CHAPTER XII
PERPLEXITIES
Agnes returned from the confessional with more sadness than her simplelife had ever known before. The agitation of her confessor, thetremulous eagerness of his words, the alternations of severity andtenderness in his manner to her, all struck her only as indications ofthe very grave danger in which she was placed, and the awfulness of thesin and condemnation which oppressed the soul of one for whom she wasconscious of a deep and strange interest.
She had the undoubting, uninquiring reverence which a Christianlyeducated child of those times might entertain for the visible head ofthe Christian Church, all whose doings were to be regarded with anawful veneration which never even raised a question.
That the Papal throne was now filled by a man who had bought hiselection with the wages of iniquity, and dispensed its powers andoffices with sole reference to the aggrandizement of a familyproverbial for brutality and obscenity, was a fact well known to thereasoning and enlightened orders of society at this time; but it didnot penetrate into those lowly valleys where the sheep of the Lordhumbly pastured, innocently unconscious of the frauds and violence bywhich their dearest interests were bought and sold.
The Christian faith we now hold, who boast our enlightenedProtestantism, has been transmitted to us through the hearts and handsof such,--who, while princes wrangled with Pope, and Pope with princes,knew nothing of it all, but in lowly ways of prayer and patient laborwere one with us of modern times in the great central belief of theChristian heart, "Worthy is the Lamb that was slain."
As Agnes came slowly up the path towards the little garden, she wasconscious of a burden and weariness of spirit she had never knownbefore. She passed the little moist grotto, which in former times shenever failed to visit to see if there were any new-blown cyclamen,without giving it even a thought. A crimson spray of gladiolus leanedfrom the rock and seemed softly to kiss her cheek, yet she regardedit not; and once stopping and gazing abstractedly upward on theflower-tapestried walls of the gorge, as they rose in wreath andgarland and festoon above her, she felt as if the brilliant yellow ofthe broom and the crimson of the gillyflowers, and all the fluttering,nodding armies of brightness that were dancing in the sunlight, weretoo gay for such a world as this, where mortal sins and sorrows madesuch havoc with all that seemed brightest and best, and she longed tofly away and be at rest.
Just then she heard the cheerful voice of her uncle in the littlegarden above, as he was singing at his painting. The words werethose of that old Latin hymn of Saint Bernard, which, in its Englishdress, has thrilled many a Methodist class meeting and many a Puritanconference, telling, in the welcome they meet in each Christian soul,that there is a unity in Christ's Church which is not outward,--asecret, invisible bond, by which, under warring names and badges ofopposition, His true followers have yet been one in Him, even thoughthey discerned it not.
"Jesu dulcis memoria, Dans vera cordi gaudia: Sed super mel et omnia Ejus dulcis praesentia.
"Nil canitur suavius, Nil auditur jocundius, Nil cogitatur dulcius, Quam Jesus Dei Filius.
"Jesu, spes poenitentibus, Quam pius es petentibus, Quam bonus te quaerentibus, Sed quis invenientibus!
"Nec lingua valet dicere, Nec littera exprimere: Expertus potest credere Quid sit Jesum diligere."[5]
[5] "Jesus, the very thought of thee With sweetness fills my breast; But sweeter far thy face to see, And in thy presence rest!
"Nor voice can sing, nor heart can frame, Nor can the memory find A sweeter sound than thy blest name, O Saviour of mankind!
"O hope of every contrite heart, O joy of all the meek, To those who fall how kind thou art, How good to those who seek!
"But what to those who find! Ah, this Nor tongue nor pen can show! The love of Jesus, what it is None but his loved ones know."
The old monk sang with all his heart; and his voice, which had beena fine one in its day, had still that power which comes from theexpression of deep feeling. One often hears this peculiarity in thevoices of persons of genius and sensibility, even when destitute of anyreal critical merit. They seem to be so interfused with the emotions ofthe soul, that they strike upon the heart almost like the living touchof a spirit.
Agnes was soothed in listening to him. The Latin words, the sentimentof which had been traditional in the Church from time immemorial, hadto her a sacred fragrance and odor; they were words apart from allcommon usage, a sacramental language, never heard but in moments ofdevotion and aspiration,--and they stilled the child's heart in itstossings and tempest, as when of old the Jesus they spake of walkedforth on the stormy sea.
