“When will he come here again?” I inquired.
“To-morrow at furthest,” said Claire.
“Then I hope I shall see him.”
“Assuredly, if madam desires it,” said Claire, with a pleased look. “But
apparently, madam is a Protestant?”
“Oh, I do not want to confess to him,” said I, laughing.
“Pardon me, madam. But have you never felt that it would be a great
pleasure and privilege to confess?”
“Assuredly not, Claire,” said I, more seriously.
“Madam has had dear friends then, to whom she could express every
thought—confess every fault—and to whom she could apply in every
difficulty?” inquired she.
“No—not always,” answered I, hesitatingly; “but, Claire, we believe
that to God alone we should confess.”
“God alone can absolve,” said Claire, devoutly, “by the mouth of his
minister, the repenting heart. But there are so many things we wish to
say to an earthly friend, and to which we must receive an answer—”
“But we believe the Bible to be a sufficient guide to all our darkness
and doubts.”
“Morally I know it is, madam. And I do not say that its precepts will
not reach every variety of intellectual difficulty. But I have found
that conference with a superior mind is a great relief and pleasure, as
well as guide, in understanding the doubts that often weigh on the
mind.”
“Unquestionably it is so, Claire; but we find those superior minds in
the circle of our acquaintances, in our husbands, brothers, and the
friends to whom we attach ourselves. We have not the need of confession
that you feel, isolated as you are from any guiding mind.”
“Yes, madam, that is true. I can see that in such a case confession
would not be so necessary; but with us it is a great need.”
She drew the curtains as she spoke, and sat silently at her netting. I
lay revolving in my mind for a long time the conversation I had been
holding with this strange girl. There was something in the maturity of
her mind and the dignity of her manner, that contrasted greatly with the
extreme youthfulness of her figure and face. Her eyes had a quiet
serenity that seemed the result of having attained, at a bound, the goal
to which humanity generally reaches after long and painful experiences
and mental vicissitudes that leave their unmistakable marks on the face.
But in Claire’s face, seen by the pale light of the room, was an angelic
wisdom, pure and high. Yet she did not look satisfied; or rather, she
was satisfied only in the thought of a future different from the calm
present.
I asked myself how would this sweet flower bear transplanting? She had
no ties but those of gratitude to the place she was in, and as a sphere
of usefulness, some one more strong and hardy could fill it better than
she did. She evidently looked and longed for the arrival of her father,
more from “the necessity of loving” than from a filial feeling. I did
not myself believe that he was in existence, or that if he were, he was
worthy of her affection, or he would long ere this have sought her out.
Thoughts like these kept me wakeful, and when I undrew the curtain again
to speak to Claire, I found she had gone softly out, and her place was
supplied by a stout “Sister,” to whom I had no inclination to speak. She
told me, in answer to my query, that day was nearly breaking, and I sunk
to sleep in the hearing of the distant music of the morning-hymn.
The sun was already high in the heavens when I awoke. Claire was sitting
by the side of my bed, and at my first motion, spoke to me with a
cheerful smile that well corresponded with the serene brightness of the
day.
“Father Angelo has been here for some time, madam; I have been telling
him about you, for truly, madam, I feel as if I had known you a long
time, instead of only one night. He will be glad to see you.”
“And I shall like to see him, Claire. But as I feel myself, thanks to
your kindness, quite recovered, I will not receive him so entirely in
dishabille.”
In a few momenta I was dressed, and walking in the small garden attached
to the convent. Claire left me for a short time, and then came out
followed or rather attended by her friend.
He was dressed in the common black robe of his order, with the cowl
thrown back so as fully to display his head and throat. For the first
time, I understood that he was not a monk, but only a clergyman, as we
should say. A priest, and not a very old one either. Certainly he had
never numbered more than thirty-five years. His face was entirely pale,
and his temples covered with dark hair, while his red lips and white,
even teeth had the grace of feminine contour.
