AWAKENED.
We do these proselytising priests great wrong when we fancy them
cold-blooded practisers upon our credulity, who seek, for merely selfish
ends, to entangle us by sophistries, and inveigle us into those mental
and moral catacombs from which there is no escape. We underrate their
danger when we deny their sincerity. Mr. Carmel sought to save my soul;
nobler or purer motive, I am sure, never animated man. If he acted with
caution, and even by stratagem, he believed it was in the direct service
of Heaven, and for my eternal weal. I know him better, his strength and
his weakness, now--his asceticism, his resolution, his tenderness. That
young priest--long dead--stands before me, in the white robe of his
purity, king-like. I see him, as I saw him last, his thin, handsome
features, the light of patience on his face, the pale smile of suffering
and of victory. His tumults and his sorrows are over. Cold and quiet he
lies now. My thanks can never reach him; my unavailing blessings and
gratitude follow my true and long-lost friend, and tears wrung from a
yearning heart.
Laura Grey seemed to have lost her suspicions of this ecclesiastic. We
had more of his society than before. Our reading went on, and sometimes
he joined us in our walks. I used to see him from an upper window every
morning early, busy with spade and trowel, in the tiny flower-garden
which belonged to the steward's house. He used to work there for an hour
punctually, from before seven till nearly eight. Then he vanished for
many hours, and was not seen till nearly evening, and we had, perhaps,
our _Gerusalemme Liberata_, or he would walk with us for a mile or more,
and talk in his gentle but cold way, pleasantly, on any topic we
happened to start. We three grew to be great friends. I liked to see him
when he, and, I may add, Laura Grey also, little thought I was looking
at his simple garden-work under the shadow of the grey wall from which
the old cherry and rose-trees drooped, in picturesque confusion, under
overhanging masses of ivy.
He and I talked as opportunity occurred more and more freely upon
religion. But these were like lovers' confidences, and, by a sort of
tacit consent, never before Laura Grey. Not that I wished to deceive
her; but I knew very well what she would think and say of my imprudence.
It would have embarrassed me to tell her; but here remonstrances would
not have prevailed; I would not have desisted; we should have
quarrelled; and yet I was often on the point of telling her, for any
reserve with her pained me.
In this quiet life we had glided from summer into autumn, and suddenly,
as before, Mr. Carmel vanished, leaving just such a vague little note as
before.
I was more wounded, and a great deal more sorry this time. The solitude
I had once loved so well was irksome without him. I could not confess to
Laura, scarcely to myself, how much I missed him.
About a week after his disappearance, we had planned to drink tea in the
housekeeper's room. I had been sitting at the window in the gable that
commanded the view of the steward's garden, which had so often shown me
my hermit at his morning's work. The roses were already shedding their
honours on the mould, and the sear of autumn was mellowing the leaves of
the old fruit-trees. The shadow of the ancient stone house fell across
the garden, for by this time the sun was low in the west, and I knew
that the next morning would come and go, and the next, and bring no sign
of his return, and so on, and on, perhaps for ever.
Never was little garden so sad and silent! The fallen leaves lay
undisturbed, and the weeds were already peeping here and there among the
flowers.
"Is it part of your religion?" I murmured bitterly to myself, as, with
folded hands, I stood a little way back, looking down through the open
window, "to leave willing listeners thus half-instructed? Business? What
is the business of a good priest? I should have thought the care and
culture of human souls was, at least, part of a priest's business. I
have no one to answer a question now--no one to talk to. I am, I
suppose, forgotten."
I dare say there was some affectation in this. But my dejection was far
from affected, and hiding my sorrowful and bitter mood, I left the
window and came down the back-stairs to our place of meeting. Rebecca
Torkill and Laura Grey were in high chat. Tea being just made, and
everything looking so delightfully comfortable, I should have been, at
another time, in high spirits.
"Ethel, what do you think? Rebecca has been just telling me that the
mystery about Mr. Carmel is quite cleared up. Mr. Prichard, the grocer,
in Cardyllion, was visiting his cousin, who has a farm near Plasnwyd,
and whom should he see there but our missing friar, in a carriage
driving with Mrs. Tredwynyd, of Plasnwyd. She is a beautiful woman
still, and one of the richest widows in Wales, Rebecca says; and he has
been living there ever since he left this; and his last visit, when we
thought he was making a religious sojourn in a monastery, was to the
same house and lady! What do you think of that? But it is not near ended
yet. Tell the rest of the story, Mrs. Torkill, to Miss Ethel--please
do."
"Well, miss, there's nothin' very particular, only they say all round
Plasnwyd that she was in love with him, and that he's goin' to turn
Protestant, and it's all settled they're to be married. Every one is
singin' to the same tune all round Plasnwyd, and what every one says
must be true, as I've often heard say."
I laughed, and asked whether our teacake was ready, and looked out of
the window. The boughs of the old fruit-trees in the steward's garden
hung so near it that the ends of the sprays would tap the glass, if the
wind blew. As I leaned against the shutter, drumming a little tune on
the window, and looking as careless as any girl could, I felt cold and
faint, and my heart was bursting. I don't know what prevented my
dropping on the floor in a swoon.
Laura, little dreaming of the effect of this story upon me, was chatting
still with Rebecca, and neither perceived that I was moved by the news.
That night I cried for hours in my bed, after Laura Grey was fast
asleep. It never occurred to me to canvass the probability of the story.
We are so prone to believe what we either greatly desire or greatly
fear. The violence of my own emotions startled me. My eyes were opened
at last to a part of my danger.
As I whispered, through convulsive sobs, "He's gone, he's gone--I have
lost him--he'll never be here any more! Oh! why did you pretend to take
an interest in me? Why did I listen to you? Why did I like you?" All
this, and as much more girlish lamentation and upbraiding as you please
to fancy, dispelled my dream and startled my reason. I had an interval
to recover in; happily for me, this wild fancy had not had time to grow
into a more impracticable and dangerous feeling. I felt like an awakened
somnambulist at the brink of a precipice. Had I become attached to Mr.
Carmel, my heart must have broken in silence, and my secret have
perished with me.
Some weeks passed, and an advent occurred, which more than my girlish
pride and resolutions turned my thoughts into a new channel, and
introduced a memorable actor upon the scene of my life.