"Leave the room!" said he to his brother and daughters, "I would be
alone with my wife."
Alone, beside the bed of his dead wife, Karl Van Amberg gazed upon the
pale countenance, to which death had restored all the beauty of youth.
A tear, left there by human suffering, a tear which none other was to
follow, glittered upon the clay-cold cheek; one arm still hung out of
bed, as when it held his hand; the head was in the position in which
it had kissed his fingers. He gazed at her, and the icy envelope that
bound his heart was at last broken. "Annunciata!" he exclaimed,
"Annunciata!"
For fifteen years that name had not passed his lips. Throwing himself
on his wife's corpse, he clasped her in his arms and kissed her
forehead.
"Annunciata!" he cried, "can you not feel this kiss of peace and love!
Annunciata, we have both suffered terribly! God did not grant us
happiness. I loved you from the first day that I saw you, a joyous
child in Spain, till this sad moment that I press you dead upon my
heart. Oh Annunciata, how great have been our sufferings!"
Karl Van Amberg wept.
"Repose in peace, poor woman!" he murmured, "may you find in heaven
the repose denied you upon earth!" And with trembling hand he closed
Annunciata's eyes. Then he knelt down beside her.
"Almighty God!" he said, "I have been severe. Be thou merciful!"
__________
When, at break of day, M. Van Amberg left the chamber of death, his
face had resumed its habitual expression; his inflexible soul, for a
moment bowed, had regained its usual level. To Annunciata had been
given the last word of love, the last tear of that heart of adamant.
To the eyes of all he reappeared as the stern master and father, the
man on whose brow no sorrow left a trace. His daughters bowed
themselves upon his passage, William spoke not to him, order and
regularity returned to the house. Annunciata was buried without pomp
or procession. She left, to revisit it no more, the melancholy abode
where her suffering soul had worn out its mortal envelope; she ceased
to live, as a sound ceases to be heard, as a cloud passes, as a flower
fades; nothing stopped or altered because she went. If any mourned
her, they mourned in silence; if they thought of her, they proclaimed
not their thoughts; her name was no more heard; only the interior of
the little red house was rather more silent, and M. Van Amberg's
countenance appeared to all more rigid than before. During the day,
Christine's profound grief obeyed the iron will that weighed on each
member of the family. The poor child was silent, worked, sat at table,
lived on as if her heart had not been crushed; but at night, when she
was alone in the little room where her mother had so often wept with
her, she gave free course to grief; she invoked her mother, spoke to
her, extended her arms to her, and would fain have left the earth to
be with her in heaven. "Take me to you, dear mother!" she would
exclaim. "Deprived of you, apart from him, I cannot live! Since I saw
you die, I no longer fear death."
Since the death of Annunciata, Christine was allowed her liberty, M.
Van Amberg doubtless thinking, and with reason, that she would make no
use of it during her first grief. Or, perhaps, with his wife's corpse
scarcely cold, he hesitated to recur to the severity that had caused
her so many tears. Whatever his motive, Christine was free, at least
to all appearance. The three sisters, in deep mourning, never passed
the threshold; they sat all day at work near the low window of the
parlour, supped with their uncle and father, then retired to bed.
During the long hours of their silent work, Christine often thought of
her lover. She dared not attempt to see him; she would have expected
to hear her mother's voice murmur in her ear,--"My daughter, it is too
soon to be happy! Mourn me yet a little, alone and without
consolation."
One morning, after a night of tears, Christine fell into a tardy
slumber, broken by dreams. Now it was her mother, who took her in her
arms, and flew with her towards heaven. "I will not let you live,"
said Annunciata, "for life is sorrow. I have prayed of God to let you
die young, that you may not weep as I have wept!"
The next instant she beheld herself clothed in white, and crowned with
flowers. Herbert was there, love sparkling in his eyes. "Come, my
betrothed!" he said, "life is joy! My love shall guard you from all
evil; come, we will be happy!"
She started up, awakened by a sudden noise in her chamber. The window
was open, and on the floor lay a pebble with a letter attached. Her
first impulse was to fly to the window; a bush stirred in the
direction of the river, but she saw no one. She snatched up the
letter, she guessed it was Herbert's writing. It seems as if one never
saw for the first time the writing of him one loves; the heart
recognises as if the eyes had already seen it. Christine was alone, a
beam of the rising sun tinted the summits of the willows, and hope and
love revived in the young girl's heart, as she read what follows:
"Christine, I can write but a few lines; a long letter, difficult to
conceal, might never reach you. Hear me with your heart, and guess
what I am unable to write. As you know, dearest, my family intrusted
me to your father and gave him all authority over me. He can employ me
at his will, and according to the convenience of his commercial
establishments. Christine, I have just received orders to embark in
one of his ships, sailing for Batavia."