I was struck with the gravity, even to sadness, of his manner, no less
than with the beauty of his person. He uttered in a low, quiet voice the
usual benediction, and then asked me to listen to him, as he had much to
say to me. I replied with some surprise, that I was quite at his
service, and leading me to a rude garden-seat, over which honeysuckles
and roses made a natural bower, he said quietly to Claire—
“You will leave us, Claire, for half an hour; and send Sister Mary with
some of her coffee and best buns.”
This was not precisely the confessional I had anticipated; and in spite
of the little flutter of my spirits, this picture of myself, in high
colloquy with a Catholic priest, sipping hot coffee and eating nice
buns, was so laughable, that I could hardly keep my face in a state of
suitable gravity.
Sister Mary’s white buns and fragrant coffee were delicious indeed.
While I partook of them, Father Angelo leaned his head on his hand in
profound abstraction. His complete absorption continued for some minutes
after the nun had left us alone. At length he raised his head, and
looking steadily at me, said abruptly,
“I suppose it is vain to attempt any thing like a conversion of your
principles to the true church.”
“Entirely so,” I answered, “as I was born and educated I shall probably
remain.”
“So I thought.”
Again there was a long silence. What it was to end in, I could not
guess; but I determined not to break it. My companion was evidently
agitated and uncomfortable. His red lips became pale and quivering, and
his brow bent. He rose from his seat, and paced back and forward on the
graveled walk. After some time had elapsed in this inward conflict, he
seated himself once more by my side, and taking my hand, addressed me
thus:
“Pardon me for saying that I require from you a solemn promise of
secrecy in regard to what I am about to communicate.”
I was somewhat prepared for a communication, it is true; but not at all
disposed to bind myself to secrecy with a stranger. He seemed to read my
thoughts, for he fixed his bright eyes on mine, and then dropped them
with an expression of embarrassment.
“I should not have asked you, madam, for this pledge of secrecy, but
that it is of much importance—and—and I think you can receive no
inconvenience—possibly—”
He stopped entirely, but again raised his eyes with an expression so
imploring, that I said at once,
“Say on, sir. I promise you that nothing but the most imperative
necessity shall make me disclose to any one what you may tell me.”
“Thank you,” said he, eagerly; “it is not on my account that I desire
secrecy. But there are many reasons—the good of the church—evil
tongues. When I have told you all, these reasons will readily suggest
themselves to your own mind. You are surprised that I should choose to
make an entire stranger my confident in a secret. But in the first
place, you are not entirely unknown to me. I have interested myself in
you somewhat; and there have been persons enough ready to tell me of
your ‘birth, parentage, and education.’ Of your mind and heart, Claire
has told me much this morning, in a long conversation we have had; and,
in short, circumstances make it necessary that I should confide in you.”
There was something so heartfelt in the tone in which Father Angelo
spoke, something so entirely sincere, notwithstanding the mystery in
which the affair was enveloped, that I repeated what I had before said:
“Whatever you wish to say to me, sir, I am ready to hear, to keep
entirely to myself, and to assist you to the best of my power.”
He looked greatly relieved, and proceeded.
“You have divined, before this, madam, the reason of my wish to confide
in you. You are a foreigner, a Protestant, a widow, and independent in
your actions. Claire needs all these for her friend and efficient
adviser.”
“Claire! then it is of her you wish to speak? I supposed your secret
concerned yourself. She has told me of her own life.”
“She has told you what she knew,” said Father Angelo, with the same
abruptness as before. Indeed, through the whole of our interview, there
was an earnestness which dispensed with the usual forms almost of
civility.
“I have been waiting, watching for such an event as your coming, ever
since last year, when I first became fully acquainted with Claire, and
saw how unsuited she was to a conventual life. She has warm feelings and
superior intellect, and she is fretted continually by the discrepancy
between her inward and outward life. She would be a companion to you,
and—she has some means—” he stopped, and a slight flush passed over
his pale face. “I should not wish her to be a dependent on the bounty of
any person.”
