 | CHAPTER V. The brothers : |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
That after-hours with sorrow chide us not!
Rom. Amen, Amen! But, come what sorrow can,
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
That one short minute gives me in her sight.”
Romeo and Juliet.
With a heart filled almost to bursting, I hurried
forth to seek the superior of the convent; and
never, perhaps, did I feel a mightier conflict of
principles and impulses, of doubts and hopes, than
in the agitating moments which preceded that
strange wedding. Anticipating the unwillingness
of the worthy Benedictine to give his sanction to the
solemn union of two persons to whose characters
so much of mystery and suspicion must naturally
attach, and that too under circumstances which
might call down upon himself the resentment of powerful
enemies, and possibly bring upon his community
the more deeply-dreaded censure of their
common superior, I had tasked my spirit to the
utmost to find some plausible solution of the difficulties
for a marriage so clandestine, so sudden, and,
above all, so authorized as that which it was my
object now to solemnize. And, strange to say, the
very search for a justification of my conduct to
the understanding of another, tended to render me
dissatisfied, and doubtful of myself. Is it possible,
I thought, or rather is it not probable, that I have
been the slave of impulse, the toy of sudden passion—that
I have surrendered my discretion to my
feelings, that I have suffered my soul to be lapped
in Elysium by the mere beauty and fascinations
of an artful woman, and that I shall awake from
my dream of paradise to find myself the inmate of
a moral Tartarus? And yet her refusal to become
my bride suggested my passion, or, as I
now am fain to believe, my better genius—her
manifest reluctance to owe that to compassion, or
to the intensity of sudden feeling, which she might
have accepted freely, if offered under different circumstances.
And might not this be the result of
artifice—deep-laid and hitherto successful artifice?
I felt that I had acted rashly—madly, if you will.
I doubted the wisdom, I wellnigh trembled at the
risk, of the step I had already taken; yet—so
strangely are our minds made up of opposite and
counteracting principles—I had not, for a single
withdrawing my foot from the verge, how perilous
soever I might deem it, whereon it had been
planted by my own unbiased will. There were,
in my inmost soul, two concurring sensations,
which would probably have urged me onward in
the teeth of obstacles even greater than those
which seemed to bar my progress. The first was
one of those wild fancies, those superstitions, if
you will, which have been common in all times
and countries to intellects more powerful than my
own—to minds, indeed, of the highest order; one
of those creeds—not of the head, but of the heart;
one of those beliefs which, for ever disowned by
reason, for ever keep their place in our bosoms,
and exert an influence, not the less potent that it
is unconfessed, over our actions,—it was the conviction
of my own good-fortune. Yes!—wild, absurd
as such an idea may appear—my own inborn
good-fortune! The partisan of a fallen cause—
the soldier of a conquered army—the adherent of
a dethroned and a slaughtered monarch—an exile
from the land of my birth—the last outcast scion
of an attainted title—landless, friendless, and
alone, I still believed in my own good-fortune;
not, perhaps, as relating to connected consequences,
not to a series of events, but confidently
times, during my stormy and eventful career,
had I rushed headlong, as it would seem,
upon destruction; and the very madness of the
proceeding had as often worked out its ultimate
success. To the metaphysician and philosopher
be it to analyze the belief, and to search out its
secret causes. They would, perhaps, tell you that
my mind had, in truth, by some unconscious operation,
balanced the chances and calculated the bearings
of every successive step; till that which in
every instance appeared the result of fortuitous
combinations was, in reality, the consequence of
plans matured, as it were, instinctively, and forgotten,
though still operating, during the whirl of
action and excitement. Be it to them, I say, to
reason, to qualify,—and, if they can, to explain. I
am a soldier, and I know not, and care yet less,
whether my thoughts be comprehensible or no.
The belief which I then held, which I still hold,
was, that, rush into whatever dilemma I might, my
own good-luck would bear me out, not scathless
only, but victorious. This, then, was the first and
leading principle which hurried me onward in
despite of my own judgment; the second, scarcely,
perhaps, less influential than that which I have
just described, was a conviction of the purity, the
and suspicious mind alone that doubted; my
heart was confident, and on that confidence I
acted; after-events will tell if wisely,—or, at
least, if fortunately.
