University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER CLIV. [Chapter 162]

THE CELL OF THE NEOPHITE. —THE INTERVIEW. —THE UNEXPECTED TURN GIVEN TO THE AFFAIRS AT THE CONVENT OF MARY MAGDALEN.

The morning broke, and the matins were duly performed at St. Mary Magdalen.

This was what happened every day in the week included, for the convent was always alive to the perfomance of its duties from the dawn of day until sunset and after; but it was their business—a business from the toil of which they rested not on the Sabbath.

But then it happened that there was no labour; it was all easy-going, straight-forward work, and was a mere pastime, that only occupied the lips and ears; for not half of it was understood, and the other half had long since ceased to produce any impression upon the stagnant minds of the mewed-up sisterhood.

However, there was not lack of comfort, especially for those who held any of the good offices in the convent. The holy Father Francis was met at table by the abbess, who was great and gracious to him.

"Will you inform the sisterhood, holy sister, of my stay here, lest it bring any scandal upon your house, the well-being of which is to me of importance."

"I have already done so. I anticipated your wishes on that point, holy father—in fact, I did it on my own account, too, for we live in evil times— in very evil times."

"We do, sister."

"So that being done, you have but to express your wishes; for of course they are the wishes deputed of the pope."

"Certainly—certainly; it could not be otherwise."

"I knew," said the abbess; "and now I wait for your wishes; let me know them, and I will answer for it, that nothing that is desired by his holiness through you shall meet with any other than the most profound attention and willing obedience."

"You are a worthy superior, and if Heaven please to permit me, I will not fail to let his holiness know of all this devotion and obedience; and, not less, your regularity and religious observances; he will be well pleased, I am sure."

"Thanks, holy father."

"Nay, 'tis justice. But I would now see your unworthy guest."

"The probationist? Yes, she can be seen. She has had her food given her for breakfast, and will be ready to receive you."

"I am ready, then. In the meantime, what is her name and designation?"

"Her name is Juliet, and of a noble house—that of the famous Di Napotoloni."

"Indeed! 'tis very strange."

"She desired to marry against her friends' wish, who would not hear of the iniquity that was desired to be perpetrated."

"I will see her, then. I may be able to do some good."

"You cannot fail."

"I do not know. The race is not always with the swift, nor the battle with the strong; but I will essay to try."

"If you will come this way, holy father, you shall be admitted into her cell. Shall I remain, or shall I return?"

"I will be alone, for I will confess her, and bring her mind to a calm state. Then, when I have her confidence, I will begin the object in view, and then we shall find whether there is any probability of that system being successful."

"Certainly; but if not?"

"Why, we must adopt more energetic means, and these we must continue to pursue until there is an end of hope, or life; for when coercion is once begun we must continue it on without intermission."

"No doubt—no doubt, holy father."

"Have you any others who are in a very similar state to this unhappy being?"

"None, holy father, none; but this is her door. She will be sulky, or spiteful, as the humour may be; but, at the same time, she will not spare me, because I have, as you see, thus confined her to this place as a punishment."

"You have done right, sister, quite right—there is no blame."

The abbess opened the door, and at the same moment they both entered the dungeon in which the unfortunate young female was thrust by the aid of paternal authority, sanctioned by religious usage, and a presumed right they had over her actions.

"This, holy father," said the abbess, "is the unfortunate female whose case I told you of as being so desperate, that there is no remedy left but that to which we never resort, save in an extremity, and upon no other occasion whatever."

"I see, sister—I see; but I hope one so young has not been entirely won over to the enemy. I trust she will not strive against those who strive for her."

"This holy man," said the abbess to Juliet; "this holy man has travelled from St. Peter's, at Rome, and has come to examine, with the sanction of his holiness the Pope, the state of our spiritual existence. See that you give good account of yourself."

"What the lady abbess has stated to you," said Father Francis, "is no more than the truth. I am so come, and for such a purpose. Prepare, therefore, to confess, and tell me freely what it is that troublest your soul. Confess, daughter."

The monk drew a stool towards him, and having sat down, he waved his hand towards the abbess, who stood by, saying, —

"I will hear her confess; we must be alone."

There was an instant movement on the part of the abbess, and she quitted the cell of the lady, placed the key of the door on the inside, and left them alone.

"Daughter," said the monk, after awhile, "daughter, what is this I hear of you?"