A cry escaped Christine's lips, and her eyes, suffused with tears,
devoured the subsequent lines.
"Your father places the immensity of ocean between us; he separates us
for ever. We are to meet no more! Christine, has your heart, since I
last saw you, learned to comprehend those words? No, my adored
Christine, we must live or die together! Your poor mother is no more;
your presence is no longer essential to the happiness of any one. Your
family is pitiless and without affection for you. Your future is gloom
and unhappiness. Come, then, let us fly together. In the Helder are
numerous ships; they will bear us far from the scene of our
sufferings. All is foreseen and arranged. Christine, my life depends
on your decision. For ever separated!... subscribe to that barbarous
decree, and I terminate an existence which henceforward would be all
bitterness! And you, Christine! will you love another, or live without
love? Oh! come, I have suffered so much without you! I summon you, I
await you, Christine! my bride! At midnight--on the river-bank--I will
be there! and a world of happiness is before us. Come, dear Christine,
come!"
As Christine read, her tears fell fast on Herbert's letter. She
experienced a moment of agonising indecision. She loved passionately,
but she was young and innocent, and love had not yet imparted to her
pure soul the audacity that braves all things. The wise counsels heard
in her father's house, uncle William's pious exhortations, the holy
prayers she had learned from her infancy upwards, resounded in her
ears; the Christ upon her wooden crucifix seemed to look at her; the
beads of her rosary were still warm with the pressure of her fingers.
"Oh! my dream! my dream!" she exclaimed: "Herbert who calls his bride!
my mother claiming her daughter! With him, life and love! With her,
death and heaven!..." And Christine sobbed aloud. For an instant she
tried calmly to contemplate an existence in that melancholy house,
weeping for Herbert, growing old without him, without love, within
those gloomy walls, where no heart sympathised with hers. The picture
was too terrible; she felt that such a future was unendurable. She
wept bitterly, kissed her rosary, her prayer book, as if bidding adieu
to all that had witnessed the innocence of her early years. Then her
heart beat violently. The fire of her glance dried her tears. She
looked out at the river, at the white sail which seemed to remind her
of her vows of love; she gave one last sob, as if breaking irrevocably
the links between her past and future. The image of her mother was no
longer before her. Christine, abandoned to herself, followed the
impulse of her passionate nature; she wept, trembled, hesitated, and
at last exclaimed,--
"At midnight, I will be there!"
Then she wiped her tears, and remained quite still for a few moments,
to calm her violent agitation. A vast future unrolled itself before
her; liberty would be hers; a new world was revealed to her eyes; a
new life began for her.
At last night came. A lamp replaced the fading day-light. The window
was deserted for the table. William and Karl Van Amberg came in. The
former took a book; his brother busied himself with commercial
calculations. The lamp gave a dull light; all was silent, sad, and
monotonous in the apartment. The clock slowly told the succeeding
hours. When its hammer struck ten, there was a movement round the
table; books were shut, work was folded. Karl Van Amberg rose; his two
eldest daughters approached him, and he kissed their foreheads in
silence. Christine no longer a captive, but still in disgrace, bowed
herself before her father. Uncle William, grown drowsy over his book,
put up his spectacles, muttering a "good-night." The family left the
parlour, and the three sisters ascended the wooden staircase. At her
chamber door, Christine felt a tightness at her heart. She turned and
looked after her sisters. "Good-night, Wilhelmina! good-night, Maria!"
The sisters turned their heads. By the faint light of their tapers
Christine saw them smile and kiss their hands to her. Then they
entered their rooms without speaking. Christine found herself alone.
She opened her window; the night was calm; at intervals clouds flitted
across the moon, veiling its brightness. Christine made no
preparations for departure; she only took her mother's rosary, and the
blue ribbon so long attached to the guitar; then she wrapped herself
in her black mantle and sat down by the window. Her heart beat quick,
but no distinct thought agitated her mind. She trembled without
terror; her eyes were tearful, but she felt no regret. For her, the
hour was rather solemn than sad; the struggle was over, and she was
irrevocably decided.
At last midnight came; each stroke of the clock thrilled Christine's
heart; for an instant she stood still, summoning strength and courage;
then, turning towards the interior of the room,--
"Adieu, my mother!" she whispered. Many living creatures dwelt under
that roof. It seemed to Christine as if she left her only who was no
longer there. "Adieu, my mother!" she repeated.