"Yes, He gave his life for us!" she said; "He is ever reigning for us!
"'Jesu dulcissime, e throno gloriae Ovem deperditam venisti quaerere! Jesu suavissime, pastor fidissime, Ad te O trahe me, ut semper sequar te!'"[6]
[6] Jesus most beautiful, from thrones in glory, Seeking thy lost sheep, thou didst descend! Jesus most tender, shepherd most faithful, To thee, oh, draw thou me, that I may follow thee, Follow thee faithfully world without end!
"What, my little one!" said the monk, looking over the wall; "I thoughtI heard angels singing. Is it not a beautiful morning?"
"Dear uncle, it is," said Agnes. "And I have been so glad to hear yourbeautiful hymn!--it comforted me."
"Comforted you, little heart? What a word is that! When you get as faralong on your journey as your old uncle, then you may talk of comfort.But who thinks of comforting birds or butterflies or young lambs?"
"Ah, dear uncle, I am not so very happy," said Agnes, the tearsstarting into her eyes.
"Not happy?" said the monk, looking up from his drawing. "Pray,what's the matter now? Has a bee stung your finger? or have you lostyour nosegay over a rock? or what dreadful affliction has come uponyou?--hey, my little heart?"
Agnes sat down on the corner of the marble fountain, and, covering herface with her apron, sobbed as if her heart would break.
"What has that old priest been saying to her in the confession?" saidFather Antonio to himself. "I dare say he cannot understand her.She is as pure as a dewdrop on a cobweb, and as delicate; and thesepriests, half of them, don't know how to handle the Lord's lambs.Come now, little Agnes," he said, with a coaxing tone, "what is itstrouble?--tell its old uncle,--there's a dear!"
"Ah, uncle, I can't!" said Agnes, between her sobs.
"Can't tell its uncle!--there's a pretty go! Perhaps you will tellgrandmamma?"
"Oh, no, no, no! not for the world!" said Agnes, sobbing still morebitterly.
"Why, really, little heart of mine, this is getting serious," said themonk; "let your old uncle try to help you."
"It isn't for myself," said Agnes, endeavoring to check herfeelings,--"it is not for myself,--it is for another,--for a soul lost.Ah, my Jesus, have mercy!"
"A soul lost? Our Mother forbid!" said the monk, crossing himself."Lost in this Christian land, so overflowing with the beauty of theLord?--lost out of this fair sheepfold of Paradise?"
"Yes, lost," said Agnes, despairingly, "and if somebody do not savehim, lost forever; and it is a brave and noble soul, too,--like one ofthe angels that fell."
"Who is it, dear?--tell me about it," said the monk. "I am one of theshepherds whose place it is to go after that which is lost, even till Ifind it."
"Dear uncle, you remember the youth who suddenly appeared to us in themoonlight here a few evenings ago?"
"Ah, indeed!" said the monk, "what of him?"
"Father Francesco has told me dreadful things of him this morning."
"What things?"
"Uncle, he is excommunicated by our Holy Father the Pope."
Father Antonio, as a member of one of the most enlightened andcultivated religious orders of the times, and as an intimate companionand disciple of Savonarola, had a full understanding of the characterof the reigning Pope, and therefore had his own private opinion ofhow much his excommunication was likely to be worth in the invisibleworld. He knew that the same doom had been threatened towards hissaintly master, for opposing and exposing the scandalous vices whichdisgraced the high places of the Church; so that, on the whole, whenhe heard that this young man was excommunicated, so far from beingimpressed with horror towards him, he conceived the idea that he mightbe a particularly honest fellow and good Christian. But then he did nothold it wise to disturb the faith of the simple-hearted by revealing tothem the truth about the head of the Church on earth.
