University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
THE CHAPEL.

The Fugitive on alighting and securing her horse at the entrance of the
woodlands, lingered an instant to listen and gaze up the road to ascertain if her
faithful black was approaching, when, finding all still, she lightly ascended a
path leading over the hill through the densest part of the grove. She moved
forward with a steady step as if she had before traversed it, although the faint
star-light breaking through the opening above her head gave her but an imperfect
outline of the way.

At length she reached the top of the wooded ascent and found herself upon a
green knoll with but one or two old oaks growing upon it, and a wide expanse
of view around her. Before her on a hill opposite could be faintly seen by her
the dark body of some huge building with turrets and bastions.

`This is the place, she said, as the irregular outline of the object met her
eyes; `I began to fear for a moment that I was wandering, it seems so much farther
by night than in the day. `Yonder then is my home! There is to be my
refuge from the—; but I will not utter what my thoughts shudder to dwell
upon! This night I bury the past forever, and henceforth have no affections,
no hopes, no wishes but for the world beyond the stars.'

As she spoke she folded her clasped hands together upon her bosom, and lifting
her eyes towards the glittering skies stood a moment as if in silent worship.

`My path lies around this oak to the right and so across the glen,' she said
advancing and preparing to descend the hill; `it seems different in its features
now from what it did when I have rode it before! Alas! how little did I think
when I so often took this road and followed these woodland paths in my morning
rides on horseback I should find my knowledge of such use to me now!
Alas, how little did I anticipate the dreadful circumstances which have compelled
me to-night to be a fugitive where I have so often rode for pleasure, with
a happy heart and joyous hopes! rode, too, with him by my rein, his every
look dwelling on mine with the tenderness of adoring love,—but I must forget!
I may net dwell on this theme! I shall go mad! Before me is my
tomb, let me hasten to the sepulchre and when I cross its friendly threshold
let me leave the world, and all I have so loved in it, behind me forever.'

She descended the hill-side by a green sward pathway, and proceeded very
nearly in the direction taken by the horseman, after leaving his horse tied to
the hedge, when he went to examine more nearly the ruins. The convent was
not now, however, a ruin, but its walls and towers rose proudly, crowning an
imposing appearance, the summit of Mont Benedict. Slowly the fugitive maiden
toiled up the ascent, and soon reaching an avenue that led to the main portal,
she followed it until she came in front of the entrance. Here she paused.—
Her heart throbbed wildly. She was compelled to lean for support against one
of the stone buttresses of the gate in the wall which environed the edifice. She
looked up and shuddered, as she surveyed its dark line of walls in the shadows
of which she found herself already embraced. Along the whole sombre front,

there was not a single ray of light visible. Silence and a sort of stern repose
reigned.

`Courage, poor heart! `Thou must not shrink now,' she said, in a deep
whisper! `Thou hast no more to do with throbbing for the world! Here is thy
home till heaven's portals open to thee a better!'

She looked for some means, a bell or a knocker, to draw the attention of the
portress when, to her surprise, the gate yielded to the pressureof her hand, and
she found herself within the outer wall of the convent enclosure. As she passed
through she thought she discovered a small group of men advancing up the hill-side,
and instinctively she turned the massive key and bolted the gate, as if she
would shut out the world she fled from. Paths, bordered with shrubbery and
shade trees, were around her, and at a distance to the right, she saw the twinkling
of a light amid the interstices of the foliage. She was now setisfied she heard
low voices of men outside the gate, and trembling from apprehension of pursuit,
she turned aside from the great portal which was immediately before her, and
entered a narrow, winding gravel-path which led in the direction of the light.
With a soft, trembling half-hesitating tread, the young girl approached the spot
whence the beam shone forth. As she came nearer, she saw a small chapel half-embowered
in trees, and through a small trellised window beheld an altar, upon
which burned two wax candles before a small silver crucifix. With reverential
awe, she advanced nearer the sacred spot, and discovering by the side of the window
a door partly open, she entered, and seeing that the chapel was quite unoccupied,
knelt before the altar.

For a few moments she remained with her forehead prostrate upon the marble
step and her face buried in her hand, while some deep and heavy grief
seemed to agitate her whole frame. At length her emotion ceased and she raised
her face. It was calm yet still tearful, and as she fixed her dark beautiful eyes
on the image of her crucified Redeemer, a smile of hope and peace passed over
her face like a sunny beam through an April cloud. The rays of the candles
upon the altar fell upon her features revealing a countenance youthful and of
extraordinary loveliness. Her age could not have been more than eighteen or
nineteen, and her figure of just and exquisite proportions was developed with
faultless outline. She was habited in black without any ornaments save a
small cross of pearls that reposed upon the gentle cradle of her heaving bosom.
When she entered the chapel she had let fall from her head a plain straw hat
which with the veil now hungadown her shoulders.