Then she stepped out of the window: a trellis, twined with creepers,
covered the wall. With light foot and steady hand, Christine
descended, aiding herself by the branches, and pausing when they
cracked under her tread or grasp. The stillness was so complete that
the slightest sound assumed importance. Christine's heart beat
violently; at last she reached the ground, raised her head, and looked
at the house. Her father's window was still lighted. Again she
shuddered with apprehension; then, feeling more courage for a minute's
daring than for half an hour's precautions, she darted across the
meadow and arrived breathless at the clump of willows. Before plunging
into it, she again looked round. All was quiet and deserted; she
breathed more freely and disappeared amongst the branches. Leaning
upon the old tree, the witness of her former rendezvous, she
whispered, so softly that none but a lover could hear, "Herbert, are
you there?"
A cautious oar skimmed the water; a well known voice replied. The boat
approached the willow; the young student stood up and held out his
arms to Christine, who leaped lightly into the skiff. In an instant,
they were out of the willow-shaded inlet; in another, the sail--the
signal of their loves--was hoisted to the breeze; the bark sped
swiftly over the water, and Herbert, scarce daring to believe his
happiness, was seated at Christine's feet. His hand sought hers; he
heard her weep, and he wept for sympathy. Both were silent, agitated,
uneasy, and happy.
But the night was fine, the moon shed its softest light, the ripple of
the stream had a harmony of its own, the light breeze cooled their
cheeks, the sail bent over them like the wing of an invisible being;
they were young, they loved, it was impossible that joy should not
revive in their hearts.
"Thanks, Christine, thanks!" exclaimed Herbert, "thanks a thousand
times for so much devotedness, for such confidence and love! Oh how
beautiful will life now appear! We are united for ever!"
"For ever!" repeated Christine, her tears flowing afresh. For the
first time she felt that great happiness, like great grief, expresses
itself by tears. Her hand in Herbert's, her eyes raised to heaven, she
gazed upon bright stars and fleecy clouds, sole and silent witnesses
of her happiness. Presently she was roused from this sweet reverie.
"See there, Herbert!" she exclaimed; "the sail droops along the mast,
the wind has fallen, we do not advance."
Herbert took the oars, and the boat cut rapidly through the water.
Wrapped in her mantle, Christine sat opposite, and smiled upon him.
Onwards flew the boat, a track of foam in its wake. Day-light was
still distant; all things favoured the fugitives. Again Christine
broke silence.
"Herbert, dear Herbert, do you hear nothing?"
Herbert ceased to row, and listened. "I hear nothing," he said, "save
the plash of the river against its banks." He resumed the oars; again
the boat moved rapidly forward. Christine was pale; half risen from
her seat, her head turned back, she strove to see, but the darkness
was too great.
"Be tranquil, best beloved," said Herbert with a smile. "Fear creates
sounds. All is still."
"Herbert," cried Christine, this time starting up in the boat, "I am
not mistaken! I hear oars behind us ... pause not to listen ... row,
for Heaven's love, row!"
Her terror was so great, she seemed so sure of what she said, that
Herbert obeyed in silence, and a sensation of alarm chilled his heart.
Christine seated herself at his feet.
"We are pursued!" she said; "the noise of your own oars alone
prevented your hearing. A boat follows us."
"If it be so," Herbert cried, "what matter! That boat does not bear
Christine, is not guided by a man who defends his life, his happiness,
his love. My arm will weary his, his bark will not overtake mine." And
Herbert redoubled his efforts. The veins of his arms swelled to
bursting; his forehead was covered with sweat-drops. The skiff clove
the waters as though impelled by wings. Christine remained crouched at
the young man's feet, pressing herself against him, as to seek refuge.
Other oars, wielded by stalwart arms, now struck the water not far
from Herbert's boat. The young student heard the sound; he bent over
his oars and made desperate efforts. But he felt his strength failing;
as he rowed he looked with agony at Christine; no one spoke, only the
noise of the two boats interrupted the silence. Around, all was calm
and serene as when the fugitives set out. But the soul of the young
girl had passed from life to death; her eyes, gleaming with a wild
fire, followed with increasing terror each movement of Herbert's; she
saw by the suffering expression of his countenance, that little hope
of escape remained. Still he rowed with the energy of despair; but the
fatal bark drew nearer, its shadow was seen upon the water, it
followed hard in the foamy track of Herbert's boat. Christine stood up
and looked back; just then the moon shone out, casting its light full
upon the pale, passionless features of M. Van Amberg. Christine
uttered a piercing cry.
"My father!" she cried, "Herbert, 'tis my father!"
