PERPLEXITIES
Agnes returned from the confessional with more sadness than her simple
life had ever known before. The agitation of her confessor, the
tremulous eagerness of his words, the alternations of severity and
tenderness in his manner to her, all struck her only as indications of
the very grave danger in which she was placed, and the awfulness of the
sin and condemnation which oppressed the soul of one for whom she was
conscious of a deep and strange interest.
She had the undoubting, uninquiring reverence which a Christianly
educated child of those times might entertain for the visible head of
the Christian Church, all whose doings were to be regarded with an
awful veneration which never even raised a question.
That the Papal throne was now filled by a man who had bought his
election with the wages of iniquity, and dispensed its powers and
offices with sole reference to the aggrandizement of a family
proverbial for brutality and obscenity, was a fact well known to the
reasoning and enlightened orders of society at this time; but it did
not penetrate into those lowly valleys where the sheep of the Lord
humbly pastured, innocently unconscious of the frauds and violence by
which their dearest interests were bought and sold.
The Christian faith we now hold, who boast our enlightened
Protestantism, has been transmitted to us through the hearts and hands
of such,--who, while princes wrangled with Pope, and Pope with princes,
knew nothing of it all, but in lowly ways of prayer and patient labor
were one with us of modern times in the great central belief of the
Christian heart, "Worthy is the Lamb that was slain."
As Agnes came slowly up the path towards the little garden, she was
conscious of a burden and weariness of spirit she had never known
before. She passed the little moist grotto, which in former times she
never failed to visit to see if there were any new-blown cyclamen,
without giving it even a thought. A crimson spray of gladiolus leaned
from the rock and seemed softly to kiss her cheek, yet she regarded
it not; and once stopping and gazing abstractedly upward on the
flower-tapestried walls of the gorge, as they rose in wreath and
garland and festoon above her, she felt as if the brilliant yellow of
the broom and the crimson of the gillyflowers, and all the fluttering,
nodding armies of brightness that were dancing in the sunlight, were
too gay for such a world as this, where mortal sins and sorrows made
such havoc with all that seemed brightest and best, and she longed to
fly away and be at rest.
Just then she heard the cheerful voice of her uncle in the little
garden above, as he was singing at his painting. The words were
those of that old Latin hymn of Saint Bernard, which, in its English
dress, has thrilled many a Methodist class meeting and many a Puritan
conference, telling, in the welcome they meet in each Christian soul,
that there is a unity in Christ's Church which is not outward,--a
secret, invisible bond, by which, under warring names and badges of
opposition, His true followers have yet been one in Him, even though
they discerned it not.
"Jesu dulcis memoria,
Dans vera cordi gaudia:
Sed super mel et omnia
Ejus dulcis præsentia.
"Nil canitur suavius,
Nil auditur jocundius,
Nil cogitatur dulcius,
Quam Jesus Dei Filius.
"Jesu, spes pœnitentibus,
Quam pius es petentibus,
Quam bonus te quærentibus,
Sed quis invenientibus!
"Nec lingua valet dicere,
Nec littera exprimere:
Expertus potest credere
Quid sit Jesum diligere."[5]
[5] "Jesus, the very thought of thee
With sweetness fills my breast;
But sweeter far thy face to see,
And in thy presence rest!
"Nor voice can sing, nor heart can frame,
Nor can the memory find
A sweeter sound than thy blest name,
O Saviour of mankind!
"O hope of every contrite heart,
O joy of all the meek,
To those who fall how kind thou art,
How good to those who seek!
"But what to those who find! Ah, this
Nor tongue nor pen can show!
The love of Jesus, what it is
None but his loved ones know."
The old monk sang with all his heart; and his voice, which had been
a fine one in its day, had still that power which comes from the
expression of deep feeling. One often hears this peculiarity in the
voices of persons of genius and sensibility, even when destitute of any
real critical merit. They seem to be so interfused with the emotions of
the soul, that they strike upon the heart almost like the living touch
of a spirit.
Agnes was soothed in listening to him. The Latin words, the sentiment
of which had been traditional in the Church from time immemorial, had
to her a sacred fragrance and odor; they were words apart from all
common usage, a sacramental language, never heard but in moments of
devotion and aspiration,--and they stilled the child's heart in its
tossings and tempest, as when of old the Jesus they spake of walked
forth on the stormy sea.
