fought against the evil spirits in my soul, with their suggestions of recreancy to the dear Church whose child I am.

'The Church,' they whispered, 'has servants enough. You are not as yet irrevocably bound to celibacy. You can procure a dispensation from your monastic vows and remain here in the mountains, a layman. You can learn the craft of the hunter or the herdsman, and be ever near Benedicta to guard and guide her--perhaps in time to win her love from Rochus and take her for your wife.'

To these temptations I opposed my feeble strength and such aid as the blessed Saint gave me in my great trial. The contest was long and agonising, and more than once, there in the darkness and the wilderness, which rang with my cries, I was near surrender; but at the dawning of the day I became more tranquil, and peace once more filled my heart, even as the golden light filled the great gorges of the mountain where but a few moments before were the darkness and the mist. I thought then of the suffering and death of our Saviour, who died for the redemption of the world, and most fervently I prayed that Heaven would grant me the great boon to die likewise, in a humbler way, even though it were for but one suffering being--Benedicta.

May the Lord hear my prayer!

30

The night before the Sunday on which I was to hold divine service great fires were kindled on the cliffs--a signal for the young men in the valley to come up to the mountain dairies. They came in great numbers, shouting and screaming, and were greeted with songs and shrill cries by the dairy maidens, who swung flaming torches that lit up the faces of the great rocks and sent gigantic shadows across them. It was a beautiful sight. These are indeed a happy people.

The monastery boy came in with the rest. He will remain over Sunday, and, returning, will take back the roots that I have dug. He gave me much news from the monastery. The reverend Superior is living at Saint Bartholomae, fis.h.i.+ng and hunting. Another thing--one which gives me great alarm--is that the Saltmaster's son, young Rochus, is in the mountains not far from the Black Lake. It seems he has a hunting-lodge on the upper cliff, and a path leads from it directly to the lake. The boy told me this, but did not observe how I trembled when hearing it. Would that an angel with a flaming sword might guard the path to the lake, and to Benedicta!

The shouting and singing continued during the whole night, and between this and the agitation in my soul I did not close my eyes. Early the next morning the boys and girls arrived in crowds from all directions.

The maidens wore silken kerchiefs twisted prettily about their heads, and had decorated themselves and their escorts with flowers.

Not being an ordained priest, it was not permitted me either to read ma.s.s or to preach a sermon, but I prayed with them and spoke to them whatever my aching heart found to say. I spoke to them of our sinfulness and G.o.d's great mercy; of our harshness to one another and the Saviour's love for us all; of His infinite compa.s.sion. As my words echoed from the abyss below and the heights above I felt as if I were lifted out of this world of suffering and sin and borne away on angel's wings to the radiant spheres beyond the sky! It was a solemn service, and my little congregation was awed into devotion and seemed to feel as if it stood in the Holy of Holies.

The service being concluded, I blessed the people and they quietly went away. They had not been long gone before I heard the lads send forth ringing shouts, but this did not displease me. Why should they not rejoice? Is not cheerfulness the purest praise a human heart can give?

In the afternoon I went down to Benedicta's cabin and found her at the door, making a wreath of edelweiss for the image of the Blessed Virgin, intertwining the snowy flowers with a purple blossom that looked like blood.

Seating myself beside her, I looked on at her beautiful work in silence, but in my soul was a wild tumult of emotion and a voice that cried: 'Benedicta, my love, my soul, I love you more than life! I love you above all things on earth and in Heaven!'

31

The Superior sent for me, and with a strange foreboding I followed his messenger down the difficult way to the lake and embarked in the boat.

Occupied with gloomy reflections and presentiments of impending evil, I hardly observed that we had left the sh.o.r.e before the sound of merry voices apprised me of our arrival at St. Bartholomae. On the beautiful meadow surrounding the dwelling of the Superior were a great number of people--priests, friars, mountaineers and hunters. Many were there who had come from afar with large retinues of servants and boys. In the house was a great bustle--a confusion and a hurrying to and fro, as during a fair. The doors stood wide open, and people ran in and out, clamouring noisily. The dogs yelped and howled as loud as they could. On a stand under the oak was a great cask of beer, and many of the people were gathered about it, drinking. Inside the house, too, there seemed to be much drinking, for I saw many men near the windows with mighty cups in their hands. On entering, I encountered throngs of servants carrying dishes of fish and game. I asked one of them when I could see the Superior. He answered that His Reverence would be down immediately after the meal, and I concluded to wait in the hall. The walls were hung with pictures of some large fish which had been caught in the lake. Below each picture the weight of the monster and the date of its capture, together with the name of the person taking it, were inscribed in large letters. I could not help interpreting these records--perhaps uncharitably--as intimations to all good Christians to pray for the souls of those whose names were inscribed.