The unfortunate young woman fixed her eyes upon her questioner, and took them not off him during some minutes; and a shudder seemed to pass through her mind.

"I have spoke to thee," said the monk.

"You have," answered Juliet.

"Then answer me."

"I cannot. I know not what has been said."

"Could you not guess?"

"I might, holy father; but what can that be to such as you? You must know that I have been put here according to the abbess's orders."

"I do know so much, daughter. What more have you to say?"

"Simply, that I know not what I am thus confined here for."

"Since you know it not, I will tell you. You have disobeyed the abbess's orders—that is what you are now punished for—'tis a heinous offence."

"I am not yet one of the order, holy father; and, therefore, the abbess has no right to do this; and if she did not know that my friends were her abettors, she dare not do it; 'tis a grievous injury, and a deep and shameful wrong. Instead of religion being, as it ought to be, the safeguard of the poor and weak against the rich and powerful, it is a means of oppression against those who have no power."

"These are hard accusations, daughter."

"They will bear the proof, however, and that fairly. Where have I taken the vows? —where am I the sworn sister? —tell me that, holy father."

"I have come for another purpose, daughter; you have been undutiful to those whom nature and God gave control over you; and you have desired to live disgracefully; surely, these are things that deserve punishment, for they are great moral crimes."

"I cannot see any such, holy father."

"I am afraid your soul is in an unclean state, daughter. There is no hope for you until this is amended; depend upon it, you can never prosper while you set at naught the desires of those who rule you."

"But they have no right to force me to an alternative that my soul revolts at."

"You cannot mean you revolt at becoming one of the holy and chaste sisterhood here? —that must be a libel upon your chastity."

"Holy father, it is not the age, nor under the circumstances, at which such a proposal can be made with any chance of success; for I am quite confident that I am born with better prospects than those which now threaten me. My father and mother had no right to send me here; they led me to believe I should inherit a fortune, and now they desire I should enter a cloister."

"And you have given them cause to change the original intention they had concerning you; you are disobedient, that is enough."

"But, holy father, there is a power stronger than a father's or a mother's—a power of which the church approves. What would you more?"

"What power?"

"The divine command which says, we shall leave a parent and fly to the arms of him whom we have chosen to become our husband."

"The devil can quote scripture when he has any object in view. But, Juliet, you are carried away by the strength of your own passion. This is a disgraceful marriage, and one you should not contract—one that would never be sanctioned by them."

"It might be so—that is, unsanctioned by them; but there is no disgrace in being married to a young officer who loved me."

"And whom you mean really to marry?"

"Yes."

"And you would, in fact, marry any one who would offer himself, instead of being a nun?"

"I would sooner die—and I will, by slow starvation—sooner than become one of this or any other order."

"I see—but who was this young man?"

"Jules di Maestro."

"How strange—how passing strange!" said the monk, changing his tone from one of severity to one of sadness and sorrow.

"Why, what ails you, holy father? Has anything happened?"

"I know not, my daughter, whether to feel most sorrow or most anger; but your case is one that requires some care. Whether to tell you all, or whether to conceal a part, or—or—in fact, to tell the whole and trust to your goodness."

"What do you mean—what do you mean? Your manner distresses me. I cannot understand you at all—speak, for the love of Heaven!"

"I can hardly do so, unless, by a solemn vow, you promise secrecy."

"I swear," said the hasty and impatient Juliet.

"Then listen."

"I do—I do. For Heaven's sake, keep me no longer in suspense!"

"Well, then, Jules di Maestro and I concocted a plan together, which we were to execute with the view of getting you out of this convent, so that you might both quit the kingdom of Naples, and get into some of the free states."

"Oh, dear Jules! and did he really take so much trouble about me—did he really mean to do so much? I can never be grateful enough to him."

"Why, you remember his last attempt?"

"I heard of it; but it did not succeed, But it must be two months ago.["]

"It was. We both were present."

"Both! You?"

"Yes; I was present, and wounded in the affray, though not so bad as poor Maestro."

"Hurt! but he has got over that, else you would not come here from him to plan another escape, which I see you have. I am truly sorry for his hurts; but he is, no doubt, well again."

"Stay—stay—you are much to sanguine."

"He has not forgotten me?"

"No; but you must permit me to speak. I am quite sure that had you heard the whole of the affair, you would not speak in this strain; for had I known that I had to tell you unwelcome news, I would not have undertaken this affair, even urged as I have been by him and your beauty."