"Yes, He gave his life for us!" she said; "He is ever reigning for us!
"'Jesu dulcissime, e throno gloriæ
Ovem deperditam venisti quærere!
Jesu suavissime, pastor fidissime,
Ad te O trahe me, ut semper sequar te!'"[6]
[6] Jesus most beautiful, from thrones in glory,
Seeking thy lost sheep, thou didst descend!
Jesus most tender, shepherd most faithful,
To thee, oh, draw thou me, that I may follow thee,
Follow thee faithfully world without end!
"What, my little one!" said the monk, looking over the wall; "I thought
I heard angels singing. Is it not a beautiful morning?"
"Dear uncle, it is," said Agnes. "And I have been so glad to hear your
beautiful hymn!--it comforted me."
"Comforted you, little heart? What a word is that! When you get as far
along on your journey as your old uncle, then you may talk of comfort.
But who thinks of comforting birds or butterflies or young lambs?"
"Ah, dear uncle, I am not so very happy," said Agnes, the tears
starting into her eyes.
"Not happy?" said the monk, looking up from his drawing. "Pray,
what's the matter now? Has a bee stung your finger? or have you lost
your nosegay over a rock? or what dreadful affliction has come upon
you?--hey, my little heart?"
Agnes sat down on the corner of the marble fountain, and, covering her
face with her apron, sobbed as if her heart would break.
"What has that old priest been saying to her in the confession?" said
Father Antonio to himself. "I dare say he cannot understand her.
She is as pure as a dewdrop on a cobweb, and as delicate; and these
priests, half of them, don't know how to handle the Lord's lambs.
Come now, little Agnes," he said, with a coaxing tone, "what is its
trouble?--tell its old uncle,--there's a dear!"
"Ah, uncle, I can't!" said Agnes, between her sobs.
"Can't tell its uncle!--there's a pretty go! Perhaps you will tell
grandmamma?"
"Oh, no, no, no! not for the world!" said Agnes, sobbing still more
bitterly.
"Why, really, little heart of mine, this is getting serious," said the
monk; "let your old uncle try to help you."
"It isn't for myself," said Agnes, endeavoring to check her
feelings,--"it is not for myself,--it is for another,--for a soul lost.
Ah, my Jesus, have mercy!"
"A soul lost? Our Mother forbid!" said the monk, crossing himself.
"Lost in this Christian land, so overflowing with the beauty of the
Lord?--lost out of this fair sheepfold of Paradise?"
"Yes, lost," said Agnes, despairingly, "and if somebody do not save
him, lost forever; and it is a brave and noble soul, too,--like one of
the angels that fell."
"Who is it, dear?--tell me about it," said the monk. "I am one of the
shepherds whose place it is to go after that which is lost, even till I
find it."
"Dear uncle, you remember the youth who suddenly appeared to us in the
moonlight here a few evenings ago?"
"Ah, indeed!" said the monk, "what of him?"
"Father Francesco has told me dreadful things of him this morning."
"What things?"
"Uncle, he is excommunicated by our Holy Father the Pope."
Father Antonio, as a member of one of the most enlightened and
cultivated religious orders of the times, and as an intimate companion
and disciple of Savonarola, had a full understanding of the character
of the reigning Pope, and therefore had his own private opinion of
how much his excommunication was likely to be worth in the invisible
world. He knew that the same doom had been threatened towards his
saintly master, for opposing and exposing the scandalous vices which
disgraced the high places of the Church; so that, on the whole, when
he heard that this young man was excommunicated, so far from being
impressed with horror towards him, he conceived the idea that he might
be a particularly honest fellow and good Christian. But then he did not
hold it wise to disturb the faith of the simple-hearted by revealing to
them the truth about the head of the Church on earth.
