HIGH MASS AND WHAT HAPPENED AT IT
The morning dawned more soft and lovely than the preceding one: a boon
to the good people of Rivoli, for it was a gala-day with them.
Daphne, my uncle and myself rose with the break of day, and at an early
hour we were standing in the market-place watching the worshippers
throng into the cathedral.
Be it far from me to attempt to describe the various ornaments and
robes displayed by the dames of Rivoli on this festal occasion: the
silver chains and rich headdresses, the dainty cloaks and embroidered
kirtles. Suffice it to say there was sufficient white, blue, and
black among them to gladden the heart of his Holiness the late Pope,
who has expressed his approval of these colours as most becoming to
young persons. Nor were sober grey and brown wanting, hues suitable,
according to the same authority, to ladies of a more advanced age.
"To be or not to be? that is the question," murmured my uncle, as the
last devotee filed into the cathedral, and the great square was left
to us. "Whether 'tis nobler to follow the crowd into this edifice to
witness a ceremony whose superstition provokes my irreverence, or to
stroll onward in the soft morning air and finish this weed? Havana
_versus_ church, that is the question."
"No question at all," said Daphne; and, compelling her pagan parent
to fling away his cigar and assume a more decorous air, she drew him
within the cathedral.
As we came as spectators only, we took up our position in a
side-cloister. Looking round for the artist among the crowd of
worshippers I at length discovered him in the very first line of seats,
reading a Missal, with such attention that he never once glanced to
left or right. His devout air and the position he had taken so near the
chancel evidently implied an intention to partake of the Communion.
On the high altar seven lofty candlesticks of solid silver, each with
its seven waxen tapers, gleamed on the great brazen gates of the
chancel, and on the lofty casement above with its blazoned saints and
angels, and fretwork of purple and gold. The splendour was sufficient
to illumine the whole length of the nave, and, contrasted with the
gloom of the more remote parts of the edifice, had a dazzling, not to
say theatrical, effect.
We had not occupied our position in the aisle above two minutes, when
forth from the sacristy issued the train of the priests and their
auxiliaries. Thurifers swinging slow their golden censers, and acolytes
with lighted tapers, led the way to the chancel. Father Ignatius, his
eyes fixed on the ground, came last, robed in a magnificent white cope,
and bearing under a veil the sacred vessels, which he deposited on the
altar.
"What is the matter?" remarked Daphne presently. "Why do they not
begin?"
This question found an echo in my own mind. Though several minutes had
elapsed since Ignatius had entered the sanctuary, he had not yet begun
the prefatory rite of incensing the crucifix, but was conversing in
whispers with his deacon, and their motions and glances, which were
directed towards Angelo, seemed to intimate that the artist was the
subject of their talk. It was with considerable surprise that we saw
the deacon leave the sanctuary and, walking over to the spot where
Angelo sat, still absorbed in his Missal, hold a brief but animated
conversation with him. Presently he returned to the side of Father
Ignatius. Whatever the object of this intercourse may have been, it had
met with failure, to judge by the perplexed looks of the deacon.
The service commenced. The organ, touched by a master-hand, rolled with
grand cadence through the cathedral, now swelling high and loud to the
lofty arches above, now dying away with faint echoes in far-off aisles.
From the chancel issued voices so mysteriously beautiful as to suggest
the idea of a hidden choir of angels. Daphne was deeply interested, and
even my anti-ecclesiastical uncle condescended to remark that it was a
"well-organised noise."
As for me, the character of the worship was such that at any other
time it would have enthralled my senses and filled me with dreams of
mediævalism; but on the present occasion curiosity to know the nature
of the communication that had passed between Angelo and the deacon
overcame every other feeling, and made me inattentive to the solemnity.
The tinkling bell of the acolyte sounded, and the assembly fell on
their knees as Father Ignatius elevated the sacred host for the
adoration of the faithful. The sun by this time had mounted high
above the rooftops and was now gilding the chancel-window with its
splendour: and from the holy dove figured at the apex of this casement,
arrowy beams of mystic and many coloured light slanted full on the
head of the aged priest, lighting up a countenance thin and ascetic,
yet bearing in every lineament the lofty spirit and iron will of a
Hildebrand.
The time had come for the people to receive the Mass. Among the first
to advance and kneel reverently at the altar-rails was Angelo. My
position prevented me from seeing his face. I could not help wondering
whether his faith was sincere, and whether, in accordance with the
spirit of the holy mystery, he was in charity with all mankind, even
with me, his rival.
The administration of the sacrament was conducted by Father Ignatius
accompanied by the deacon, who held the paten under his host as it was
placed on the tongue of the receiver. The worthy padre commenced at the
Epistle side of the altar. Angelo was the ninth in order from that end.