While the disorders in those elevated regions filled the minds of theintelligent classes with apprehension and alarm, they held it unwiseto disturb the trustful simplicity of the lower orders, whose faithin Christianity itself they supposed might thus be shaken. In fact,they were themselves somewhat puzzled how to reconcile the patent andmanifest fact, that the actual incumbent of the Holy See was not underthe guidance of any spirit, unless it were a diabolical one, with thetheory which supposed an infallible guidance of the Holy Spirit toattend as a matter of course on that position. Some of the boldest ofthem did not hesitate to declare that the Holy City had suffered a foulinvasion, and that a false usurper reigned in her sacred palaces inplace of the Father of Christendom. The greater part did as people nowdo with the mysteries and discrepancies of a faith which on the wholethey revere: they turned their attention from the vexed question, andsighed and longed for better days.
Father Antonio did not, therefore, tell Agnes that the announcementwhich had filled her with such distress was far less conclusive withhimself of the ill desert of the individual to whom it related.
"My little heart," he answered, gravely, "did you learn the sin forwhich this young man was excommunicated?"
"Ah, me! my dear uncle, I fear he is an infidel,--an unbeliever.Indeed, now I remember it, he confessed as much to me the other day."
"Where did he tell you this?"
"You remember, my uncle, when you were sent for to the dying man? Whenyou were gone, I kneeled down to pray for his soul; and when I rosefrom prayer, this young cavalier was sitting right here, on this end ofthe fountain. He was looking fixedly at me, with such sad eyes, so fullof longing and pain, that it was quite piteous; and he spoke to me sosadly, I could not but pity him."
"What did he say to you, child?"
"Ah, father, he said that he was all alone in the world, withoutfriends, and utterly desolate, with no one to love him; but worse thanthat, he said he had lost his faith, that he could not believe."
"What did you say to him?"
"Uncle, I tried, as a poor girl might, to do him some good. I prayedhim to confess and take the sacrament; but he looked almost fiercewhen I said so. And yet I cannot but think, after all, that he has notlost all grace, because he begged me so earnestly to pray for him; hesaid his prayers could do no good, and wanted mine. And then I beganto tell him about you, dear uncle, and how you came from that blessedconvent in Florence, and about your master Savonarola; and that seemedto interest him, for he looked quite excited, and spoke the name over,as if it were one he had heard before. I wanted to urge him to come andopen his case to you; and I think perhaps I might have succeeded, butthat just then you and grandmamma came up the path; and when I heardyou coming, I begged him to go, because you know grandmamma would bevery angry, if she knew that I had given speech to a man, even for afew moments; she thinks men are so dreadful."
"I must seek this youth," said the monk, in a musing tone; "perhaps Imay find out what inward temptation hath driven him away from the fold."
"Oh, do, dear uncle, do!" said Agnes, earnestly. "I am sure that he hasbeen grievously tempted and misled, for he seems to have a noble andgentle nature; and he spoke so feelingly of his mother, who is a saintin heaven; and he seemed so earnestly to long to return to the bosom ofthe Church."
"The Church is a tender mother to all her erring children," said themonk.
"And don't you think that our dear Holy Father the Pope will forgivehim?" said Agnes. "Surely, he will have all the meekness and gentlenessof Christ, who would rejoice in one sheep found more than in all theninety-and-nine who went not astray."
The monk could scarcely repress a smile at imagining Alexander theSixth in this character of a good shepherd, as Agnes's enthusiasticimagination painted the head of the Church; and then he gave an inwardsigh, and said, softly, "Lord, how long?"
"I think," said Agnes, "that this young man is of noble birth, for hiswords and his bearing and his tones of voice are not those of commonmen; even though he speaks so humbly and gently, there is yet somethingprincely that looks out of his eyes, as if he were born to command; andhe wears strange jewels, the like of which I never saw, on his handsand at the hilt of his dagger,--yet he seems to make nothing of them.But yet, I know not why, he spoke of himself as one utterly desolateand forlorn. Father Francesco told me that he was captain of a band ofrobbers who live in the mountains. One cannot think it is so."
"Little heart," said the monk tenderly, "you can scarcely know whatthings befall men in these distracted times, when faction wages warwith faction, and men pillage and burn and imprison, first on thisside, then on that. Many a son of a noble house may find himselfhomeless and landless, and, chased by the enemy, may have no refugebut the fastnesses of the mountains. Thank God, our lovely Italy hatha noble backbone of these same mountains, which afford shelter to herchildren in their straits."