“I understand, however, from Claire herself,” said I, “that her mother
died poor, and that she has been indebted to charity for her support.
This father of hers—if he be living—”
“You think he must be a wretch,” said Father Angelo, calmly, “so to
desert those who have every claim on his care. Be it so. He is a wretch.
And most wretched is he, that, seeing before him the form of his child,
and listening to the outpourings of her angelic soul, he should be
barred from acknowledging kindred with it, and forced, for the very love
he bears her, to tear her from him forever.
“If you will accede to my earnest request, take Claire with you to
America—care for her—watch over her—be to her all that, alas! her
father must not be—and I shall feel that all, and a thousand times more
than all I deserve, and all I live for, is granted, and shall at once
enter a convent of La Trappe. I long for it—I long for eternal silence;
and have only retained my present position, that I might find Claire,
read her character, and do what I could to unfold and strengthen it.
That mission is accomplished. Her native strength of wing has already
carried her mind beyond what my feeble flights can follow. She soars to
regions of purity and peace, where my soul cannot revel, unless after
long years of penance and suffering. She loves the ideal parent, who is
to her the personification of all virtue; and it is impossible, and
ought to be so, for me to sully her thoughts with the reality which to
her must always be a source of disappointment and mortification, and to
me inexpressible shame.”
This revelation was not unexpected to me, so far as regarded the
relationship of the two parties; but it filled me with much matter for
meditation. I had no curiosity to know the events of Father Angelo’s
past life. The lines of suffering, and the traces of strong passions,
were marked deeply on his marble brow, and composed even to severity as
his manner now was, I could read under the habitual restraint of his
expressive face, that no slight agony had wrought on a naturally proud
and sensitive spirit, before it could compel itself to forego its
sweetest pleasures rather than breathe on the purity of the beloved
object.
After some time passed on my side in revolving what I had heard, and
what I was expected to do, and on his, in a distressful silence that
watched painfully for my first word, I asked,
“But about Claire’s religious influences. She will have few of the kind
she has been accustomed to; and all her indirect influences, you must be
aware, will not be very favorable to her religious constancy.”
“I think she will become a Protestant. You are surprised that I should
be willing to trust her in such an atmosphere. But there are some minds
that are cast, so to speak, in a Protestant mould; and hers is one. She
has not a great deal of faith, and her mind naturally tends so much to
inquiry, perhaps I should say skepticism, that I found it difficult to
lead her. I may as well say at once, that my own reasons for adopting
the profession and character of a priest, were first to discover her,
and know her mind more intimately than I could do in any other position;
and secondly, because the Catholic faith promises more to me than any
other religion. I feel the need of what it has to give; but to Claire, I
can see its spirit and forms are not so necessary. I am not bigoted nor
intolerant, as you see. Perhaps I am not a good Catholic. But I wish you
to understand that I am not acting against my conscience.”
“These are strange words from a Catholic priest,” said I, looking at
him. A flush of impatience crossed his face again.
“I need not qualify my words to you, I am sure. What I need—a wretched,
debased sinner—stripes—fasting—silence—and digging my own grave
daily—are not the necessary aliment of Claire’s soul, fresh from the
forming hand of the All-Pure.”
“Then I understand that Claire, if I take her, is to be like my own
child; that no interference of any kind with my authority or influence
is to be allowed?”
“There is no person living authorized to interfere,” said Father Angelo,
sadly. “Her father will be dead to her. And God will reward or punish
you as you deal by this forlorn and most angelic child.”
“I accept the trust,” said I, with the same solemnity that was expressed
in the manner of the unhappy father. He took my hand in his, and holding
it up, repeated a short prayer in Latin, which I took to be an
invocation, but I said nothing; and, indeed, was so agitated and
exhausted that I could not speak.
“I shall leave this place this morning,” said he, with a more composed
voice, “and shall send to you such information as may be necessary to
her future welfare in any possible contingency.”
