Elinor rode not to the mountains; she appeared not again at Belfont;
but turning her horse towards the convent of Glanaa, she entered there,
and asked if her aunt the abbess were yet alive. “She is alive,” said
one of those who remembered Miss St. Clare; “but she is much changed
since she last beheld you. Grieving for you has brought her to this
pass.”
What the nun had said was true. The abbess was much changed in
appearance; but through the decay, and wrinkles of age, the serenity
and benevolence of a kind and pious heart remained. She started
back at first, when she saw Miss St. Clare. That unfeminine attire
inspired her with feelings of disgust: all she had heard too of her
abandoned conduct chilled her interest; and that compassion which she
had willingly extended to the creeping worm, she reluctantly afforded
to an impenitent, proud, and hardened sinner.
“The flowers bloom around your garden, my good aunt; the sun shines
ever on these walls; it is summer here when it is winter in every other
place. I think God’s blessing is with you.” The abbess turned aside
to conceal her tears; then rising, asked wherefore her privacy was
intruded upon in so unaccustomed a manner. “I am come,” said Elinor,
“to ask a favour at your hands, and if you deny me, at least add not
unnecessary harshness to your refusal. I have a father’s curse on
me, and it weighs me to the earth. When they tell you I am no more,
say, will you pray for my soul? The God of Heaven dares not refuse
the prayer of a saint like you.”
“This is strange language, Miss St. Clare; but if indeed my prayers
have the efficacy you think for, they shall be made now, even now that
your heart may be turned from its wickedness to repentance.”—“The
favour I have to ask is of great moment: there will be a child left
at your doors; and ere long it will crave your protection; for it
is an orphan boy, and the hand that now protects it will soon be no
more. Look not thus at me: it is not mine. The boy has noble blood
in his veins; but he is the pledge of misfortune and crime.”
The abbess raised herself to take a nearer view of the person with
whom she was conversing. The plumed hat and dark flowing mantle, the
emerald clasp and chain, had little attraction for one of her age
and character; but the sunny ringlets which fell in profusion over
a skin of alabaster, the soft smile of enchantment blended with the
assumed fierceness of a military air, the deep expressive glance
of passion and sensibility, the youthful air of boyish playfulness,
and that blush which years of crime had not entirely banished, all,
all awakened the affection of age; and, with more of warmth, more of
interest than she had wished to shew to one so depraved, she pressed
the unhappy wanderer to her heart. “What treacherous fiends have
decoyed, and brought thee to this, my child? What dæmons have had
the barbarous cruelty to impose upon one so young, so fair?”
“Alas! good aunt, there is not in the deep recesses of my inmost heart,
a recollection of any whom I can with justice accuse but myself. That
God who made me, must bear witness, that he implanted in my breast,
even from the tenderest age, passions fiercer than I had power to
curb. The wild tygress who roams amongst the mountains—the young lion
who roars for its prey amidst its native woods—the fierce eagle who
soars above all others, and cannot brook a rival in its flight, were
tame and tractable compared with me. Nature formed me fierce, and
your authority was not strong enough to curb and conquer me. I was
a darling and an only child. My words were idolized as they sprung
warm from my heart; and my heart was worth some attachment, for it
could love with passionate excess. In my happier days, I thought too
highly of myself; and forgive me, Madam, if, fallen as I am, I still
think the same. I cannot be humble. When they tell me I am base, I
acknowledge it: pride leads me to confess what others dare not; but I
think them more base who delight in telling me of my faults: and when
I see around me hypocrisy and all the petty arts of fashionable vice,
I too can blush for others, and smile in triumph at those who would
trample on me. It is not before such things as these, such canting
cowards, that I can feel disgrace; but before such as you are—so
good, so pure, and yet so merciful, I stand at once confounded.”
“The God of Heaven pardon thee!” said the abbess. “You were once my
delight and pride. I never could have suspected ill of you.” “I too
was once unsuspicious,” said St. Clare. “My heart believed in nothing
but innocence. I know the world better now. Were it their interest,
would they thus deride me? When the mistress of Glenarvon, did they
thus neglect, and turn from me? I was not profligate, abandoned,
hardened, then! I was lovely, irresistible! My crime was excused. My
open defiance was accounted the mere folly and wantonness of a child.
I have a high spirit yet, which they shall not break. I am deserted,
it is true; but my mind is a world in itself, which I have peopled
with my own creatures. Take only from me a father’s curse, and to
the last I will smile, even though my heart is breaking.”
“And are you unhappy,” said the abbess, kindly. “Can you ask it, Madam?
Amidst the scorn and hatred of hundreds, do I not appear the gayest
of all? Who rides so fast over the down? Who dances more lightly at
the ball? And if I cannot sleep upon my bed, need the world be told
of it? The virtuous suffer, do they not? And what is this dream of
life if it must cease so soon? We know not what we are: let us doubt
all things—all but the curse of a father, which lies heavy on me.
Oh take it from me to-night! Give me your blessing; and the time is
coming when I shall need your prayers.”
“Can such a mind find delight in vice?” said the abbess, mildly gazing
upon the kneeling girl. “Why do you turn your eyes to Heaven, admiring
its greatness, and trembling at its power, if you yet suffer your
heart to yield to the delusions of wickedness?” “Will such a venial
fault as love be accounted infamous in Heaven?” “Guilty love is the
parent of every vice. Oh, what could mislead a mind like yours, my
child?” “Madam, there are some born with a perversion of intellect, a
depravity of feeling, nothing can cure. Can we straighten deformity,
or change the rough features of ugliness into beauty?” “We may do
much.” “Nothing, good lady, nothing; though man would boast that it is
possible. Let the ignorant teach the wise; let the sinner venture to
instruct the saint; we cannot alter nature. We may learn to dissemble;
but the stamp is imprest with life, and with life alone it is erased.”
“God bless, forgive, and amend thee!” said the abbess. “The sun is
set, the hour is late: thy words have moved, but do not convince me.”
“Rise, daughter, kneel not to me: there is one above, to whom alone
that posture is due.” As St. Clare rode from the convent, she placed
a mark upon the wicket of the little garden, and raising her voice,
“Let him be accursed,” she cried, “who takes from hence this badge
of thy security: though rivers of blood shall gush around, not a hair
of these holy and just saints shall be touched.”