"Then you think it possible, dear uncle, that this may not be a badman, after all?"
"Let us hope so, child. I will myself seek him out; and if his mindhave been chafed by violence or injustice, I will strive to bring himback into the good ways of the Lord. Take heart, my little one,--allwill yet be well. Come now, little darling, wipe your bright eyes, andlook at these plans I have been making for the shrine we were talkingof, in the gorge. See here, I have drawn a goodly arch with a pinnacle.Under the arch, you see, shall be the picture of our Lady with theblessed Babe. The arch shall be cunningly sculptured with vines of ivyand passion-flower; and on one side of it shall stand Saint Agnes withher lamb,--and on the other, Saint Cecilia, crowned with roses; andon this pinnacle, above all, Saint Michael, all in armor, shall standleaning,--one hand on his sword, and holding a shield with the crossupon it."
"Ah, that will be beautiful!" said Agnes.
"You can scarcely tell," pursued the monk, "from this faint drawing,what the picture of our Lady is to be; but I shall paint her to thehighest of my art, and with many prayers that I may work worthily.You see, she shall be standing on a cloud with a background all ofburnished gold, like the streets of the New Jerusalem; and she shall beclothed in a mantle of purest blue from head to foot, to represent theunclouded sky of summer; and on her forehead she shall wear the eveningstar, which ever shineth when we say the Ave Maria; and all the bordersof her blue vesture shall be cunningly wrought with fringes of stars;and the dear Babe shall lean his little cheek to hers so peacefully,and there shall be a clear shining of love through her face, and aheavenly restfulness, that it shall do one's heart good to look ather. Many a blessed hour shall I have over this picture,--many a hymnshall I sing as my work goes on. I must go about to prepare the panelsforthwith; and it were well, if there be that young man who works instone, to have him summoned to our conference."
"I think," said Agnes, "that you will find him in the town; he dwellsnext to the cathedral."
"I trust he is a youth of pious life and conversation," said the monk."I must call on him this afternoon; for he ought to be stirring himselfup by hymns and prayers, and by meditations on the beauty of saints andangels, for so goodly a work. What higher honor or grace can befall acreature than to be called upon to make visible to men that beauty ofinvisible things which is divine and eternal? How many h
oly men havegiven themselves to this work in Italy, till, from being overrun withheathen temples, it is now full of most curious and wonderful churches,shrines, and cathedrals, every stone of which is a miracle of beauty! Iwould, dear daughter, you could see our great Duomo in Florence, whichis a mountain of precious marbles and many-colored mosaics; and theCampanile that riseth thereby is like a lily of Paradise,--so tall, sostately, with such an infinite grace, and adorned all the way up withholy emblems and images of saints and angels; nor is there any part ofit, within or without, that is not finished sacredly with care, as anoffering to the most perfect God. Truly, our fair Florence, though shebe little, is worthy, by her sacred adornments, to be worn as the lilyof our Lady's girdle, even as she hath been dedicated to her."
Agnes seemed pleased with the enthusiastic discourse of her uncle.The tears gradually dried from her eyes as she listened to him,and the hope so natural to the young and untried heart began toreassert itself. God was merciful, the world beautiful; there was atender Mother, a reigning Saviour, protecting angels and guardiansaints: surely, then, there was no need to despair of the recallof any wanderer; and the softest supplication of the most ignorantand unworthy would be taken up by so many sympathetic voices in theinvisible world, and borne on in so many waves of brightness to theheavenly throne, that the most timid must have hope in prayer.
In the afternoon, the monk went to the town to seek the young artist,and also to inquire for the stranger for whom his pastoral offices werein requisition, and Agnes remained alone in the little solitary garden.