He rung a bell which stood on the table, and Claire came into the
garden, as if she had been in waiting. He made a sign to her to attend
to me, and as soon as I had taken the restorative she hastened to offer,
rose to go. I shall never forget the look of anguished affection that
spread over his pale face, as he murmured above Claire’s bright head the
customary benediction. His whole being seemed one thrill of pain.
Stooping over he pressed on her forehead a kiss of such love! and then
without another word hurried away.
Claire looked astonished, as well she might, for she had never seen him
agitated before, though, as she said, she conjectured he must have
suffered much.
“He feels sorrowfully at leaving you, my child,” said I, “he tells me he
is about leaving this part of the country.”
She looked at me, as if she wondered at his communicating such an
intention to me, rather than to herself, but was too delicate to inquire
further.
The same afternoon a package came to the convent, directed to me, and
contained, among other things, a letter from Father Angelo “to his
beloved daughter in Christ Jesus”—in which he recommended her to accept
the proposal I had made of taking her with me to America, and containing
besides some affectionate words of advice. It was brief, and I could
easily see that many feelings had prevented his being more prolix.
I then entered more fully into the subject with Claire, of her leaving
her native country for mine. I found, to my great joy, that she was not
only willing but desirous to go with me, and that a night’s free
converse with me had given me much of her affection.
“I have not dared to think, dear madam,” she said tearfully, “how
‘doubly lone’ I should be when you were gone.”
“And you think you shall not long for the seclusion of Chaillot, and the
hymns of the Sisters?”
“Oh, I dare say I shall long to see them. But meanwhile I do so long to
be with you, and to see something and somebody in the world!”
“And you will be my own daughter?” I asked her now more seriously—“do
you know how much that implies? If I give you all I shall require much
from you.”
“Not more than all my heart,” answered she gayly, “and that you shall
certainly have.”
“Till somebody else asks for it,” said I to myself.
The remainder of my stay at Chaillot was cheered by the occasional
visits of Claire, but the most of the time she spent at the convent, and
among the poor of the village, who loved her and mourned her departure.
When at last the vessel bore us both away from France she was deeply
affected. I was glad to see it: glad that mere curiosity and interest in
novelty had not dulled her heart to one sympathy.
Arrived at Boston, we met the kind faces of friends, how kind and how
dear, we never feel till an ocean has separated us, and soon found
ourselves quietly established at my own residence, as if not a week had
passed since I was last there. Claire gained in a northern climate all
she needed to make her perfect—strength of body, and consequent
strength of mind. She was never weary of the bold natural scenery in
which New England abounds, and wandered and climbed till I used to beg
her to take care of herself for my sake.
All this time I had a plot in my head. For what woman was ever without
one? Had I not a son, whose image was seldom absent an hour from my
memory, yet whose name I was careful not to mention to Claire? Who could
tell what might be in the future, if I did not mar its brightness by my
own interference? So I patiently waited the result of accidental
influences. I expected Herbert home by the next packet. He had been
prevented from meeting me in France, and accompanying us home, by
illness, and I had availed myself of the escort of some friends who were
coming to America, without waiting for his recovery.
We had been returned for more than two months. The autumnal tints
already brightened with consumptive red the rich verdure of summer, and
the harvest-moon shone out with a calm brilliancy that almost mocked the
daily sun. Claire was delighted with Nature under its bold American
features. As I watched the daily development of her taste, and delighted
to see its refinement and richness, I felt that I could not have desired
more in a daughter, than was thrown as it were by the bounty of
Providence into my lap.
We had been sitting in the old portico, with shawls wrapt about us, and
watching the moonlight on the clumps of trees, as it silvered and
sprinkled them with heavenly glory, and neither of us had for a long
time spoken. Claire, who connected all still, solemn beauty with the
thought of her lost mother, was, I doubted not, thinking of heaven and
her; and I was myself recalling my short and eventful acquaintance with
her father. Claire rose from her seat, and walked down the avenue a
short distance, then turned and stood by a fountain, which played by the
side of a larch tree. It was a pretty picture. The fountain, the tree,
and the moon, that embathed the girl, the fountain, and the tree in soft
splendor. Claire had removed her shawl from her shoulders, and stood
with it dropping off her arm, as motionless as a statue. Her bright,
waving hair lay over her shoulders—and like the spirit of the scene she
stood.