Pondering thus—doubting, and debating with
myself—I strode along the gloomy cloisters; till I
found myself already in the presence of him I
sought, before I had determined what should be
my arguments, or what my inducements to the
holy man to minister to my wishes. I had not
hitherto seen the father, to whom my application
was to be made. Hospitality had been furnished,
as a matter of course, and without inquiry;
though I subsequently discovered that
every circumstance of my coming had been made
known to him, who was to be the arbiter of my present
destinies. On the first glance at the person to
whom I was about to prefer my request, I was
resolved. I saw before me a tall, pale, and emaciated
man—not surely past the prime of the intellectual
man—but worn, as it struck me at once,
rather by the workings of a spirit too subtile and
energetic for its clay companion, than by ascetic
self-inflictions. His cowl had fallen back from his
nobly-formed head; and as he sat facing the narrow
casement, the last faint rays of the wintry
almost superhuman features. His temples, perfectly
bald and unwrinkled, were not disfigured
by the formal tonsure, though a beard of the most
intense blackness flowed in long and silky waves
far down his bosom. There was a something of
severity in the general expression, but a bland and
beautiful smile played upon the chiselled lips;
while his soft dark eyes looked out from their deep
sockets with a mingled brilliancy and benignity,
that rendered his countenance altogether the most
remarkable that I had ever witnessed. He looked
the imbodiment of a spirit; as I gazed upon his
lustrous eyes, and wonderfully intellectual features,
I forgot that I was looking on a mortal like
myself. There was a purity, a truth, a beauty in
that face, that seemed to indicate the absence of
every earthly passion, accompanied by a divine
sympathy for the very feelings which he had himself
been permitted to eradicate or subdue, when
existing in the breasts of others. I felt as though
he had already perused my inmost soul, as though
he knew my object, my aims, my motives. I
could no more have attempted to deceive or to
diplomatize with such a man than I could have
lied before the throne of the Eternal. So complete
was the fascination of this strange being
voice that fitly harmonized with the frame from
which it was breathed, deep, melodious, and passionless,
he inquired the purport of my visit. At
once, and without hesitation, I told him all,—the
duel in the forest—the rescue—the pursuit—the
mystery. I probed my own heart, and told him of
my fears, my doubts, my determination. I told him
distinctly, and without disguise, who and whence
I was; showed him the missive of Mazarin, and
explained its real object; and concluded by entreating
him to perform a deed of the utmost benevolence
in uniting me to Isabel.
As I began to speak, he listened to me calmly,
and with attention, though, as it struck me, with a
slightly incredulous expression. As I proceeded,
that expression vanished into one of intense scrutiny
and interest; and as I spoke of my affection for
Isabel, of my deep passionate conviction of her
purity, and of my certainty that the only chance of
rescuing her lay in our instant union, that benignant
smile irradiated his whole countenance, and I
thought I saw a big tear roll down his pale cheek;
but, as I paused an instant from my narrative to
mark his features, he observed my glance, and
drawing his cowl forward, shadowed himself completely
from my further scrutiny. When I had
as if buried in the deepest reflection, ere he
replied:—
“The truth is in your words, my son, and well
for you it is so. Had you swerved from the
straight path but for the breadth of a single hair,
I could not, and I would not, have served you.
Well have you acted thus far, and nobly. That in
your further views you are actuated by high and
honourable motives, I well believe, though it
might, perhaps, be rash to term them wise ones.
It is singular that you should have thus been led
to apply yourself to me; for I—and I, perhaps,
alone of all men—can, and will assist you. You
have, it seems, yourself well weighed the risks you
run in wedding this young person; and are yet willing,
if I understand you rightly, to run these risks,
not for your own advancement, but for her preservation.
Is it not so?”
I signified my assent.
“It is a mighty sacrifice,” he muttered to himself,
and then repeated it again aloud—“it is a
mighty sacrifice, my son, and many an ecclesiastic
would deem it his bounden duty to prevent it.