Herbert also had recognised his pursuer. The youth had lived too long
in Karl Van Amberg's house, not to have experienced the strange kind
of fascination which that man exercised over all around him. Darkness
had passed away to reveal to the fugitives the father, master, and
judge!
"Stop, Herbert!" cried Christine, "we are lost, escape is impossible!
Do you not see my father?"
"Let me row!" replied Herbert, disengaging himself from Christine, who
had seized his arm. He gave so violent a pull with the oars, that the
little boat bounded out of the water and seemed to gain a little on
its pursuer.
"Herbert," cried Christine, "I tell you we are lost! 'Tis my father,
and resistance is useless! God will not work a miracle in our favour!
Herbert, I will not return to my father's house! Let us die together,
dear Herbert!"
And Christine, threw herself into her lover's arms. The oars fell from
the young man's hands; with a cry of anguish he pressed Christine
convulsively on his heart. For a single instant he thought of obeying
her, and of plunging with her into the dark tide beneath; but Herbert
had a noble heart, and he repelled the temptation of despair. The next
moment a violent shock made the boat quiver, and M. Van Amberg stepped
into it. Instinctively, Herbert clasped Christine more tightly, and
retreated; as if his strength could withhold her from her father; as
if, in that little boat, he could retreat far enough not to be
overtaken. With a vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose
slender form bent like a reed over his shoulder.
"Have mercy on her!" cried the despairing Herbert; "I alone am guilty!
Punish her not, and I promise to depart, to renounce her! Pity, sir,
pity for Christine!"
He spoke to a deaf and silent statue. Wresting Christine's hand from
the student's grasp, M. Van Amberg stepped back into his boat and
pushed Herbert's violently with his foot. Yielding to the impulse, the
boats separated; one was pulled swiftly up the river, whilst the
other, abandoned to itself, was swept by the current in a contrary
direction. Erect on the prow of his bark, his head thrown back, his
arms folded on his breast, M. Van Amberg fixed a terrible look upon
Herbert and then disappeared in the darkness. All was over. The father
had taken his daughter, and no human power could henceforward tear her
from his arms.
Within eight days from this fatal night, the gates of a convent closed
upon Christine Van Amberg.
__________
On the frontier of Belgium, on the summit of a hill, stands a large
white building of irregular architecture, a confused mass of walls,
roofs, angles, and platforms. At the foot of the hill is a village,
whose inhabitants behold with a feeling of respect the edifice
towering above their humble dwellings. For there is seen the belfry of
a church, and thence is heard unceasingly the sound of pious bells,
proclaiming afar that on the mountain's summit a few devout souls pray
to God for all men. The building is a convent; the poor and the sick
well know the path leading to the hospitable threshold of the Sisters
of the Visitation.
To this convent was Christine sent. To this austere dwelling, the
abode of silence and self-denial, was she, the young, the beautiful,
the loving, pitilessly consigned. It was as though a gravestone had
suddenly closed over her head. With her, the superior of the convent
received the following letter:
"MADAME LA SUPERIEURE,--I send you your niece, Christine Van Amberg,
and beg you to oblige me by keeping her with you. I intend her to
embrace a religious life; employ the influence of your wise counsels
to predispose her to it. Her misconduct compels me to exclude her my
house; she requires restraint and watching, such as are only to be
found in a convent. Be pleased, dear and respected kinswoman, to
receive her under your roof; the best wish that can be formed for her
is that she may make up her mind to remain there for ever. Should she
inquire concerning a young man named Herbert, you may inform her that
he has sailed to Batavia, whence he will proceed to our most remote
establishments.
"I am with respect, _Madame la Supérieure_, your kinsman and friend,
"KARL VAN AMBERG."
* * * * *
Five years had elapsed since the date of this letter, when one day the
convent-gate opened to admit a stranger, who craved to speak with the
superior. The stranger was an old man; a staff sustained his feeble
steps. Whilst waiting in the parlour, he looked about him with
surprise and emotion, and several times he passed his hand across his
eyes as if to brush away a tear. "Poor, poor child!" he muttered. When
the superior appeared behind the grating, he advanced quickly towards
her.
"I am William Van Amberg," he said, "the brother of Karl Van Amberg. I
come, madam, to fetch Christine, his daughter and my niece."
"You come very late!" replied the superior; "sister Martha-Mary is on
the eve of pronouncing her vows."
"Martha-Mary!--I do not know the name!"--said William Van Amberg; "I
seek Christine--my niece Christine."
"Christine Van Amberg, now sister Martha-Mary, is about to take the
veil."