As I, too, followed down the walk, I was conscious of a second figure,
which, as I approached, came out from the shadow of a tree. Once in the
light, I recognized Herbert, and did _not_ scream. Neither did I beckon
to him to look at, and fall in love with, the beautiful being before us,
because I felt very certain that if it were to be done, there could not
be a better time for him to do it without my aid. And with a
self-command, which I believe is rare among match-makers, I beckoned to
him to retire to the house, while I went forward to Claire.
She was still motionless, absorbed in thoughts of a not painful
character, as was evident from the placid expression of her lifted eyes.
“You will take cold, Claire,” said I, gently.
“Thank you,” she answered, in her sweet French accent, “I am not afraid.
You know I am used to all hours and weathers.”
“But I am going in now. My son has arrived. You have never heard me
speak of him, I believe—but I have felt considerable anxiety about him.
An anxiety which is now happily relieved by his arrival.”
She looked a little surprised, but made no inquiry and followed me into
the house. I was curious to see the effect of this her first
acquaintance with an accomplished and eminently attractive man. Hitherto
she had seen no person above the common peasantry of the small town of
Chaillot, except Father Angelo.
Three weeks after this evening, Herbert came into my room, whence Claire
had just gone to take a walk, and throwing himself into a chair, wiped
the wet from his forehead and hair in a state of unquestionable
agitation.
“Come, mother! help me—help me, or I sink!”
“What, really overcome? You, the redoubtable! the renowned! the
invincible! Can I believe my eyes!” answered I, laughing heartily—for
love-sickness, like sea-sickness, gets no sympathy—and I was really
pleased to see Herbert, for once, undoubtedly in earnest.
“Now, a truce to your satire, mother mine. And a truce to your smiles
even. I wont allow that there is any occasion for grief either; but the
fact is, I cannot live, now, without Claire and her love—and she knows
it—”
“Knows it!”
“Yes!” said Herbert, impatiently; “and that’s the devil of it! While I
was endeavoring to wind myself softly, soothingly, you see, into her
tender heart, not to break it, you know, but just to set all its
faculties and springs fluttering, like pigeons, and to watch how she
should blush, and sigh, and droop—till, just at the right point, I
meant, when she least hoped and expected it, when she should
despairingly throw herself down, half senseless with excitement and
hopelessness—then, I meant to have stepped in. Now, mother, don’t
_say_, What an insufferable puppy! for I feel it enough, I assure you.
The fact is, I didn’t know myself what I did mean till half an hour
ago.”
“Is it possible! Why, Claire has been reading to me nearly or quite half
an hour, and has just gone out to carry some comfort to old Nurse
Dobbins. No appearance of maiden agitation about her, my poor son, but
as calm as a clock.”
The fact was, I had noticed that her cheek had a slight pallor, and had
recommended the walk myself; but this I did not think it necessary to
mention.
“Doubtless!” was the pettish reply. “I wonder if she is not all ice—or
rather, whether she has a heart for any thing but old women!”
“She certainly has a heart, and one well worth the winning, Herbert. But
not in the fashion you have been used to. All-conquering knight that you
are—you must lay down your tinsel and frippery, and don the helmet of
sterling gold, and break a lance for honor bright, if you would win
favor from this child of nature.”
“Isn’t she, mother?” said Herbert, enthusiastically, “isn’t she the
noblest, and loveliest, and sweetest creature that ever the earth
presumed to bear up? You love her, I know; teach me how to love her, so
that she may love me! for it is true what I tell you. I cannot live
without her pure and beautiful heart!”