But I—I love the sacrifice of self to honour—I
love the buoyant, ardent, and unselfish aspirations
of youth; enough—I will believe, will hope
would appear. Something, too, I can gather from
your narrative, of whom and what the lady is,
and what the oppression from which you would
preserve her—you know it not?”
“Father, I know it not!”
“It is wonderful—” he again spoke aside; and
ere he again addressed me, I saw his fingers pass
over his beads, and his lips move in silent prayer.
“Then from me you should know it not, even
had I the power to explain! Yet, thus much will I
tell you; and if, knowing this, you choose to persevere—I
will—I will unite you. If it be as well
I am assured it is,—this Isabel de Coucy is the
child of misery—may be the child of shame and
guilt. A dark and fearful mystery dwells over
her; one which, if it were divulged, would make
her an object of aversion and of dread to all
who heed the world's opinion more than their
own souls' judgment. Misery there is—misery of
her own; guilt—I say not of her own—but of all
those whose name she bears—misery, and guilt,
and shame, such as may never be cleared up; and
which, if not cleared up, must make her shunned
of men. If, knowing thus much, you dread, as it
well may be, the contempt or censure of the world,
forget that you have ever seen, and leave her—to
desert her. But if, knowing this, you dare abide
by the dictates of your own conscience, or of your
own heart,—and be sure, ere you decide, you
know which it be that prompts you,—meet me an
hour hence in the chapel, and I will further your
desires. Peril it will bring upon me, and, it may
be, destruction; but I see my path of duty,—and”
—he looked upward—“fiat voluntas tua!”
“Father,” I replied, “I had resolved upon my
line of action before I sought your presence. I
am no more a man to blench from what I deem
the path of honour, for the scorn of men, than you
to shrink from the road of Christian virtue, though
it should lead to martyrdom! Say but that you
will make her mine, that you will keep her from violence
till my return, and you shall have the prayers
of one who, though his trade be violence and blood,
hath not forgotten in his prime the lessons of his
childhood, and whose sins have been the sins of
weakness—not of wilfulness!”
“That I will make her yours, my son, I have
already promised; that I will protect her to the
utmost of my power, you are now assured! How
far I may be enabled to guard her, as your wife, I
know not; as a maiden, she would be ravished
hence before to-morrow's dawn. We are but
above who may accomplish or annul, and to Him
we will submit ourselves in confidence, and in the
fear that yet is love!”
The hour passed away like a dream. I had acquainted
Isabel with my success, and at her own
request had left her alone with her sorrows and
her hopes. The hour passed away like a dream,
and I was still pacing the floor of my turret-chamber,
when a brother summoned me with the information
that his superior awaited me in the chapel.
I entered the apartment of my chosen one. I
found her prostrate on her knees, with lifted hands
and streaming eyes, and my name trembling on
her lips, mingled with the awful titles of Him to
whom she, for the last time, offered up the aspirations
of her virgin heart!
“Come,” I whispered, “come, my beloved,—
the holy father waits us. Banish your tears, sweet
Isabel; henceforth you shall shed none,—or shed
but tears of happiness!”
“O Harry,” she murmured; “dearest Harry,
there is a cloud of dread and doubt around me, and
I more than half repent the promise you wrung
from me. You take me to your arms, to your
heart—your glorious and confiding heart. And
what have I to give you in return,—a broken
of the world,—a thing whose very name
will be a reproach to you! O Harry! Harry!
spare me; release me from my fatal vows. If
you knew all, you would release me—release me,
did I say?—would spurn me!”
“Isabel,” I interrupted her calmly and gravely—
“Isabel de Coucy—if you repent your promise on
your own account, you are at liberty; if not, do
me, at least, the justice to believe that I am a man
of truth and honour. If you cannot believe this,
better, better it were, indeed, for me and you to
perish where we stand, than to go forward in this
matter. I have in you all confidence—all faith.
In you I repose my honour as freely and as fully
as I trust one day to repose my soul in my Creator's
mercy. You have told me that you are innocent
of wrong; and had you told me otherwise, I
had deemed you still innocent of all—but slander
on yourself. Did I not believe you pure, and taintless,
and single-hearted, sooner would I take to
my arms deformity, ay, death herself, than you
with all your charms, were they to last for ever!