While the disorders in those elevated regions filled the minds of the
intelligent classes with apprehension and alarm, they held it unwise
to disturb the trustful simplicity of the lower orders, whose faith
in Christianity itself they supposed might thus be shaken. In fact,
they were themselves somewhat puzzled how to reconcile the patent and
manifest fact, that the actual incumbent of the Holy See was not under
the guidance of any spirit, unless it were a diabolical one, with the
theory which supposed an infallible guidance of the Holy Spirit to
attend as a matter of course on that position. Some of the boldest of
them did not hesitate to declare that the Holy City had suffered a foul
invasion, and that a false usurper reigned in her sacred palaces in
place of the Father of Christendom. The greater part did as people now
do with the mysteries and discrepancies of a faith which on the whole
they revere: they turned their attention from the vexed question, and
sighed and longed for better days.
Father Antonio did not, therefore, tell Agnes that the announcement
which had filled her with such distress was far less conclusive with
himself of the ill desert of the individual to whom it related.
"My little heart," he answered, gravely, "did you learn the sin for
which this young man was excommunicated?"
"Ah, me! my dear uncle, I fear he is an infidel,--an unbeliever.
Indeed, now I remember it, he confessed as much to me the other day."
"Where did he tell you this?"
"You remember, my uncle, when you were sent for to the dying man? When
you were gone, I kneeled down to pray for his soul; and when I rose
from prayer, this young cavalier was sitting right here, on this end of
the fountain. He was looking fixedly at me, with such sad eyes, so full
of longing and pain, that it was quite piteous; and he spoke to me so
sadly, I could not but pity him."
"What did he say to you, child?"
"Ah, father, he said that he was all alone in the world, without
friends, and utterly desolate, with no one to love him; but worse than
that, he said he had lost his faith, that he could not believe."
"What did you say to him?"
"Uncle, I tried, as a poor girl might, to do him some good. I prayed
him to confess and take the sacrament; but he looked almost fierce
when I said so. And yet I cannot but think, after all, that he has not
lost all grace, because he begged me so earnestly to pray for him; he
said his prayers could do no good, and wanted mine. And then I began
to tell him about you, dear uncle, and how you came from that blessed
convent in Florence, and about your master Savonarola; and that seemed
to interest him, for he looked quite excited, and spoke the name over,
as if it were one he had heard before. I wanted to urge him to come and
open his case to you; and I think perhaps I might have succeeded, but
that just then you and grandmamma came up the path; and when I heard
you coming, I begged him to go, because you know grandmamma would be
very angry, if she knew that I had given speech to a man, even for a
few moments; she thinks men are so dreadful."
"I must seek this youth," said the monk, in a musing tone; "perhaps I
may find out what inward temptation hath driven him away from the fold."
"Oh, do, dear uncle, do!" said Agnes, earnestly. "I am sure that he has
been grievously tempted and misled, for he seems to have a noble and
gentle nature; and he spoke so feelingly of his mother, who is a saint
in heaven; and he seemed so earnestly to long to return to the bosom of
the Church."
"The Church is a tender mother to all her erring children," said the
monk.
"And don't you think that our dear Holy Father the Pope will forgive
him?" said Agnes. "Surely, he will have all the meekness and gentleness
of Christ, who would rejoice in one sheep found more than in all the
ninety-and-nine who went not astray."
The monk could scarcely repress a smile at imagining Alexander the
Sixth in this character of a good shepherd, as Agnes's enthusiastic
imagination painted the head of the Church; and then he gave an inward
sigh, and said, softly, "Lord, how long?"
"I think," said Agnes, "that this young man is of noble birth, for his
words and his bearing and his tones of voice are not those of common
men; even though he speaks so humbly and gently, there is yet something
princely that looks out of his eyes, as if he were born to command; and
he wears strange jewels, the like of which I never saw, on his hands
and at the hilt of his dagger,--yet he seems to make nothing of them.
But yet, I know not why, he spoke of himself as one utterly desolate
and forlorn. Father Francesco told me that he was captain of a band of
robbers who live in the mountains. One cannot think it is so."
"Little heart," said the monk tenderly, "you can scarcely know what
things befall men in these distracted times, when faction wages war
with faction, and men pillage and burn and imprison, first on this
side, then on that. Many a son of a noble house may find himself
homeless and landless, and, chased by the enemy, may have no refuge
but the fastnesses of the mountains. Thank God, our lovely Italy hath
a noble backbone of these same mountains, which afford shelter to her
children in their straits."