We noticed with surprise that Ignatius, while giving the host to the
first eight, never once looked at them, but kept his eyes all the time
on Angelo with a fixed stony expression that gave no indication of his
thoughts.
I waited with painful interest for the priest to confront Angelo,
absurdly thinking there might be some secret between them, and that
in addition to the ritual words Ignatius might whisper others not of
sacred import. I was certainly not prepared for the result. As Angelo
reverently elevated his face to receive the wafer between his lips,
Ignatius, affecting not to notice the action, passed him by for the
next communicant, and proceeded with the delivery.
I was doubtful at first whether I had seen aright, but the looks
interchanged among the assembly told me that others too had observed
the action. My wonder found its reflection in the wide-open eyes of
Daphne; her arm trembled on mine, but she did not speak; for a deep
silence had fallen over all, and the faintest whisper would have
attracted attention.
What could be the reason for this action on the part of the priest?
What could Angelo have done to forfeit the privileges of the Church?
Quick as a flash of light there rose before me the confessional scene
of the preceding day. Was the rejection of Angelo the result of the
recital made to Father Ignatius by the silver-haired penitent? Of the
nature of that confession I had only an inkling, but that it was the
key to this priest's conduct I felt certain.
The first line of communicants retired to their seats. The artist did
not move but remained kneeling solitary and silent, his lips pressing
the cold marble chancel-rails, his hands clasped nervously above his
dark hair, as if he were supplicating the Church, his mother, to
receive and forgive an erring child.
For a brief moment I had entertained the idea that Ignatius, in passing
Angelo by, had perhaps committed an oversight. It was impossible
now for him not to perceive the artist; but with a face cold and
impenetrable as marble he stood erect within the chancel, openly
ignoring the other's mute appeal to be noticed. It was clear that his
refusal to give the Communion to him was a deliberate act. The most
exquisite penalty that can fall on the soul of a devout Catholic had
fallen on Angelo. A rustle of surprise passed through the assembly like
the ripple of the forest-leaves swayed by the summer breeze.
Despite my jealousy I could not help pitying the artist at having
to suffer this slight in the face of a great mass of people. He had
crossed the sea and travelled hundreds of miles expressly (so he had
told us) to be present at this solemn festa--a festa hallowed by all
the memories of his childhood and youth; and the end of it all was
to become an excommunicate from the Church he loved, an object of
suspicion to the people among whom he had been brought up.
Several minutes had elapsed since the first communicants had retired; a
second line had not yet come forward, and the artist continued to kneel
in silent loneliness. Still he moved not, as if dreading to lift his
head and face the wondering eyes of the faithful.
Father Ignatius was in a dilemma. Knowing--as I supposed--his old
_protégé's_ passionate nature, he feared that a command for the artist
to retire might provoke an outburst of rage that would profane the
sacred solemnity. He hesitated to speak, and so this singular tableau
continued some moments longer, and people looked at each other,
wondering how it was going to end.
Suddenly the deep hush and awe that lay on all was broken. Sweetly,
solemnly, from some hidden portion of the chancel, in tones as clear
as a silver bell, the voice of a woman arose. She was singing a sacred
solo; and the words directed none to draw near the altar but those
whose consciences were pure, whose lives were holy. The effect of this
music was thrilling in the extreme. Whether applicable or not to the
would-be communicant, certain it was that his whole figure quivered
like an aspen, and his head sank still lower on the chancel-rails. The
solo did not form part of Mozart's Mass, and I could not help thinking
afterwards that Father Ignatius had previously directed that the words
should be sung in the event of the artist's presenting himself at the
altar.
Still Angelo did not stir; and the deacon glanced at Father Ignatius,
as if apprehensive of a disturbance. That ecclesiastic staved off the
difficulty for a time by motioning the attendants to bring forward a
second line of communicants, who, advancing to the chancel, knelt some
on one side of Angelo, some on the other.
Would the priest ignore the artist a second time? was the thought that
filled every mind in the cathedral. Interest gleamed from every face.
The sanctuary had assumed for the time being the aspect of a stage,
and with bated breath the assembly awaited the result, as an audience
awaits the _dénouement_ of a play. The only person who showed no trace
of feeling was Ignatius himself. With solemn air he proceeded to the
delivery of the Sacrament. Once more he approached the artist, who
elevated his face to receive the host, and once more did Ignatius pass
him by.
At this second refusal Angelo bounded to his feet with a suddenness
that startled every one except Ignatius, who, calm and dignified, drew
back a few paces, covering with the linen corporal the paten containing
the wafers as if to guard them from seizure and profanation.