After more than an hour the Superior descended the stairs. I stepped forward, saluting him humbly, as became my position. He nodded, eyed me sharply, and directed me to go to his apartment immediately after supper. This I did.

'How about your soul, my son Ambrosius?' he asked me, solemnly. 'Has the Lord shown you grace? Have you endured the probation?' Humbly, with my head bowed, I answered: 'Most reverend Father, G.o.d in my solitude has given me knowledge.'

'Of what? Of your guilt?' This I affirmed.

'Praise be to G.o.d!' exclaimed the Superior. 'I knew, my son, that solitude would speak to your soul with the tongue of an angel. I have good tidings for you. I have written in your behalf to the Bishop of Salzburg. He summons you to his palace. He will consecrate you and give you holy orders in person, and you will remain in his city. Prepare yourself, for in three days you are to leave us.'

The Superior looked sharply into my face again, but I did not permit him to see into my heart. I asked for his benediction, bowed and left him.

Ah, then, it was for this that I was summoned! I am to go away forever.

I must leave my very life behind me; I must renounce my care and protection of Benedicta. G.o.d help her and me!

32

I am once more in my mountain home, but tomorrow I leave it forever. But why am I sad? Does not a great blessing await me? Have I not ever looked forward to the moment of my consecration with longing, believing it would bring me the supreme happiness of my life? And now that this great joy is almost within my grasp, I am sad beyond measure.

Can I approach the altar of the Lord with a lie on my lips? Can I receive the holy sacrament as an impostor? The holy oil upon my forehead would turn to fire and burn into my brain, and I should be for ever d.a.m.ned.

I might fall upon my knees before the Bishop and say: 'Expel me, for I do not seek after the love of Christ, nor after holy and heavenly things, but after the things of this world.'

If I so spoke, I should be punished, but I could endure that without a murmur.

If only I were sinless and could rightly become a priest, I could be of great service to the poor child. I should be able to give her infinite blessings and consolations. I could be her confessor and absolve her from sin, and, if I should outlive her--which G.o.d forbid!--might by my prayers even redeem her soul from Purgatory. I could read ma.s.ses for the souls of her poor dead parents, already in torment.

Above all, if I succeeded in preserving her from that one great and destructive sin for which she secretly longs; if I could take her with me and place her under thy protection, O Blessed Virgin, that would be happiness indeed.

But where is the sanctuary that would receive the hangman's daughter?

I know it but too well: when I am gone from here, the Evil One, in the winning shape he has a.s.sumed, will prevail, and she will be lost in time and in eternity.

33

I have been at Benedicta's cabin.

'Benedicta,' I said, 'I am going away from here--away from the mountains--away from you.'

She grew pale, but said nothing. For a moment I was overcome with emotion; I seemed to choke, and could not continue. Presently I said: 'Poor child, what will become of you? I know that your love for Rochus is strong and, love is like a torrent which nothing can stay. There is no safety for you but in clinging to the cross of our Saviour. Promise me that you will do so--do not let me go away in misery, Benedicta.'

'Am I, then, so wicked?' she said, without lifting her eyes from the ground. 'Can I not be trusted?'

'Ah, but, Benedicta, the enemy is strong, and you have a traitor to unbar the gates. Your own heart, poor child, will at last betray you.'

'He will not harm me,' she murmured. 'You wrong him, sir, indeed you do.'

But I knew that I did not, and was all the more concerned to judge that the wolf would use the arts of the fox. Before the sacred purity of this maiden the base pa.s.sions of the youth had not dared to declare themselves. But none the less I knew that an hour would come when she would have need of all her strength, and it would fail her. I grasped her arm and demanded that she take an oath that she would throw herself into the waters of the Black Lake rather than into the arms of Rochus.

But she would not reply. She remained silent, her eyes fixed upon mine with a look of sadness and reproach which filled my mind with the most melancholy thoughts, and, turning away, I left her.

34

Lord, Saviour of my soul, whither hast Thou led me? Here am I in the culprit's tower, a condemned murderer, and to-morrow at sunrise I shall be taken to the gallows and hanged! For who so slays a fellow being, he shall be slain; that is the law of G.o.d and man.