"Then you think it possible, dear uncle, that this may not be a bad
man, after all?"
"Let us hope so, child. I will myself seek him out; and if his mind
have been chafed by violence or injustice, I will strive to bring him
back into the good ways of the Lord. Take heart, my little one,--all
will yet be well. Come now, little darling, wipe your bright eyes, and
look at these plans I have been making for the shrine we were talking
of, in the gorge. See here, I have drawn a goodly arch with a pinnacle.
Under the arch, you see, shall be the picture of our Lady with the
blessed Babe. The arch shall be cunningly sculptured with vines of ivy
and passion-flower; and on one side of it shall stand Saint Agnes with
her lamb,--and on the other, Saint Cecilia, crowned with roses; and
on this pinnacle, above all, Saint Michael, all in armor, shall stand
leaning,--one hand on his sword, and holding a shield with the cross
upon it."
"Ah, that will be beautiful!" said Agnes.
"You can scarcely tell," pursued the monk, "from this faint drawing,
what the picture of our Lady is to be; but I shall paint her to the
highest of my art, and with many prayers that I may work worthily.
You see, she shall be standing on a cloud with a background all of
burnished gold, like the streets of the New Jerusalem; and she shall be
clothed in a mantle of purest blue from head to foot, to represent the
unclouded sky of summer; and on her forehead she shall wear the evening
star, which ever shineth when we say the Ave Maria; and all the borders
of her blue vesture shall be cunningly wrought with fringes of stars;
and the dear Babe shall lean his little cheek to hers so peacefully,
and there shall be a clear shining of love through her face, and a
heavenly restfulness, that it shall do one's heart good to look at
her. Many a blessed hour shall I have over this picture,--many a hymn
shall I sing as my work goes on. I must go about to prepare the panels
forthwith; and it were well, if there be that young man who works in
stone, to have him summoned to our conference."
"I think," said Agnes, "that you will find him in the town; he dwells
next to the cathedral."
"I trust he is a youth of pious life and conversation," said the monk.
"I must call on him this afternoon; for he ought to be stirring himself
up by hymns and prayers, and by meditations on the beauty of saints and
angels, for so goodly a work. What higher honor or grace can befall a
creature than to be called upon to make visible to men that beauty of
invisible things which is divine and eternal? How many holy men have
given themselves to this work in Italy, till, from being overrun with
heathen temples, it is now full of most curious and wonderful churches,
shrines, and cathedrals, every stone of which is a miracle of beauty! I
would, dear daughter, you could see our great Duomo in Florence, which
is a mountain of precious marbles and many-colored mosaics; and the
Campanile that riseth thereby is like a lily of Paradise,--so tall, so
stately, with such an infinite grace, and adorned all the way up with
holy emblems and images of saints and angels; nor is there any part of
it, within or without, that is not finished sacredly with care, as an
offering to the most perfect God. Truly, our fair Florence, though she
be little, is worthy, by her sacred adornments, to be worn as the lily
of our Lady's girdle, even as she hath been dedicated to her."
Agnes seemed pleased with the enthusiastic discourse of her uncle.
The tears gradually dried from her eyes as she listened to him,
and the hope so natural to the young and untried heart began to
reassert itself. God was merciful, the world beautiful; there was a
tender Mother, a reigning Saviour, protecting angels and guardian
saints: surely, then, there was no need to despair of the recall
of any wanderer; and the softest supplication of the most ignorant
and unworthy would be taken up by so many sympathetic voices in the
invisible world, and borne on in so many waves of brightness to the
heavenly throne, that the most timid must have hope in prayer.
In the afternoon, the monk went to the town to seek the young artist,
and also to inquire for the stranger for whom his pastoral offices were
in requisition, and Agnes remained alone in the little solitary garden.
It was one of those rich slumberous afternoons of spring that seem to
bathe earth and heaven with an Elysian softness; and from her little
lonely nook shrouded in dusky shadows by its orange-trees, Agnes looked
down the sombre gorge to where the open sea lay panting and palpitating
in blue and violet waves, while the little white sails of fishing-boats
drifted hither and thither, now silvered in the sunshine, now fading
away like a dream into the violet vapor bands that mantled the horizon.