With eyes of fire and lip of scorn Angelo glared round on the assembly,
as if in disdain of any opinion they might have formed of him, his face
proud, dark, and defiant. The cathedral attendants, observing his wild
bearing, were stepping forward to remove him, but a signal from Father
Ignatius checked their advance.
"Peace!" he exclaimed with lifted hand, and at his word the rising
murmur of many voices was hushed. "Peace! Let there be no tumult, I
pray you, my children. My conduct may seem harsh, but the occasion
warrants it. My son," he continued, turning to the artist, "you have
forced this humiliation on yourself. Warned yestereven by me that you
had forfeited the privileges of the Church, you have yet dared to
disobey her voice, and to approach her hallowed altar. Leave this holy
place, I pray you in quietude; or if force be employed in your removal,
on your head be the guilt of profanation!"
A wave of emotion swept over Angelo, but with an effort he subdued it,
and faced the priest.
"One question, and I retire. For what reason do you thus refuse me the
Mass?"
"The reverence due to the holy mysteries forbids you to participate in
them. Now go. Would that my words might be: _Vade in pace!_" The voice
of a judge giving sentence of death could not have been more impressive
than those solemn tones issuing from the depths of the chancel. "Will
you compel me to speak out?" he added, as the artist showed no sign of
moving. "Let your own conscience vindicate me."
"My conscience acquits me of any action that can justify you in
excluding me from the Communion."
"The saints pardon thee that falsehood, my son!"
"Falsehood!" repeated the artist, stepping up to the chancel rails
with clenched hands, and with so dark an expression on his face that
I thought he was going to attack Ignatius. "If it were not for your
age and holy office, you would not dare use such words to me. But the
priest is protected by his alb and chasuble, as a woman by her sex. You
have publicly affronted me. I demand an explanation, nor will I retire
till you give it."
"This is not the time or place. At the confessional will I hear
thee--nay, absolve thee; but come not as thou art to the holy altar."
"I tell you,"--Angelo began angrily, but Ignatius would not hear him.
"Too long have we listened to thee!" he exclaimed with a gesture of
impatience. "Attendants, remove this brawler, ere from the high altar
we curse him with bell, book, and candle!"
"Touch me at your peril!" cried Angelo fiercely. "Who dare accuse me
of----"
His eyes, glaring defiantly round at one and all, suddenly lighted
upon us. There in that hour of his humiliation he beheld a sight
calculated to call up all the bitterness of his nature; the woman whom
he loved reclining in the arms of the man whom he hated! Daphne, with a
frightened air, was clinging half fainting to me.
He cast a look at her as if appealing for sympathy, but in the
expression of her face, and in the quickly averted motion of her head,
he read the loss of all his hopes.
I was but human--it was ignoble of me, I know--but I could not repress
the exultant thought that this was a splendid triumph for me!
A similar thought was evidently passing through the mind of the artist.
Despair caused him to stand immovable, staring in Daphne's direction,
regardless of the people's murmurs that rose on the air like the
sound of many waters--regardless of the advice of the attendants to
withdraw quietly. Like a statue he stood, deaf to their appeals, till
at length, losing their patience, the attendants, aided by some of of
the worshippers, laid hands on him to enforce his removal. Their grasp
seemed to rouse all the latent fury of his nature.
"Touch me at your peril!" he cried, struggling to free himself from
their grasp and actually striking out among them with clenched hands.
"Who dare accuse me of guilt? I have not deserved this," he continued,
panting and breathless, as he was dragged with more force than ceremony
from the chancel. "Let me go. Release my wrists. I am going quietly, I
tell you. Will you not take my word? Cowards! Oh, if my hands were but
free! I ... let me go ... I tell you ... let me----"
The oaken door of the sacristy removed the struggling group from our
view; and the scene that for the space of a few minutes had degraded a
holy solemnity to the level of a stage-representation was at an end.
"Why, the boy must be mad!" cried my uncle, as Angelo's cries became
lost in the distance.
Daphne lay a dead weight in my arms.
"She has fainted," I whispered to her father; and I bore her far away
from the worshippers to the entrance of the cathedral for the cool
morning air to revive her.
It is impossible to describe my thoughts as I held her close to me.
Once before, on the very morn of her intended wedding, she had been
snatched away; and now on a second occasion, when another rival seemed
on the point of winning her, and of triumphing over me, events had
conspired to destroy all his hopes. Was there not a fatality in this?
Was not Destiny reserving Daphne for me alone?
"No one shall ever have you but myself," I murmured, as I gazed on her
beautiful face.
An old woman had been slowly following us. She now offered us her
assistance.