It was one of those rich slumberous afternoons of spring that seem tobathe earth and heaven with an Elysian softness; and from her littlelonely nook shrouded in dusky shadows by its orange-trees, Agnes lookeddown the sombre gorge to where the open sea lay panting and palpitatingin blue and violet waves, while the little white sails of fishing-boatsdrifted hither and thither, now silvered in the sunshine, now fadingaway like a dream into the violet vapor bands that mantled the horizon.The weather would have been oppressively sultry but for the gentlebreeze which constantly drifted landward with coolness in its wings.The hum of the old town came to her ear softened by distance andmingled with the patter of the fountain and the music of birds singingin the trees overhead. Agnes tried to busy herself with her spinning;but her mind constantly wandered away, and stirred and undulatedwith a thousand dim and unshaped thoughts and emotions, of which shevaguely questioned in her own mind. Why did Father Francesco warn herso solemnly against an earthly love? Did he not know her vocation? Butstill he was wisest and must know best; there must be danger, if hesaid so. But then, this knight had spoken so modestly, so humbly,--sodifferently from Giulietta's lovers!--for Giulietta had sometimes founda chance to recount to Agnes some of her triumphs. How could it be thata knight so brave and gentle, and so piously brought up, should becomean infidel? Ah, uncle Antonio was right,--he must have had some foulwrong, some dreadful injury! When Agnes was a child, in traveling withher grandmother through one of the highest passes of the Apennines, shehad chanced to discover a wounded eagle, whom an arrow had pierced,sitting all alone by himself on a rock, with his feathers ruffled,and a film coming over his great, clear, bright eye,--and, ever fullof compassion, she had taken him to nurse, and had traveled for a daywith him in her arms; and the mournful look of his regal eyes now cameinto her memory. "Yes," she said to herself, "he is like my poor eagle!The archers have wounded him, so that he is glad to find shelter evenwith a poor maid like me; but it was easy to see my eagle had been kingamong birds, even as this knight is among men. Certainly, God must lovehim,--he is so beautiful and noble! I hope dear uncle will find himthis afternoon; he knows how to teach him; as for me I can only pray."
Such were the thoughts that Agnes twisted into the shining white flax,while her eyes wandered dreamily over the soft hazy landscape. Atlast, lulled by the shivering sound of leaves, and the bird-songs, andwearied with the agitations of the morning, her head lay back againstthe end of the sculptured fountain, the spindle slowly dropped from herhand, and her eyes were closed in sleep, the murmur of the fountainstill sounding in her dreams. In her dreams she seemed to be wanderingfar away among the purple passes of the Apennines, where she had comeyears ago when she was a little girl; with her grandmother she pushedthrough old olive-groves, weird and twisted with many a quaint gnarl,and rustling their pale silvery leaves in noonday twilight. Sometimesshe seemed to carry in her bosom a wounded eagle, and often she satdown to stroke it and to try to give it food from her hand, and asoften it looked upon her with a proud, patient eye, and then hergrandmother seemed to shake her roughly by the arm and bid her throwthe silly bird away;--but then again the dream changed, and she saw aknight lie bleeding and dying in a lonely hollow,--is garments torn,his sword broken, and his face pale and faintly streaked with blood;and she kneeled by him, trying in vain to stanch a deadly wound in hisside, while he said reproachfully, "Agnes, dear Agnes, why would younot save me?" and then she thought he kissed her hand with his colddying lips; and she shivered and awoke,--to find that her hand wasindeed held in that of the cavalier, whose eyes met her own when firstshe unclosed them, and the same voice that spoke in her dream said,"Agnes, dear Agnes!"
For a moment she seemed stupefied and confounded, and sat passivelyregarding the knight, who kneeled at her feet and repeatedly kissed herhand, calling her his saint, his star, his life, and whatever otherfair name poetry lends to love. All at once, however, her face flushedcrimson red, she drew her hand quickly away, and, rising up, made amotion to retreat, saying, in a voice of alarm,--
"Oh, my Lord, this must not be! I am committing deadly sin to hear you.Please, please go! please leave a poor girl!"
"Agnes, what does this mean?" said the cavalier. "Only two days since,in this place, you promised to love me; and that promise has brought mefrom utter despair to love of life. Nay, since you told me that, I havebeen able to pray once more; the whole world seems changed for me: andnow will you take it all away,--you, who are all I have on earth?"
"My Lord, I did not know then that I was sinning. Our dear Mother knowsI said only what I thought was true and right, but I find it was a sin."