"What mean you?"

"Why, that Jules is dead. He died within a few days after the last attempt that he made to rescue you from your captivity."

"What, do I hear aright! Jules dead! Great God, impossible—quite impossible! Nothing so dreadful can be real."

"I am sorry to say it is so," said the monk; "very sorry."

"But how did it fall out?" asked Juliet, who appeared to be too much stunned to feel anything acutely; "tell me how."

"When we made our last attempt to get you out, it failed; for we were both compelled to defend ourselves, and to fly before a numerous body of men. I should have got clear of them, but I saw that Jules was made prisoner, so I charged and rescued him from their hands."

"It was nobly done of you."

"Then, you see, I got some marks that I could not help; there were too many; but poor Jules got mortally wounded."

"Heaven be merciful to him!"

"I hope so; but he was not killed immediately. I got him quite away without any one being able to tell who he was, but that was an effort that cost me much. I took him away, as I said, and I sat by his side when he breathed his last breath."

"And what said Jules?" inquired Juliet, as she shed many bitter tears. "What said he? did he not curse her who had caused him such an end?"

"No, no; Jules did not; he wept when he knew his wounds were mortal, not because he was to die, but because he must leave you here, and you would be for ever ignorant of his fate; that is what most affected him, I assure you."

"Ah! he was of a noble, generous nature."

"I, however, promised him that I would see you, and let you know how the matter had stood with him; and he gave you his last blessing, and desired me not to tell your family that he was dead, as it would be a triumph for them; at the same time he wished, if possible, I could supply his place to you in his stead."

"No, no," said Juliet; "no, no; that can never be. I loved Jules, and can never love any one else, and will never try. No, no; Jules and Jules only, will I live for!"

"But he is dead."

"Then for him will I die, too; he died for me, and I will for him."

"But his last words were to me—'Go and see Juliet, tell her truly how I died, and what my last wishes were. Those I have formed with the full belief that they are for her benefit. I know how she is placed—without a friend, and in danger.'"

"Yes, yes; now I have no one to help me."

"You have me, if you choose."

"Not at the price you spoke of."

"But you know not how clearly he expressed himself upon the matter; he knew the life you lead then—what it will be by and by—you know the starvation which you will have to feel, and, perhaps, be built up in a wall after all."

"Oh, God!"

"He said, 'See, and tell her you have nearly lost your life in serving me, and in serving her; that I am under an obligation to you for saving my life more than once. Thus, Juliet is the last word I pronounced, and the last I thought of—but if I had a legacy to leave you,' he said, 'I would leave her, and die happy if I thought you would enable her to escape. Marry her, and keep all the world at defiance—then, indeed, I could be happy—almost as happy as if I lived to be in your happy position.'

"'I will,' I replied; 'I will endeavour to obtain her escape.'

"'Will you swear?'

"'I do swear,' I replied; 'and at the same time I will risk my life, and lose it, if she will accept of me for a husband; but I cannot for less.'

"'You have said enough,' he replied; 'I am satisfied.'"

"And he died?" said Juliet.

"Yes; he died; but I have been long enough. I will see you again before another day is past, and then I will learn your determination. Do not let my cause be rejected because I have not urged it forward as I could have done; but the truth is, it is an honest one, and it will speak for itself. Farewell for the present; be secret and silent. They think me monk, for I have assumed this disguise, at the peril of my life, which will be taken with cruel tortues if I am discovered."

There was a pause, when the monk resumed again, —

"If you can consent to become my wife by this time to-morrow, I will endeavour to free you from bondage."

"Why purchase the motive to a good action?"

"I do not do so. I only purchase a right which, if risk of life, and all that man hold dear, be anything, why, you will not think me a Jew in the bargain. Think, lady, think upon what I have offered you."

"I do think; but 'tis a hard bargain for me to lose my liberty either way."

"Nay, you gain it, for you would be my mistress. But, hark! here comes the abbess. I must bid you adieu."

"How fares the penitent?" inquired the abbess, entering.

"I cannot gain either a satisfactory or an unsatisfactory answer to your inquiry. I will, however, see her to-morrow again, and if I find she is obdurate, perhaps the shortest way will be an application to the inquisition."

"Think of that, daughter," sadi the abbess, leaving the cell.

"Think of that," added the monk, "as your means of leaving the cell—of escaping. Farewell, daughter. Benedicite."

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