How pure, how gentle, yet how sad the expression of her lovely countenance
uplifted to the crucifix in love and faith, that strong love and faith which the
heart sends forth in sorrow! In it could be read profound despair struggling
with the great hopes that lift up the desponding. There was no passion—on
bitterness—all was submission—but broken hearted submission—to some dreadful
destiny that had befallen her.

That she was the daughter of the Roman Church was evident from her devotion
before this altar; and that her home was in sunnier climes than this which
now found her a fugitive, was plain from the rich olive tint of her soft skin, the
glorious splendor of her large dark eyes, the raven blackness of her hair. As
she kneeled there, with her tear-glittering eyes uplifted to the cross, a personification
of feminine loveliness, chastened grief and holy submission, a person
stood on the threshold of the chapel gazing upon her with looks of surprise and
awe as if she had beheld a living Madonna bending before the altar.

The person was a female of great dignity of appearance and although advanced
beyond the period when female charms command admiration in themselves,
she still retained traces of remarkable personal beauty. Her costume
was dark and plain and there was nothing to distinguish her as the lady superior
of the Convent, save her ladylike and commanding presence. She stood
gazing upon the lovely maiden with an expression at once of surprise, benignity
and curiosity.

The fair girl after fixing her eyes for some moments upon the crucifix as if
in silent prayer pressed her lips to its feet and bathed them with a fresh out-break
of grievous tears.

`All, all must be given up!' she cried with the most touching accents of
grief. `His noble love—his fond affection—all the sweet hope of my heart
of hearts! All must be given up—and buried in oblivion! It will break

his heart! Were I, alone, the sufferer, perhaps I would bear it alone; but my
bosom bleeds for thee, my noble Bertrand! How wilt thou bear it? But
thou canst never know the truth! Oh, Mary Mother! sustain him! I pray
not for myself—for soon I feel I shall be with thee in peace! Now,' she said
rising from her knees, as the Convent clock tolled twelve in its low tower;
`let me gather firmness to carry out my purpose. Let me dry these tears and
still this tumultuous heart Soon, very soon, it will cease throbbing altogether
and then Heaven, sweet Heaven, will make me to forget my inheritance upon
earth!'

She turned to leave the chapel and beheld the lady Superior standing in the
door and regarding her with a look of pity and benevolence. On beholding,
her Marie started back a step, but the next moment won by her gentle aspect,
she rushed forward and cast herself at her feet.

`Nay, daughter, not at my feet but against my heart,' said she, in a voice,
kind and maternal in its tones. `I have heard thy heart's utterance of its woes,
when you thought, at this midnight hour, no eye but thy Saviour, and his
blessed mother were upon thee!'

`I am very unhappy, mother, and seek here an asylum from the world,' said
Marie, in a sweet, low voice, suffering the kind lady Superior to raise her up,
when laying her face upon her sustaining arm, she hung there like a fragile
vine that has found support for its wandering tendrils.

`Thou shalt have it here, daughter,' answered the lady with emotion;
`here thou shalt be at peace!'

`Peace I hope not for, holy mother! I come here for a brief refuge till death,
with gentle hand, shall open to me the gates of everlasting peace!'

`Come with me, my child,' said the Lady Superior, struck with her wonderful
loveliness, and moved by her despairing grief. `Come with me, and
I will give thee shelter which, for unhappy ones like thee, this sacred retreat was
provided. How hast thou found entrance here, my child? I came hither, as I
am wont of late at this hour, to pray for the protection of our holy privileges
and the disarming of the rage of the protestants against our religion and even
against us, for the times are full of evil, child, and dark menances have reached our
ears, even in this sacred retreat, of violence meditated!'

The Lady Superior spoke with scornful severity, and then after a moment's silence
as if reflecting upon the evils she spoke of, she repeated her question of the
young fugitive.

`I came hither to find refuge, noble mother, and as a fugitive. The place
whence I came, ask not of me, nor my motives in coming hither! Give no one
knowledge of my retreat if I should be sought for. I come with a faithful attendant,
whom I took leave of not far distant and came hither alone. I had,
before, passed the convent and knew its paths. On reaching the gate I found
it ajar and entered.'

`Found the convent gate ajar?' repeated the lady Superior, with surprise
and alarm. `Then have we a traitor among us!'