The weather would have been oppressively sultry but for the gentle
breeze which constantly drifted landward with coolness in its wings.
The hum of the old town came to her ear softened by distance and
mingled with the patter of the fountain and the music of birds singing
in the trees overhead. Agnes tried to busy herself with her spinning;
but her mind constantly wandered away, and stirred and undulated
with a thousand dim and unshaped thoughts and emotions, of which she
vaguely questioned in her own mind. Why did Father Francesco warn her
so solemnly against an earthly love? Did he not know her vocation? But
still he was wisest and must know best; there must be danger, if he
said so. But then, this knight had spoken so modestly, so humbly,--so
differently from Giulietta's lovers!--for Giulietta had sometimes found
a chance to recount to Agnes some of her triumphs. How could it be that
a knight so brave and gentle, and so piously brought up, should become
an infidel? Ah, uncle Antonio was right,--he must have had some foul
wrong, some dreadful injury! When Agnes was a child, in traveling with
her grandmother through one of the highest passes of the Apennines, she
had chanced to discover a wounded eagle, whom an arrow had pierced,
sitting all alone by himself on a rock, with his feathers ruffled,
and a film coming over his great, clear, bright eye,--and, ever full
of compassion, she had taken him to nurse, and had traveled for a day
with him in her arms; and the mournful look of his regal eyes now came
into her memory. "Yes," she said to herself, "he is like my poor eagle!
The archers have wounded him, so that he is glad to find shelter even
with a poor maid like me; but it was easy to see my eagle had been king
among birds, even as this knight is among men. Certainly, God must love
him,--he is so beautiful and noble! I hope dear uncle will find him
this afternoon; he knows how to teach him; as for me I can only pray."
Such were the thoughts that Agnes twisted into the shining white flax,
while her eyes wandered dreamily over the soft hazy landscape. At
last, lulled by the shivering sound of leaves, and the bird-songs, and
wearied with the agitations of the morning, her head lay back against
the end of the sculptured fountain, the spindle slowly dropped from her
hand, and her eyes were closed in sleep, the murmur of the fountain
still sounding in her dreams. In her dreams she seemed to be wandering
far away among the purple passes of the Apennines, where she had come
years ago when she was a little girl; with her grandmother she pushed
through old olive-groves, weird and twisted with many a quaint gnarl,
and rustling their pale silvery leaves in noonday twilight. Sometimes
she seemed to carry in her bosom a wounded eagle, and often she sat
down to stroke it and to try to give it food from her hand, and as
often it looked upon her with a proud, patient eye, and then her
grandmother seemed to shake her roughly by the arm and bid her throw
the silly bird away;--but then again the dream changed, and she saw a
knight lie bleeding and dying in a lonely hollow,--is garments torn,
his sword broken, and his face pale and faintly streaked with blood;
and she kneeled by him, trying in vain to stanch a deadly wound in his
side, while he said reproachfully, "Agnes, dear Agnes, why would you
not save me?" and then she thought he kissed her hand with his cold
dying lips; and she shivered and awoke,--to find that her hand was
indeed held in that of the cavalier, whose eyes met her own when first
she unclosed them, and the same voice that spoke in her dream said,
"Agnes, dear Agnes!"
For a moment she seemed stupefied and confounded, and sat passively
regarding the knight, who kneeled at her feet and repeatedly kissed her
hand, calling her his saint, his star, his life, and whatever other
fair name poetry lends to love. All at once, however, her face flushed
crimson red, she drew her hand quickly away, and, rising up, made a
motion to retreat, saying, in a voice of alarm,--
"Oh, my Lord, this must not be! I am committing deadly sin to hear you.
Please, please go! please leave a poor girl!"
"Agnes, what does this mean?" said the cavalier. "Only two days since,
in this place, you promised to love me; and that promise has brought me
from utter despair to love of life. Nay, since you told me that, I have
been able to pray once more; the whole world seems changed for me: and
now will you take it all away,--you, who are all I have on earth?"
"My Lord, I did not know then that I was sinning. Our dear Mother knows
I said only what I thought was true and right, but I find it was a sin."