I had never seen Herbert thoroughly moved before. Under an exterior of
frivolity he concealed the real fervor and enthusiasm of which I knew
him capable. But it had been long since I had seen him at all excited
about any thing. That Claire should interest him, was only allowing him
a pure natural taste; but that Claire should not have reciprocated the
sentiment she excited, puzzled me, I allow—for I was a parent.
“Tell me, mother,” he continued—or would have done so, but that Claire
just at that moment entered the room, with her basket on her arm. Her
pale cheek now flushed with a rapid walk, was brilliant with health, and
her eyes met both Herbert’s and mine with a buoyancy and serenity, as
little like a love-stricken girl as could well be imagined. I saw
Herbert’s cheek turn pale, as he suddenly rose and springing through the
window upon the lawn, whistled to his dog, and walked rapidly away.
Claire looked after him, and then meeting my inquiring eye, she stood
with hers looking clearly into my face.
“And so my poor Herbert has no chance?” said I.
She seated herself by me with a little embarrassment, which became her a
thousand times more than the serene self-possession so habitual to her.
“My beloved mother—my benefactress!” she stopped.
“Not a word of that, Claire. Hearts are to be given, and not bought. But
how comes it that you see nothing lovable or winning about Herbert? He
seems perfectly hopeless.”
“I might have seen, indeed I did see, a thousand charming qualities in
Mr. ——,” said Claire, with grave simplicity, “but that he seemed to be
only amusing himself with me, and not in earnest about any thing. Least
of all did I believe him in earnest when he professed love for me. Love!
which I have always looked on as something so holy, so sacred, so
ennobling! a trust so solemn as another’s heart, not to be taken without
awe and trembling! Believe me, dearest mother, I did not once think, nor
can I now, that Mr. —— had an earnest thought in the whole matter.
Evidently he has only been amusing himself, and trying perhaps to amuse
me with the idea of having made a conquest. He mistook me altogether.”
She drew her head up a very little, with an expression that spoke of
wounded pride; but instantly dismissed it, and resumed her usual
affectionate look.
“I hope you will not think any more about it, dear Claire. These things
are best dismissed from the thoughts. Shall we go on with our reading?”
I spoke hurriedly, for, in truth, I was severely disappointed. I did not
think how much so, until I listened to the calm, decided tone, and
looked on the quiet face of Claire. Things looked hopeless for Herbert;
and I could not help sympathizing with him in his keen disappointment.
Meantime, as I knew affection could not be reproached into existence, I
endeavored to divert both my own mind and hers from a painful subject.
Absence is said to be the death of love, I believe it is sometimes the
birth of it. Certainly, Herbert, if he had tried a thousand ways to
Claire’s heart, could not have hit on a likelier road than that which
led him away from her, under the pretence of going to Niagara Falls.
“My body will go in search of the picturesque, mother,” said he, with a
faint attempt at gayety, “but my soul remains at home. It will haunt
you—both; and I charge you listen to its whispers that shall be in your
ears night and day!”
“Farewell, Claire!” was all he said to her; and when he was gone, she
sat for some minutes, looking into the heart of a flower she was holding
in her hand, as if trying to solve a problem too difficult for her.
Days passed, and weeks. We talked, and walked, and rode, and read by
turns, as we were wont to do, before this vision of Herbert had passed
over and breathed on the mirror of her pure heart. But no longer was her
eye clear, and her brow serene. She was disturbed and restless. An enemy
had come in to her heart to steal away its peace. When we read poetry, a
consciousness in her voice, gave meaning and depth to every passionate
tone; and when we walked in the November woods, their melancholy beauty
woke sad feelings kindred to the scene. I saw that her sensitive nature
was touched to its depths. She had begun to think, not that she was
loved, for her standard of that passion was too high to leave her in
such an error; but how sweet it would be to be loved. Her heart, like a
lonely harp-string, vibrated in every breeze, and seemed asking vainly
for its completing harmony.