"Christine a nun! Oh, impossible! Madam, they have broken the child's
heart; from despair only would she take the veil; they have been
cruel, they have tortured her; but I bring her liberty and the
certainty of happiness,--permission to marry him she loves. Let me
speak to her, and she will quickly follow."
"Speak to her then; and let her depart if such be her will."
"Thanks, madam,--a thousand thanks! Send me my child, send me my
Christine--with joy and impatience I await her."
The superior retired. Left alone, William again contemplated the
melancholy abode in which he found himself, and the more he gazed, the
sadder his heart became. He would fain have taken Christine in his
arms, as he did when she was little, and have fled with her from those
chilly walls and dismal gratings.
"Poor child!" he repeated, "what a retreat for the bright years of
your youth!... How you must have suffered! But console thyself,
dearest child, I am here to rescue thee!"
He remembered Christine as a wild young girl, delighting in liberty,
air, and motion; then as an impassioned woman, full of love and
independence. And a smile crossed the old man's lips as he thought of
her burst of joy, when he should say to her,--"You are free, and
Herbert waits to lead you to the altar!" His heart beat as it had
never beaten in the best days of his youth; he counted the minutes and
kept his eyes fixed upon the little door through which Christine was
to come. He could not fold her in his arms, the grating prevented it,
but at least he should see and hear her. Suddenly all his blood rushed
to his heart, for the hinges creaked and the door opened. A novice,
clothed in white, slowly advanced; he looked at her, started back,
hesitated, and exclaimed: "Oh God! is that Christine?"
William had cherished in his heart the memory of a bright-eyed,
sunburnt girl, alert and lively, quick and decided in her movements,
running more often than she walked, like the graceful roe that loves
the mountain steeps. He beheld a tall young woman, white and
colourless as the robes that shrouded her; her hair concealed under a
thick linen band, her slender form scarcely to be distinguished
beneath the heavy folds of her woollen vestments. Her movements were
slow, her black eyes veiled by an indescribable languor; a profound
calm was the characteristic of her whole being--a calm so great, that
it resembled absence of life. One might have thought her eyes looked
without seeing, that her lips could not open to speak, that her ears
listened without hearing. Sister Martha-Mary was beautiful, but her
beauty was not of the earth--it was the beauty of infinite repose,--of
a calm that nothing could disturb.
The old man was touched to the bottom of his soul; the words expired
on his lips, and he extended his hands towards Christine. On beholding
her uncle, Martha-Mary endeavoured to smile, but moved not, and said
nothing.
"Oh my child!" cried William at last, "how you must suffer here!"
Martha-Mary gently shook her head, and the tranquil look she fixed
upon her uncle, protested against his supposition.
"Is it possible that five years have thus changed my Christine! My
heart recognises you, my child, not my eyes! They have compelled you
to great austerities, severe privations?"
"No."
"A cruel bondage has weighed heavily upon you?
"No."
"You have been ill then?"
"No."
"Your poor heart has suffered too much, and has broken. You have shed
many tears?"
"I remember them no longer."
"Christine, Christine, do you live? or has the shade of Annunciata
risen from the grave? Oh my child! in seeing, you, I seem to see her
corpse, extended on the bed of death!"
Martha-Mary raised her large eyes to heaven; she joined her hands, and
murmured, "My mother!"
"Christine, speak to me! weep with me! you frighten me by your calm
and silence.... Ah! in my trouble and emotion, I have as yet explained
nothing.... Listen: my brother Karl, by the failure of a partner,
suddenly found his whole fortune compromised. To avoid total ruin he
was obliged to embark immediately for the colonies. He set sail
expecting to return in a few years; but his affairs prolong his
absence, and his return is indefinitely postponed. His two eldest
daughters are with him. To me, who am too old to follow him, too old
to remain alone, he has given Christine. I would not accept the
precious charge, my child, without the possibility of rendering you
happy. I implored permission to marry you to Herbert. You are no
longer a rich heiress: your father gone, you need protection, and that
of an old man cannot long avail you. In short, your father has agreed
to all I asked; he sends you, as a farewell gift, your liberty and his
consent to your marriage.... Christine! you are free, and Herbert
awaits his bride!"
The long drapery of the novice was slightly agitated, as if the limbs
it covered trembled; she remained some seconds without speaking, and
then replied, "It is too late! I am the affianced of the Lord!"
William uttered a cry of grief, and looked with alarm at the pale calm
girl, who stood immoveable before him.
"Christine!" he cried, "You no longer love Herbert?"
"I am the affianced of the Lord!" repeated the novice, her hands
crossed upon her breast, her eyes raised to heaven.