"A sin to love, Agnes? Heaven must be full of sin, then; for there theydo nothing else."
"Oh, my Lord, I must not argue with you; I am forbidden to listen evenfor a moment. Please go. I will never forget you, sir,--never forgetto pray for you, and to love you as they love in heaven; but I amforbidden to speak with you. I fear I have sinned in hearing and sayingeven this much."
"Who forbids you, Agnes? Who has the right to forbid your good, kindheart to love, where love is so deeply needed and so gratefullyreceived?"
"My holy father, whom I am bound to obey as my soul's director," saidAgnes. "He has forbidden me so much as to listen to a word, and yet Ihave listened to many. How could I help it?"
"Ever these priests!" said the cavalier, his brow darkening with animpatient frown; "wolves in sheep's clothing!"
"Alas!" said Agnes, sorrowfully, "why will you"--
"Why will I what?" he said, facing suddenly toward her and looking downwith a fierce, scornful determination.
"Why will you be at war with the Holy Church? Why will you peril youreternal salvation?"
"Is there a Holy Church? Where is it? Would there were one! I am blindand cannot see it. Little Agnes, you promised to lead me; but you dropmy hand in the darkness. Who will guide me, if you will not?"
"My Lord, I am most unfit to be your guide. I am a poor girl, withoutany learning; but there is my uncle I spoke to you of. Oh, my Lord, ifyou only would go to him, he is wise and gentle both. I must go in now,my Lord,--indeed, I must. I must not sin further. I must do a heavypenance for having listened and spoken to you, after the holy fatherhad forbidden me."
"No, Agnes, you shall not go in," said the cavalier, suddenly steppingbefore her and placing himself across the doorway; "you shall see me,and hear me too. I take the sin on myself; you cannot help it. Howwill you avoid me? Will
you fly now down the path of the gorge? I willfollow you,--I am desperate. I had but one comfort on earth, but onehope of heaven, and that through you; and you, cruel, are so ready togive me up at the first word of your priest!"
"God knows if I do it willingly," said Agnes; "but I know it is best;for I feel I should love you too well, if I saw more of you. My Lord,you are strong and can compel me, but I beg you to leave me."
"Dear Agnes, could you really feel it possible that you might love metoo well?" said the cavalier, his whole manner changing. "Ah! could Icarry you far away to my home in the mountains, far up in the beautifulblue mountains, where the air is so clear, and the weary, wranglingworld lies so far below that one forgets it entirely, you should bemy wife, my queen, my empress. You should lead me where you would,your word should be my law. I will go with you wherever you will,--toconfession, to sacrament, to prayers, never so often; never will Irebel against your word; if you decree, I will bend my neck to kingor priest; I will reconcile me with anybody or anything only for yoursweet sake; you shall lead me all my life; and when we die, I ask onlythat you may lead me to our Mother's throne in heaven, and pray her totolerate me for your sake. Come, now, dear, is not even one unworthysoul worth saving?"
"My Lord, you have taught me how wise my holy father was in forbiddingme to listen to you. He knew better than I how weak was my heart,and how I might be drawn on from step to step till--My Lord, I mustbe no man's wife. I follow the blessed Saint Agnes! May God give megrace to keep my vows without wavering!--for then I shall gain powerto intercede for you and bring down blessings on your soul. Oh, never,never speak to me so again, my Lord!--you will make me very, _very_unhappy. If there is any truth in your words, my Lord, if you reallylove me, you will go, and you will never try to speak to me again."
"Never, Agnes? never? Think what you are saying!"
"Oh, I do think! I know it must be best," said Agnes, much agitated;"for, if I should see you often and hear your voice, I should lose allmy strength. I could never resist, and I should lose heaven for you andme too. Leave me, and I will never, never forget to pray for you; andgo quickly too, for it is time for my grandmother to come home, and shewould be so angry,--she would never believe I had not been doing wrong,and perhaps she would make me marry somebody that I do not wish to. Shehas threatened that many times; but I beg her to leave me free to go tomy sweet home in the convent and my dear Mother Theresa."
