THE CELL OF THE NEOPHYTE.—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 performance 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 too 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 tortures 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,” said the abbess, leaving the cell.
“Think of that,” added the monk, “as your means of leaving the cell—of
escaping. Farewell, daughter. Benedicite.”