"Oh my God! my God!" cried William, weeping bitterly, "my brother has
killed his child! Her soul has been sad even unto death! Poor victim
of our severity, tell me, Christine, tell me, what has passed within
you, since your abode here?"
"I saw others pray, and I prayed also. There was a great stillness,
and I was silent; none wept, and I dried my tears; a something, at
first cold, then soothing, enveloped my soul. The voice of God made
itself heard to me, and I listened; I loved the Lord, and gave myself
to him."
Then, as if fatigued with speaking so much, Martha-Mary relapsed into
silence, and into that absorbing meditation which rendered her
insensible to surrounding things. Just then a bell tolled. The novice
started, and her eyes sparkled.
"God calls me!" she said, "I go to pray!"
"Christine! my daughter, will you leave me thus?"
"Hear you not the bell? It is the hour of prayer."
"But, Christine, dearest child, I came to take you hence."
"I shall never leave these walls!" said Martha-Mary, gliding slowly
away. As she opened the parlour door, she turned towards William; her
eyes fixed upon him with a sad and sweet expression; her lips moved,
as if to send him a kiss; then she disappeared. William made no
attempt to detain her; his head was pressed against the grating, and
big tears chased each other down his cheeks. How long he remained thus
plunged in mournful reflection, he noted not. He was roused by the
voice of the superior, who seated herself, wrapped in her black robes,
on the other side of the grating.
"I foresaw your grief," she said. "Our sister Martha-Mary refuses to
follow you."
With a despairing look, William answered the nun.
"Alas! alas!" he said, "the child I so dearly loved met me without
joy, and left me without regret."
"Listen, my son," resumed the superior; "listen to me.--Five years
ago, there came to this convent a young girl overwhelmed with grief
and sunk in terrible despair; her entrance here was to her a descent
into the tomb. During one entire year, none saw her but with tears on
her face. Only God knows how many tears the eyes must shed, before a
broken spirit regains calm and resignation; man cannot count them.
This young girl suffered much; in vain we implored pardon for her, in
vain we summoned her family to her relief. She might say, as is
written in the psalm,--'_I am weary with my groaning: mine eye is
consumed because of grief._' What could we do, save pray for her,
since none would receive her back!..."
"Alas!" cried William, "your letters never reached us. My brother was
beyond sea; and I, having then no hope of changing his determination,--
I had quitted his empty and melancholy house."
"Man abandoned her," continued the superior, "but God looked upon his
servant, and comforted her soul. If He does not see fit to restore
strength to her body, exhausted by suffering--His will be done!
Perhaps it would now be wise and generous to leave her to that love of
God which she has attained after so many tears; perhaps it would be
prudent to spare her fresh shocks."
"No! no!" interrupted William, "I cannot give up, even to God, this
last relic of my family, the sole prop of my old age. I will try every
means to bring back her heart to its early sentiments. Give me
Christine for a few days only! Let me conduct her to the place of her
birth, to the scenes where she loved. She is deaf to my entreaties,
but she will obey an order from you; bid her return for a while
beneath her father's roof! Should she still wish it, after this last
attempt, I will restore her hither."
"Take her with you, my son," replied the superior, "I will bid her
follow. If God has indeed spoken to her soul, no worldly voice will
move her. If it be otherwise, may she return no more to the cloister,
but be blessed wherever she goes! Adieu, my son; the peace of the Lord
be with you!"
Hope revived in the heart of William Van Amberg; it seemed to him as
if--the convent threshold once passed--Christine would revert to her
former character, her youth and love. He believed he was about to
remove his beloved child for ever from these gloomy walls, and with
painful impatience he awaited her coming. Soon a light step was heard
in the corridor; William threw open the door, Christine was there, and
no grating now separated her from her uncle.
"My beloved Christine!" exclaimed William, "at last, then, you are
restored to me; at last I can press you to my heart! Come, we will
return to our own country, and revisit the house where we all dwelt
together."
Sister Martha-Mary was still paler than at her first interview with
William. If any expression was discernible upon that calm countenance,
it was one of sadness. She allowed herself to be taken by the hand and
conducted to the convent gate; but when the gate was opened, and,
passing into the open air, she encountered the broad daylight and the
fresh breeze, she tottered and leaned for support against the wall.
Just then the sun rent the clouds, and threw its golden beams on plain
and mountain; the air was clear and transparent, and the flat and
monotonous horizon acquired beauty from the burst of light.
"See, my daughter!" said William, "see how lovely the earth looks! How
soft is the air we breathe! How good it is to be free, and to move
towards that immense horizon!"
"Oh, my dear uncle!" replied the novice, "how beautiful are the
heavens! See how the sun shines above our heads! It is in heaven that
his glory should be admired! His rays are already dim and feeble when
they touch the earth!"