"Let me see to her," she said, as I laid her at the pedestal of a font
near the porch, and, kneeling, sustained her head on my knee. "Poor
pretty lady, she will soon come to."
And she proceeded to remove Daphne's hat, and to loosen her cloak and
dress.
We waited a few moments, but she lay as still and white as the
alabaster font above her.
"Is there no water to be had?" said my uncle, lifting the lid of the
baptismal basin and peeping in. "None here. Ah! the holy water at the
porch! Good!"
"The saints forbid!" exclaimed the old dame fervently. "It would be
sacrilege."
"The holy water couldn't be put to a better use," I said, as my uncle
darted to look for some receptacle to convey the water in.
"Is not this lady's name Daphne Leslie?" inquired the old dame, chafing
the hands of her patient.
"Yes; how did you learn it?" I asked in amazement.
"I have heard it often enough," she smiled, "on the lips of my boy
Angelo. You know him well. I am his old nurse. Perhaps you have heard
him speak of me."
"I believe I have," I replied.
"Ah me! this lady has turned my poor boy's brain. He is mad--quite
mad--with love for her. No sleep had he last night. All through the
long hours he was walking his room to and fro, to and fro, to and fro,
repeating her name. Ah, why did Father Ignatius frown so on him? I want
to tell her that he is a good youth and can have done nothing wrong.
The Father is a hard man, and the lightest trifle displeases him. I saw
this lady faint at my poor boy's disgrace, and I want to tell her that
it is all well with him. Jesu, Maria!" she ejaculated suddenly, looking
with loving adoration on Daphne's face "how beautiful she is! A worthy
match for my handsome boy."
So this, then, was her motive in attending Daphne! To pour into her
ear the praises of Angelo, and to assure her of the goodness of his
character!
"Your 'boy,' as you call him, shall never have Daphne," I exclaimed
savagely--"never!"
And in an ecstasy of rage and love I kissed her passionately, and at
the very moment my lips met hers her dark blue eyes opened wide and
looked full into mine. Was it the reflection of my own eyes that I
beheld in hers or did they really shine with a tender light? Did her
fingers really return my pressure, or was it but the effect of my
imagination? I could not tell. She had returned to her unconscious
state again. The old woman had risen to her feet, and was regarding me
with a superb contempt that would have done credit to the prince of
darkness.
"So you, then, are the rival of whom my boy speaks in his dreams--you!"
she exclaimed with a gesture of disdain. "And do you hope to win this
lady from him--you? It will not be by the beauty of your face, then.
Compared with you, my boy is an angel."
"I thank you for your services," I replied coldly, "but I can dispense
with them, and with your compliments too. I wish you good-day, madame."
And, seeing that my uncle could not find a vessel in which to convey
the water, I lifted Daphne and carried her over to him. The old
dame remained standing on the spot where I had left her, and, after
contemplating me for a few seconds, walked off with a stately air.
"What have you done to offend our good _bonne_?" asked my uncle, as he
sprinkled Daphne's face and throat with water.
"Who do you think she is?"
"Florence Nightingale?"
"Angelo's nurse. She was instituting comparisons between your humble
servant and her oil-and-colour _protégé_; so I dismissed her."
Very slowly Daphne recovered from her swoon, smiling faintly at her
weakness, and very tenderly did I lead her to a seat.
As soon as she was quite recovered my uncle left us to ascertain what
had been done with Angelo.
"I feel quite frightened, Frank," said Daphne, trembling all over, "at
what has just happened. Why did the priest refuse Angelo the Sacrament?"
"That is a mystery I too would like to solve."
"The priest must have had some reason for his action," she rejoined.
"How awful Angelo looked when he jumped to his feet and glared round on
the people! Promise me that you will not leave me alone with him," she
said, laying her hand confidingly on my arm. "I feel afraid of him now;
I did not think he could be so wild and passionate."
I gave her the required promise, knowing that the reason she exacted it
was her dread lest the artist should use such opportunity for declaring
his love to her.
She drew, perhaps unconsciously, nearer to me, and her arm within mine
tightened its clasp. At the same time a rose she was wearing in her
hat (a flower from the bouquet Angelo had given her the previous day)
fell from its stalk. Daphne affected not to notice its fall, and it lay
neglected, its petals scattered and withered as the hopes of the donor.
"Well, what have they done with Angelo?" said I to my uncle, as that
worthy returned to us.
"His paroxysm of fury passed off after a few minutes, so they let him
go."
"Do you think," I whispered, to my uncle as we journeyed homewards,
"that Angelo's Madonna had anything to do with his expulsion from the
Communion?"
"I am pretty sure that it had not," was the reply. "Angelo's was a much
more grave offence."