She did not ask me to read to her any of Herbert’s letters. I wished she
would, and once read to her what I thought a very capital description of
the cataract. But she only said composedly that my son had described the
scenery, and not his own impressions on seeing it.
“I don’t believe any reality on earth could equal the descriptions we
have had of Niagara. It would need heaven and hell almost to body forth
the ideas that travelers have called up. I can only hope to be able, if
ever I see it, to forget all that I have ever heard about it, so as to
shrink before its magnificence as I should feel bound to do.”
“Suppose we try, Claire?” said I.
“With all my heart,” answered she, evidently glad in her restless state
to be going somewhere. I had previously told her that Herbert had gone
to Quebec.
In a week’s time Claire and myself, with a man-servant, had reached
Albany, and there took the canal-boats to Buffalo. The wearisome journey
by stage-coach had admirably prepared us for the monotonous ease of the
boat. Fortunately there were very few passengers, and we lay in our
little clean white berths and rested and read as quietly as if we had
been in our own rooms.
On reaching the Falls we were too thoroughly wearied to attempt more
that night, and went to our beds.
On our way, a fellow passenger, experienced in sight-seeing, had
recommended to us to take our first view from the American side, and
from below, instead of the usual view from Table Rock. We therefore
crossed the river a little distance below the Falls, without giving way
to the temptation of gazing for a moment at the view before us, though
the roar was terrible in our ears. Then we walked on the American side,
closer, closer till we were within twenty feet of the cataract. The
spray dripped over us, the rocks were slippery to our feet, the roar of
a thousand floods seemed in our bewildered ears; and below, as it were,
the reverberating yells of damned spirits tossing, and whirling, and
dashing and howling forever. Then we looked up. The volume of water
seemed coming down from the very heavens upon us. We uttered a faint cry
of terror—turned round and fled. That is to say, we fled several yards.
No matter. We were impressed sufficiently with the physical grandeur of
the scene. It was oppressive, overwhelming. Afterward, when we roamed
over all these rocks and took views from every point, and gazed at the
cataract’s wondrous beauty as well as power, we found a moral grandeur
with which our souls sympathized, and to which they rose to enjoy and
adore. These jottings down of our impressions can give no idea to one
who has not visited the Falls, and to one who has, will scarcely enhance
his recollections. I mention them only to illustrate a trait of Claire’s
character.
A mother with her child were wandering along among the loose stones and
sharp rocks close to the terrible whirlpool from which we had just
turned. The mother had let go the child’s hand, and he, a lad of some
four or five years old, slipped from the stone on which he stood, and as
a natural consequence was in imminent danger of his life. But one rock,
and that slippery and sloping, intervened between the little fellow and
certain death. The mother screamed, but was motionless from mere horror;
Claire, who at once forgot every thing about her but what was connected
with the living drama before her, pulled at a stroke her scarf from her
neck, and giving me one end to hold, while she held the other, slid her
feet rapidly down to the very brink of the torrent, caught the boy
firmly by his foot and stood holding him. She was as pale as death, but
as firm and strong in her attitude as if she stood on the parlor floor.
She dared not move, and I had not strength, and was too distrustful of
the strength of the scarf, to dare to pull them up.
As we stood thus it seemed hours, though it could scarcely be half a
minute before relief was obtained by a rope thrown by a strong arm from
behind over the form of Claire, which fully supported her in her
perilous position. Immediately after she was clasped in the arms of a
man in a cloak, whom we had seen sitting near us in an absorbed
attitude, seemingly regardless of all about him. He had sprung from his
seat, caught up a boat-rope, which I perfectly remembered afterward to
have stepped over, thrown it around Claire, so as to support her, and
then giving the noose to my servant, who stood close but inactively
behind, steadied himself by the other end of the rope, slipped and
sprang down by Claire, caught up the boy with one hand and tossed him up
to his mother, and then bore the now fainting Claire carefully up to the
bank.