William led Christine to a carriage; they got in, and the horses set
off. Long did the gaze of the novice remain fixed on her convent's
walls; when these were hidden from her by the windings of the road,
she closed her eyes and seemed to sleep. During the journey, William
endeavoured in vain to make her converse; she had forgotten how to
express her thoughts. When compelled to reply, fatigue overwhelmed
her; her whole existence was concentrated in her soul, and detached
entirely from the external world. At intervals, she would say to
herself: "How long the morning is! Nothing marks the hours; I have not
heard a single bell to-day!"
At last they reached the red house, and the carriage drove into the
court, where the grass grow between the stones. Gothon came out to
receive them, and Martha-Mary, leaning on her uncle's arm, entered the
parlour where the family of Van Amberg had so often assembled. The
room was deserted and cold; no books or work gave it the look of
habitation; abandoned by its last occupants, it awaited new ones.
Christine slowly traversed this well-known apartment, and sat down
upon a chair near the window. It was there her mother had sat for
twenty years; there had her childhood passed at the knees of
Annunciata.
William opened the window, showed her the meadow, the willows, and the
river. Christine looked at them in silence, her head resting on her
hand, her eyes fixed on the horizon. For a long while William stood
beside her, then he placed his hand on her shoulder and pronounced her
name. She rose and followed him. They ascended the stairs, traversed
the gallery, and William opened a door. "Your mother's room," said he
to Christine. The novice entered and stood still in the middle of the
chamber; tears flowed from her eyes, she clasped her hands and prayed.
"My daughter," said William, "_she_ ardently desired your happiness."
"She has obtained it!" replied the novice.
The old man felt a profound sadness come over him. It was like
pressing to his heart a corpse to which his love restored neither
breath nor warmth. Martha-Mary approached her mother's bed, knelt
down, and kissed the pillow that had supported the dying head of
Annunciata.
"Mother!" she murmured, "soon we shall meet again."
William shuddered. He took Christine's hand, and led her to the room
she had formerly occupied. The little white-curtained bed was still
there, the guitar hung against the wall, Christine's favourite volumes
filled the shelves of her modest bookcase; through the open window
were seen the willows and the river. Martha-Mary noticed none of these
things: the wooden crucifix was still upon the wall; she rapidly
approached it, knelt, bowed her head upon the feet of Christ, closed
her eyes and breathed deeply, like one finding repose after long
fatigue. Like the exile returning to his native land, like the
storm-tossed mariner regaining the port, she remained with her brow
resting upon her Saviour's feet.
Standing by her side, William looked on in tearful silence. Farther
off, Gothon wiped her eyes with her apron. Several hours elapsed. The
house-clock struck, the birds sang in the garden; the wind rustled
among the trees; in the lofty pigeon-house the doves cooed; the cock
crowed in the poultry-yard. None of these loved and familiar sounds
could divert Martha-Mary from her devout meditation. Sick at heart,
her uncle descended to the parlour. He remained there long, plunged in
gloomy reflections. Suddenly hasty steps were heard; a young man
rushed into the room and into William's arms.
"Christine! Christine!" cried Herbert; "where is Christine? Is it not
a dream? M. Van Amberg gives me Christine!... Once more in my native
land, and Christine mine!"
"Karl Van Amberg gives, but God refuses her to you!" replied William,
mournfully. Then he told Herbert what had passed at the convent, and
since their arrival at the house: he gave a thousand details,--he
repeated them a thousand times, but without convincing Herbert of the
melancholy truth.
"It is impossible!" cried the young man; "if Christine is alive, if
Christine is here, to the first word uttered by her lover, Christine
will reply."
"God grant it!" exclaimed William, "my last hope is in you."
Herbert sprang up the stairs, his heart too full of love to have room
for fear. Christine free, was for him Christine ready to become his
wife. He hastily opened her chamber door; but then he paused, as if
petrified, upon the threshold. The day was closing in, and its fading
light fell upon Martha-Mary, whose form stood out like a white shadow
from the gloom of the room. She was still on her knees, her head
resting on the feet of Christ, her fragile person lost in the
multiplied folds of her conventual robes. She heard not the opening of
the door, and Herbert stood gazing at her, till a flood of tears burst
from his eyes. William took his hand and silently pressed it.
"I am frightened!" said Herbert, in a low tone. "That is not my
Christine! A phantom risen from the earth, or an angel descended from
Heaven, has taken her place!"
"No, she is no longer Christine!" replied William, sadly.
For a few moments more Herbert stood in mournful contemplation. Then
he exclaimed:--"Christine, dear Christine!"