"A sin to love, Agnes? Heaven must be full of sin, then; for there they
do nothing else."
"Oh, my Lord, I must not argue with you; I am forbidden to listen even
for a moment. Please go. I will never forget you, sir,--never forget
to pray for you, and to love you as they love in heaven; but I am
forbidden to speak with you. I fear I have sinned in hearing and saying
even this much."
"Who forbids you, Agnes? Who has the right to forbid your good, kind
heart to love, where love is so deeply needed and so gratefully
received?"
"My holy father, whom I am bound to obey as my soul's director," said
Agnes. "He has forbidden me so much as to listen to a word, and yet I
have listened to many. How could I help it?"
"Ever these priests!" said the cavalier, his brow darkening with an
impatient frown; "wolves in sheep's clothing!"
"Alas!" said Agnes, sorrowfully, "why will you"--
"Why will I what?" he said, facing suddenly toward her and looking down
with a fierce, scornful determination.
"Why will you be at war with the Holy Church? Why will you peril your
eternal salvation?"
"Is there a Holy Church? Where is it? Would there were one! I am blind
and cannot see it. Little Agnes, you promised to lead me; but you drop
my hand in the darkness. Who will guide me, if you will not?"
"My Lord, I am most unfit to be your guide. I am a poor girl, without
any learning; but there is my uncle I spoke to you of. Oh, my Lord, if
you only would go to him, he is wise and gentle both. I must go in now,
my Lord,--indeed, I must. I must not sin further. I must do a heavy
penance for having listened and spoken to you, after the holy father
had forbidden me."
"No, Agnes, you shall not go in," said the cavalier, suddenly stepping
before her and placing himself across the doorway; "you shall see me,
and hear me too. I take the sin on myself; you cannot help it. How
will you avoid me? Will you fly now down the path of the gorge? I will
follow you,--I am desperate. I had but one comfort on earth, but one
hope of heaven, and that through you; and you, cruel, are so ready to
give me up at the first word of your priest!"
"God knows if I do it willingly," said Agnes; "but I know it is best;
for I feel I should love you too well, if I saw more of you. My Lord,
you are strong and can compel me, but I beg you to leave me."
"Dear Agnes, could you really feel it possible that you might love me
too well?" said the cavalier, his whole manner changing. "Ah! could I
carry you far away to my home in the mountains, far up in the beautiful
blue mountains, where the air is so clear, and the weary, wrangling
world lies so far below that one forgets it entirely, you should be
my wife, my queen, my empress. You should lead me where you would,
your word should be my law. I will go with you wherever you will,--to
confession, to sacrament, to prayers, never so often; never will I
rebel against your word; if you decree, I will bend my neck to king
or priest; I will reconcile me with anybody or anything only for your
sweet sake; you shall lead me all my life; and when we die, I ask only
that you may lead me to our Mother's throne in heaven, and pray her to
tolerate me for your sake. Come, now, dear, is not even one unworthy
soul worth saving?"
"My Lord, you have taught me how wise my holy father was in forbidding
me to listen to you. He knew better than I how weak was my heart,
and how I might be drawn on from step to step till--My Lord, I must
be no man's wife. I follow the blessed Saint Agnes! May God give me
grace to keep my vows without wavering!--for then I shall gain power
to intercede for you and bring down blessings on your soul. Oh, never,
never speak to me so again, my Lord!--you will make me very, _very_
unhappy. If there is any truth in your words, my Lord, if you really
love me, you will go, and you will never try to speak to me again."
"Never, Agnes? never? Think what you are saying!"
"Oh, I do think! I know it must be best," said Agnes, much agitated;
"for, if I should see you often and hear your voice, I should lose all
my strength. I could never resist, and I should lose heaven for you and
me too. Leave me, and I will never, never forget to pray for you; and
go quickly too, for it is time for my grandmother to come home, and she
would be so angry,--she would never believe I had not been doing wrong,
and perhaps she would make me marry somebody that I do not wish to. She
has threatened that many times; but I beg her to leave me free to go to
my sweet home in the convent and my dear Mother Theresa."