The boy screamed wildly with fright, and the mother was voluble with her
thanks and offers of assistance. Claire remained still and motionless in
the arms of the stranger, and I watched the spray dash over her marble
face. Presently her eyes opened slowly, with a deep sigh. She looked at
her preserver and a beautiful color overspread her face. Then for the
first time I also looked at him, for to this moment no one had spoken
but the woman whose carelessness had put in jeopardy three lives.
He had bent his head down to hers and had kissed her forehead, rosy with
returned consciousness. She replied by pulling her arm over his neck and
kissing, not his forehead, but his very lips. The woman and her boy had
gone, the servant discreetly retired, and there in the sound and rush of
many waters, in the turmoil of elemental war, the still, small voice of
two loving hearts, lately so near to death, was heard and registered.
“But you wrote me, Herbert, that you were setting off for Quebec last
week. Who could have dreamed of finding you here?”
“And so I did go to Quebec. But I used it up in two days, and then came
on here once more. In my then state of mind it was a relief to place
myself where you found me, and listen to the roar of the water from
morning till night. Now, I don’t care how soon we go away.”
We did journey, however, for some weeks; and when we returned and were
once more in our own quiet parlor at home, I asked Herbert to come with
me to my room.
“I am going to read you something, Herbert. Something about Claire.”
Then I opened the packet which Father Angelo had given me. First there
was the official announcement, or rather a copy of it, of Father
Angelo’s admission to the Convent of la Trappe, in Piedmont, and his
consequent death to the world and every body in it. Then a separate
packet contained such particulars of his life as he deemed necessary for
me to know, and to communicate to Claire, if I thought proper, or to
whomsoever she should hereafter marry. There were also papers conveying
a small amount of property to her. Enough for her subsistence should she
be deprived by misfortune of my support.
The man had been sinned against and was also a great sinner. He had
sinned against the young English girl, Clara, whom he had seduced from
her home under the false pretence of marriage, and whose fidelity to him
and trust in him had continued to her gentle death. Afterward to win for
himself the means of keeping up his dissipated habits he had recourse to
forgery, and had escaped in disguise, and narrowly, with his life. After
that he went to Rome; by a run of luck in gambling he obtained the means
of making a handsome appearance in society there, and by his
cultivation, taste and fine manners, so impressed an Italian family of
some distinction that he married one of the daughters. The marriage was
an unhappy one. His wife eloped with his friend, and the old drama of a
duel was acted over. Finally his resources were exhausted, and either
reason or conscience suggested to him the claim which a wife and child
had on his memory. At all events, he became an altered man, took holy
orders, obtained permission to travel, and did travel in search of his
long-forgotten wife and child. After a long search he found Claire. He
sought her society. He became her confessor and her friend. He learned
her pure heart, and her enthusiastic devotion to the memory of her
parents. Then the iron entered into his soul. He felt the impossibility
of presenting himself to such an innocent being as the realization of
such an ideal as hers. He now dreaded any chance by which his
relationship could become known to her, as much as he had heretofore
eagerly sought her. All he could do for her he did, but he constantly
watched an opportunity to secure to her an efficient friend, who could
take her into the world, and withdrawing her from the dull and confined
life she then had, put her into the way of forming connections for
herself which would in some degree lead her to forget or cease to look
for her father. The agony of being forced to deny himself every parental
caress, lest he should be forced to explain his relationship, and
consequently the reasons for his long and unpardonable estrangement,
made him wish a thousand times he were dead indeed, and he said he
longed every hour for the time to arrive when he should take the vow of
eternal silence, for such only harmonized with the gloom of his soul.
It would be wearisome to go through all the details of such a life, of
such talents abused, of such a mournful old age.
We talked the matter over freely and fully, and Herbert concluded with
me that it was best to burn the package, that under no possible
combination of circumstances could it fall into her hands. It should be
his happiness he said to make her forget to look for her father.
How he found out how much she could bless him—and when she discovered
that though he was full of faults, she loved him, faults and all, I
cannot tell; but every body’s experience will furnish similar instances
for themselves or others.
* * * * *