At the sound of his voice the novice started, rose to her feet, and
pronounced his name. As in former days, when her lover called
"Christine!" Martha-Mary had replied, "Herbert!"
The young man's heart beat violently; he stood beside the novice, he
took her hands. "It is I, it is Herbert!" he said, kneeling down
before her.
The novice fixed her large black eyes upon him with a long inquiring
gaze; a slight flush passed across her brow; then she became pale as
before, and said gently to Herbert:--"I thought not to see you again
upon earth."
"Dear Christine! tears and suffering have long been our portion; but
happy days at last dawn upon us! My love! my bride! we will never part
again!"
Martha-Mary extricated her hands from those of Herbert, and retreated
towards the image of Christ.
"I am the bride of the Lord" she said in trembling accents. "He
expects me."
Herbert uttered a cry of grief.
"Christine! dear Christine! remember our oft-repeated pledges, our
loves, our tears, our hopes. You left me vowing to love me always.
Christine, if you would not have me die of despair, remember the
past!"
Martha-Mary's eyes continued riveted on the crucifix; her hands,
convulsively clasped, were extended towards it.
"Gracious Lord!" she prayed, "speak to his heart as you have spoken to
mine! It is a noble heart, worthy to love you. Stronger than I,
Herbert may survive, even after much weeping! Console him, oh Lord!"
"Christine! my first and only love! sole hope and joy of my life! do
you thus abandon me? That heart, once entirely mine, is it closed to
me for ever?"
Her gaze upon the crucifix, her hands still joined, the novice, as if
able to speak only to her God, gently replied:--"Lord! he suffers as I
suffered! shed upon him the balm wherewith you healed my wounds!
Leaving him life, take his soul as you have taken mine. Give him that
ineffable peace which descends upon those thou lovest!"
"Oh Christine! my beloved!" cried Herbert, once more taking her hand,
"do but look at me! turn your eyes upon me and behold my tears!
Dearest treasure of my heart! you seem to slumber! Awake! Have you
forgotten our tender meetings? the willows bending over the stream,
the boat in which we sailed a whole night, dreaming the joy of eternal
union? See! the moon rises as it rose that night. We were near each
other as now; but then they tore us asunder, and now we are free to be
together! Christine, have you ceased to love? Is all forgotten?"
William took her other hand. "Dear child," he said, "we entreat you
not to leave us! To you we look for happiness; remain with us,
Christine."
One hand in the hands of Herbert, the other in those of William, the
novice slowly and solemnly replied:
"The corpse that reposes in the tomb does not lift the stone to
re-enter the world. The soul that has seen Heaven, does not leave it
to return to earth. The creature to whom God has said, 'Be thou the
spouse of Christ,' does not quit Christ to unite herself to a man; and
she who is about to die should turn her affections from mortal
things!"
"Herbert!" cried William, "be silent! Not another word! I can scarcely
feel the throbbing of her pulse! She is paler even than when I first
saw her behind the convent grating. We give her pain. Enough, Herbert,
enough! Better yield her to God upon earth, than send her to him in
Heaven!"
The old man placed the almost inanimate head of Martha-Mary upon his
shoulder, and pressed her to his heart as a mother embraces her child.
"Recover yourself, my daughter," he said; "I will restore you to the
house of God."
Martha-Mary turned her sad and gentle gaze upon her uncle, and her
hand feebly pressed his. Then addressing herself to Herbert:
"You, Herbert," she said, in a scarcely audible voice, "you, who will
live, do not abandon him!"
"Christine!" cried Herbert, on his knees before his betrothed.
"Christine! do we part for ever?"
The novice raised her eyes to heaven.
"Not for ever!" she replied.
Some days afterwards the convent gates opened to receive sister
Martha-Mary. They closed upon her for the last time. With feeble and
unsteady step the novice traversed the cloisters to prostrate herself
on the altar-steps. The superior came to her.
"Oh my mother!" exclaimed Christine, the fountain of whose tears was
opened, and who wept as in the days of her childhood, "I have seen him
and left him! To thee I return, oh Lord! faithful to my vows, I await
the crown that shall consecrate me thy spouse. Thy voice alone shall
henceforward reach my ears; I come to sing thy praises, to pray and
serve thee until the end of my life!--Holy mother, prepare the robe of
serge, the white crown, the silver cross; I am ready!"
"My daughter," replied the superior, "you are very ill, much exhausted
by so many shocks; will you not delay the ceremony of profession?"
"No, holy mother! no; delay it not! I would die the bride of the
Lord!... And I have little time!" replied sister Martha-Mary.