"They shall never marry you against your will, little Agnes, I pledge
you my knightly word. I will protect you from that. Promise me, dear,
that, if ever you be man's wife, you will be mine. Only promise me
that, and I will go."
"Will you?" said Agnes, in an ecstasy of fear and apprehension, in
which there mingled some strange troubled gleams of happiness. "Well,
then, I will. Ah! I hope it is no sin!"
"Believe me, dearest, it is not," said the knight. "Say it again,--say,
that I may hear it,--say, 'If ever I am man's wife, I will be
thine,'--say it, and I will go."
"Well, then, my Lord, if ever I am man's wife, I will be thine," said
Agnes. "But I will be no man's wife. My heart and hand are promised
elsewhere. Come, now, my Lord, your word must be kept."
"Let me put this ring on your finger, lest you forget," said the
cavalier. "It was my mother's ring, and never during her lifetime heard
anything but prayers and hymns. It is saintly, and worthy of thee."
"No, my Lord, I may not. Grandmother would inquire about it. I cannot
keep it; but fear not my forgetting; I shall never forget you."
"Will you ever want to see me, Agnes?"
"I hope not, since it is not best. But you do not go."
"Well, then, farewell, my little wife! farewell, till I claim thee!"
said the cavalier, as he kissed her hand, and vaulted over the wall.
"How strange that I cannot make him understand!" said Agnes, when he
was gone. "I must have sinned, I must have done wrong; but I have been
trying all the while to do right. Why would he stay so, and look at me
so with those deep eyes? I was very hard with him,--very! I trembled
for him, I was so severe; and yet it has not discouraged him enough.
How strange that he would call me so, after all, when I explained to
him I never could marry! Must I tell all this to Father Francesco?
How dreadful! How he looked at me before! How he trembled and turned
away from me! What will he think now? Ah, me! why must I tell _him_?
If I could only confess to my mother Theresa, that would be easier. We
have a mother in heaven to hear us; why should we not have a mother on
earth? Father Francesco frightens me so! His eyes burn me! They seem to
burn into my soul, and he seems angry with me sometimes, and sometimes
looks at me so strangely! Dear, blessed Mother," she said, kneeing at
the shrine, "help thy little child! I do not want to do wrong: I want
to do right. Oh that I could come and live with thee!"
Poor Agnes! a new experience had opened in her heretofore tranquil
life, and her day was one of conflict. Do what she would, the words
that had been spoken to her in the morning would return to her mind,
and sometimes she awoke with a shock of guilty surprise at finding she
had been dreaming over what the cavalier said to her of living with
him alone, in some clear, high, purple solitude of those beautiful
mountains which she remembered as an enchanted dream of her childhood.
Would he really always love her, then, always go with her to prayers
and mass and sacrament, and be reconciled to the Church, and should
she indeed have the joy of feeling that this noble soul was led back
to heavenly peace through her? Was not this better than a barren life
of hymns and prayers in a cold convent? Then the very voice that said
these words, that voice of veiled strength and manly daring, that spoke
with such a gentle pleading, and yet such an undertone of authority,
as if he had a right to claim her for himself,--she seemed to feel the
tones of that voice in every nerve;--and then the strange thrilling
pleasure of thinking that he loved her so. Why should he, this strange,
beautiful knight? Doubtless he had seen splendid high-born ladies,--he
had seen even queens and princesses,--and what could he find to like in
her, a poor little peasant? Nobody ever thought so much of her before,
and he was so unhappy without her;--it was strange he should be; but
he said so, and it must be true. After all, Father Francesco might be
mistaken about his being wicked. On the whole, she felt sure he was
mistaken, at least in part. Uncle Antonio did not seem to be so much
shocked at what she told him; he knew the temptations of men better,
perhaps, because he did not stay shut up in one convent, but traveled
all about, preaching and teaching. If only he could see him, and talk
with him, and make him a good Christian,--why, then, there would be no
further need of her; and Agnes was surprised to find what a dreadful,
dreary blank appeared before her when she thought of this. Why should
she wish him to remember her, since she never could be his?--and yet
nothing seemed so dreadful as that he should forget her. So the poor
little innocent fly beat and fluttered in the mazes of that enchanted
web, where thousands of her frail sex have beat and fluttered before.