I thought I saw four or five men near as I passed through the gate, and fearing,
as I still do, that they might be pursuers, I, with a great effort, turned the lock
and thus secured a barrier between me and them. After I had got in I distinctly
heard their voices, and to escape being seen even through the bars of the gate
I turned aside to the chapel where you discovered me!'

`Your presence of mind, child, has doubtless saved us from some evil,' answered
the Lady Superior, speaking in a tone as if relieved in a degree from apprehensions
of danger. `Come with me towards the gate, and let me discover
if it is indeed secured; though, alas, if the passions of our enemies should break
out, little would bolts of iron and bars of oak or pillars of stone avail, unless our
strength lay in the arm of the Almighty. Nay—then child, if you shrink from
going, take that walk to the convent portal, and I will meet you there in a moment
and go in with you.'

Thus speaking the Lady Superior took her way in the direction of the chief
gate of the walls which she cautiously approached concealed by the shrubbery.
She came close to it, with a beating heart, yet a courageous spirit, for courage
and firmness were called for, as she distinctly heard the subdued voices of men.
As she came where she could look through the gate, she saw plainly, six
men standing on the outside. Their words were audible to her ear.

`What shall now be done?' asked one, in a tone of disappointment.

`It is plain she has deceived us, or has been prevented from coming out. Their
suspicions are already awakened in the convent, and it is likely that new precautions
will be used. Perhaps the doors are all locked, or her intentions may
be suspected and she is afraid to act.'

`It defeats all our plan, finding the gate fast when we had the pledge that it
should be left open,' said a young man, whose figure was hid by a large cloak,
speaking in a tone of one who had authority among them. `My betrothed
bride must be rescued; and if not to-night it must be to-morrow night.'

`To-morrow night then,' responded two or three voices. `It is plain we can
do nothing now as our way is bound up.'

`Unless we break down the gate,' said a low voice, that sounded like that
of a man who ventures a bold suggestion by way of feeling the pulse of his
companions.'

`It might be done and shall be done,' answered the young man in the cloak,
in an imperative tone, `if we cannot carry out our purpose and effect our object
in this way.'

`Why not to-night as well as at another time?' said the voice which suggested
breaking in the gate.

`We are not prepared to-night. We are not strong enough for this. If this
thing is to be done, we must have more men.'

`If it be done, let it be done by the people,' deeply responded one who had not
yet spoken. `When it is done let the place be sacked, and its walls levelled of
the ground.'

`Amen,' responded every voice, like the voice of one man.

The men then turned from the gate and slowly took their way down the
hill, their forms and their voice lost in the distance, leaving the Lady Superior
overcome with the most lively apprehensions of evil about to befal the sacred
retreat over which she presided.

`Now have we need, indeed, holy mother of the Crucified One, of thy intercession
and power;' she cried, crossing herself, and elevating her eyes to
heaven; `the storm that has so long been brewing is lowering to discharge its
volume of popular fury upon our devoted heads. But still I trust in the Great
Protector of the Church that these evils shall be averted, and that the unruly
passions of men shall redound to his glory. I will see that this beauteous
dove which has flown hither for shelter, perhaps from the storm brewing without
in the agitated world, is cared for, and then I will to prayer; for prayer
hath turned aside rivers, and discomfited armed hosts.'

On reaching the portal she found the lovely fugitive shrinking beneath the
arched way, as if she had not been sure that it was the lady Superior's step.

`Enter with me, child, and as this door closes upon the world behind thee,
may a door be opened in thy heart for the entrance of peace and heavenly
repose.'

`Thanks, holy mother, thanks for this kind wish,' answered Marie, as leaning
on the hand of the lady Superior, she passed with her beneath the portal, the
door of which, she opened with a small pass key she carried with her. Marie found
herself, when the door closed, in a large, lofty vestibule, without any other furniture
than a bench against the wall, which was visible by the dim rays shed
from a bronzed lamp that hung from the centre of the ceiling, flinging beneath a
circle of dark shadow. Crossing this place to a door partly open at its extremity,
they passed the portress asleep in a wide-chair, a missallying upon her lap,
her head resting upon her breast. `Arouse thee Teresa,' said the Superior,
touching her upon the forehead with her fore-finger; `this is no time to sleep
in the fold when the lion and the wolf are prowling without. Up and be wakeful
on thy post; and if thou hearest ought unusual give me notice, for there is
danger menacing us, unless God please avert it. And see then, let no one forth
without my leave.'

`What danger dost thou dread, noble lady?' asked Marie as they traversed
the corridor heyond slowly, for her step was weak and faltering and the lady
superior accommodated hers to suit it. `What evil is this you speak of?'