"They shall never marry you against your will, little Agnes, I pledgeyou my knightly word. I will protect you from that. Promise me, dear,that, if ever you be man's wife, you will be mine. Only promise methat, and I will go."
"Will you?" said Agnes, in an ecstasy of fear and apprehension, inwhich there mingled some strange troubled gleams of happiness. "Well,then, I will. Ah! I hope it is no sin!"
"Believe me, dearest, it is not," said the knight. "Say it again,--say,that I may hear it,--say, 'If ever I am man's wife, I will bethine,'--say it, and I will go."
"Well, then, my Lord, if ever I am man's wife, I will be thine," saidAgnes. "But I will be no man's wife. My heart and hand are promisedelsewhere. Come, now, my Lord, your word must be kept."
"Let me put this ring on your finger, lest you forget," said thecavalier. "It was my mother's ring, and never during her lifetime heardanything but prayers and hymns. It is saintly, and worthy of thee."
"No, my Lord, I may not. Grandmother would inquire about it. I cannotkeep it; but fear not my forgetting; I shall never forget you."
"Will you ever want to see me, Agnes?"
"I hope not, since it is not best. But you do not go."
"Well, then, farewell, my little wife! farewell, till I claim thee!"said the cavalier, as he kissed her hand, and vaulted over the wall.
"How strange that I cannot make him understand!" said Agnes, when hewas gone. "I must have sinned, I must have done wrong; but I have beentrying all the while to do right. Why would he stay so, and look at meso with those deep eyes? I was very hard with him,--very! I trembledfor him, I was so severe; and yet it has not discouraged him enough.How strange that he would call me so, after all, when I explained tohim I never could marry! Must I tell all this to Father Francesco?How dreadful! How he looked at me before! How he trembled and turnedaway from me! What will he think now? Ah, me! why must I tell _him_?If I could only confess to my mother Theresa, that would be easier. Wehave a mother in heaven to hear us; why should we not have a mother onearth? Father Francesco frightens me so! His eyes burn me! They seem toburn into my soul, and he seems angry with me sometimes, and sometimeslooks at me so strangely! Dear, blessed Mother," she said, kneeing atthe shrine, "help thy little child! I do not want to do wrong: I wantto do right. Oh that I could come and live with thee!"
Poor Agnes! a new experience had opened in her heretofore tranquillife, and her day was one of conflict. Do what she would, the wordsthat had been spoken to her in the morning would return to her mind,and sometimes she awoke with a shock of guilty surprise at finding shehad been dreaming over what the cavalier said to her of living withhim alone, in some clear, high, purple solitude of those beautifulmountains which she remembered as an enchanted dream of her childhood.Would he really always love her, then, always go with her to prayersand mass and sacrament, and be reconciled to the Church, and shouldshe indeed have the joy of feeling that this noble soul was led backto heavenly peace through her? Was not this better than a barren lifeof hymns and prayers in a cold convent? Then the very voice that saidthese words, that voice of veiled strength and manly daring, that spokewith such a gentle pleading, and yet such an undertone of authority,as if he had a right to claim her for himself,--she seemed to feel thetones of that voice in every nerve;--and then the strange thrillingpleasure of thinking that he loved her so. Why should he, this strange,beautiful knight? Doubtless he had seen splendid high-born ladies,--hehad seen even queens and princesses,--and what could he find to like inher, a poor little peasant? Nobody ever thought so much of her before,and he was so unhappy without her;--it was strange he should be; buthe said so, and it must be true. After all, Father Francesco might bemistaken about his being wicked. On the whole, she felt sure he wasmistaken, at least in part. Uncle Antonio did not seem to be so muchshocked at what she told him; he knew the temptations of men better,perhaps, because he did not stay shut up in one convent, but traveledall about, preaching and teaching. If only he could see him, and talkwith him, and make him a good Christian,--why, then, there would be nofurther need of her; and Agnes was surprised to find what a dreadful,dreary blank appeared before her when she thought of this. Why shouldshe wish him to remember her, since she never could be his?--and yetnothing seemed so dreadful as that he should forget her. So the poorlittle innocent fly beat and fluttered in the mazes of that enchantedweb, where thousands of her frail sex have beat and fluttered before.