If you believe me—if you believe that I shall love
you ever as I love you now—that I should but
cherish you more fervently, esteem you more
thoroughly, if you were rejected, scorned, and
If you cannot believe this—we will part, even at
the altar's foot! It is for you to determine.
Speak, Isabel! speak for me as for yourself! and
bethink you that an error now is an error that
must endure for ever—that love, devoid of confidence,
is but a summer's flower; and that the
union of a man and wife must brave the wintry
storm as freely as it hails the summer sunshine!”
Without another word, without an instant's hesitation,
she grasped my proffered hand, pressed it
to her heart, to her lips. “No! no!” she cried,
“no, Harry! not for a moment have I doubted
aught but my own unworthiness—” Before she
could conclude her sentence, I folded her in
my arms, parted the sunny tresses from her fair
brow to press on it one chaste and passionless kiss,
drew her hand under my arm, and led her towards
the chapel. Conducted by the monk, we
threaded the long corridors within the pile; thence
through a low-browed arch we gained the outer
cloisters,—dark, damp, and cheerless. I felt the
frame of my companion shiver as we passed along
the gloomy cavernous range, and I knew intuitively
the thoughts that were working in her guileless
heart. In moments such as these, the strongest
heart is prone to superstitious terrors; the
of chance, and pin their faith, as it were,
upon a falling leaf or fading flower. I was about
to speak cheerfully, when our conductor unlatched
a door leading into an inner garden, beyond which
lay the chapel, with its tall pointed windows glancing
in the moonlight. The contrast between the
gloom within and the heavenly brilliancy without
was not required to impress the mind with the
beauty of the scene. The quiet garden, with its
clustering evergreens, its imbowered walks, and its
dark foliage, gemmed with the night-dew, and sleeping
in the placid moonshine—the crystal pool in the
centre, with its tall fountain shooting upward
towards the clear blue sky, its summit bathed in
silvery light, and a thousand prismatic colours
playing on its dancing rain-drops, while its base
lay steeped in shadow—the light clustered columns
and pointed arches rich with the florid traceries
of the later Norman style—the rustle of the
gentle west wind among the shrubs—for the night
was as calm and spring-like as the morning had been
wintry and severe—combined to form one of the
most lovely pictures of tranquillity and happiness I
had ever witnessed. Isabel raised her liquid eyes
to mine, sparkling through their tears; and I felt
that I but echoed the words which they were uttering,
sweet Isabel—through gloom and sorrow; and so
to end—in light, and peace, and bliss!”
We entered the chapel, and the same tranquillity
was there. A single lamp, by the high
altar, streamed over the magnificent painting that
adorned the sacred spot, glanced upon the massive
chalices and candlesticks of gold that stood
around the shrine; and showed, nobler than all
those works of art and beauty, the high pale form
of the Benedictine prior. Beyond the circle of
light that emanated from the single lamp, the long
nave lay in mellowed gloom, save where the pure
moonlight streamed through the open doorway in
its natural hues, or slept upon the marble floor in
variegated tints, derived from the stained glass of
the lancet-shaped windows. The banners, which
decorated the walls, hung silent and unshaken,
and here and there some monument of whiter
marble, or the panoply which hung in monumental
mockery over the bones of some knight of other
days, touched by a stray beam, stood out from
the shadows in ghostly relief. There was no
chanted mass, no pealing of the organ, or streaming
of high anthems down the aisle; no plumed
spectators, no gay and congratulating friends, no
smiling bridemaids, no clamorous crowd without,
important ceremony in the life of man, but two of
the eldest brethren of the order and the superior,
who performed the solemn rite. No witness, did
I say? There was a witness felt, if not seen, by two,
at least, of that small company—the One Eternal
Witness of every human thought as well as deed;
the One who hears and registers, not only every
vow, but every word that falls from the thoughtless
lip; and who never, perhaps, registered the
union of two hearts more single and devoted than
those which were joined in that solitary chapel on
that eventful night.
| CHAPTER V. The brothers : | |