`Hast thou not known? Art thou ignorant of the rumors that agitate the
community without?' she asked, fixing her large piercing eyes upon the face

of her lovely guest, yet with an expression of kindly surprise; `thou hast come
far not to have felt the breath of the tempest upon thy cheek.'

`I have come from a retired home, mother! I know nothing save that this
house is a place of refuge for the unfortunate—an asylum from the storms
of life!'

`It should be, it should be, my child. But I will not distress thee with what
may deepen thy sorrow! God brought thee not hither, from whatever evil thou
hast flown, to cast thee forth again! Thy presence has strengthened my confidence
that all will yet be well. Here, my child, enter with me this chamber!
It is mine and till the morrow shall be thine also, when I will have prepared for
thee a small room that adjoins it!

As the lady superior spoke she opened a door leading from the corridor into
a neat apartment furnished plainly yet with an air of taste. A few religious
volumes upon a hanging shelf, a crucifix upon a small writing table placed beneath
a closely curtained window-recess, a few stuffed chairs, a settee and a
couch without hangings, completed the furniture, with the addition of three or
four fine old paintings of heads of the saints and apostles hung upon the plain
walls. Upon the table, which was covered with a black velvet cloth there stood
burning before the crucifix a small silver lamp of unique shape and very richly
chased. An open book lay upon a chair, on which was a rosary of black beads
alternated with gold ones.

`Now my dear child take that chair—it is easiest for you and you seem very
weary!' Marie obeyed her, silently pressing her hands in grateful acknowledgement
of her kindness. `Here you shall have an asylum, whatever be your
griefs. We ask no questions of those who seek refuge here; it is enough that
they require asylum. Sin can never have caused your flight from the world,
sweet child, for innocence and truth are written upon your face! Nay—you
look distressed! I will not speak to you upon the subject again! If you wish,
by and by, to reveal to me your griefs, you will find in me a sympathising listener.
Here, for the present, I will leave you, for I have duties to call me
away,' she said as a quick step along the corridor was followed by alow rap
outside the door.

`My noble friend and mother,' said Marie, seizing both her hands and bathing
them with sudden tears, `I ought to repay your kindness by opening to you
my heart! But I cannot now—I cannot now! It would break it to talk of
events now! Soon, perhaps, I shall be more composed! Then you shall freely
have my confidence! Yet I feel I shall ever shrink from the task!'

`Confess then, only to her—the Blessed Mary Virgin—whose sympathy will
be yours, for she knows all your sorrows,' said the lady superior gazing upon
the countenance of the young girl which, in some past happier hour, she saw
must have been as proud and spiritedly noble with animation and intelligence
as now it was sad and touchingly gentle in its tearful beauty. She felt the
deepest interest in her, and ignorant of the cause of her unhappiness she felt
deeply for the woe of one so youthful and fitted by nature and education to
adorn the most refined circles of the world, from which she had fled to hide herself
forever.

`Mother,' said she, `by and by, perhaps to you, but not now!—possibly
never! Here,' and she drew from her girdle a heavy silk purse, `here are
jewels, that, should I linger life out here to three-score, would thrice cover the
Convent's expenditures for me. Take all for it and the church and let me bury
myself from the world! But my heart tells me that few days only shall I trespass
on your goodness.'

`Ere long I will be with thee, sweet daughter of sorrow,' said the lady superior
without particularly replying to her words and lying the purse of jew
els, unopened, upon the table by the side of the crucifix, `I will speedily return
to you! Seek repose upon the couch and in prayer and the exercise of
faith seek consolation from your Father in Heaven!'

Thus speaking, the lady superior opened the door of the room and confronted
the portress.

`What hath happened, Teresa?'

`The gate bell hath rung thrice in rapid succession!'

`It is the Reverend Father then. But stay! I will precede thee and see if
it he not a foe!'

She advanced at a firm, dignified step along the dimly illumined corridor
and opening the door looked forth. A voice immediately addressed her from
the gate.

`It is his Reverence,' she said with a tone of satisfaction. `I will open the
outer gate in person. `Are you alone, Reverend Father?'

`Alone, and with pressing news! I am rejoiced to find thy gates secured so
well, when I expected to find them thrown wide by treachery within the walls!'

`I am glad of thy presence, Reverend Sir, for what I have seen and heard
this night, together with your words, fills me with the deepest alarm. Enter
the lodge and let me hear what new evil menaces us!'

As she spoke she turned the key and a man of commanding appearance,
in the garb of a Romish priest, entered the avenue and proceeded with her towards
the porter's lodge—his step, as his voice had been, quick and agitated.