CHAPTER XXIV.
Lucy had just risen. She was endeavouring to collect her senses, toseparate the turbid visions of sleep from the remembrance of the sadreality, which appeared to her a dismal dream, when the old woman, in avoice which she meant to be humble and gentle, said to her, "Ah! youhave slept! You would have done better to go to bed; I told you so ahundred times." Receiving no answer, she continued, "Eat a little; youhave need of something; if you do not, he will complain of me when hereturns."
"No, no, I wish to go to my mother. Your master promised me, he said,_to-morrow morning_. Where is he?"
"He has gone away; but he left word that he would return soon, and doall that you should desire."
"Did he say so? did he say so? Well; I wish to go to my mother, now,now."
Suddenly they heard steps in the adjoining chamber, and a knock at thedoor. The old woman demanded, "Who is there?"
"Open," replied the well-known voice.
The old woman drew the bolt, and holding the door open, the Unknown letDon Abbondio and the good woman pass in; then closing the door, andremaining outside himself, he sent away the old woman to a distant partof the castle. The first appearance of other persons increased theagitation of Lucy, to whom any change brought an accession of alarm. Shelooked, and beholding a priest and a female, felt somewhat reassured;she looked again! Can it be? Recognising Don Abbondio, her eyes remainedfixed as by the wand of an enchanter. The kind woman bent over her, andwith an affectionate and anxious countenance, said, "Alas! my poorchild! come, come with us."
"Who are you?" said Lucy,--but, without waiting her reply, she turnedagain to Don Abbondio, exclaiming, "Is it you? Is it you indeed, SignorCurate? Where are we? Oh! unhappy girl! I am no longer in my rightmind!"
"No, no, it is I, in truth; take courage. We have come to take you away.I am indeed your curate, come for this purpose----"
As if restored to strength in an instant, Lucy stood up, and fixing hereyes again on their faces, she said, "The Virgin has sent you, then!"
"I have no doubt of it," said the good lady.
"But is it true, that we may go away? Is it true indeed?" resumed Lucy,lowering her voice to a timid and fearful tone. "And all these people,"continued she, with her lips compressed, and trembling from alarm andhorror; "and this lord--this man--he promised me indeed."
"He is here also in person with us," said Don Abbondio. "He is without,expecting us; let us go at once; we must not make such a man wait."
At this moment the Unknown appeared at the door. Lucy, who, a fewmoments before, had desired earnestly to see him--nay, having no otherhope in the world, had desired to see none but him--now that she was sounexpectedly in the presence of friends, was, for a moment, overcomewith terror. Shuddering with horror, she hid her face on the shoulder ofthe good dame. Beholding the innocent girl, on whom the evening beforehe had not had resolution to fix his eyes; beholding her countenance,pale, and changed, from fasting and prolonged suffering, the Unknownhesitated; but perceiving her impulse of terror, he cast down his eyes,and, after a moment's silence, exclaimed, "It is true! forgive me!"
"He comes to save you; he is not the same man; he has become good. Doyou hear him ask your forgiveness?" whispered the dame in the ear ofLucy.
"Could any one say more? Come, lift up your head; do not play the child.We can go away now, immediately," said Don Abbondio.
Lucy raised her head, looked at the Unknown, and beholding his humbleand downcast expression, she was affected with a mingled feeling ofgratitude and pity: "Oh! my lord! may God reward you for your compassionto an unfortunate girl!" cried she; "and may he recompense you ahundred-fold for the consolation you afford me by these words!" Sosaying, he advanced towards the door, and went out, followed by Lucy;who, quite encouraged, was supported by the arm of the good lady, DonAbbondio bringing up the rear. They descended the stairs, passed throughthe courts, and reached the litter; into which, the Unknown with almosttimid politeness (a new thing for him!) assisted Lucy and her newcompanion to enter. He then aided Don Abbondio to reseat himself in thesaddle. "Oh! what complaisance!" said the latter, moving much morelightly than he had done on first mounting.
The convoy resumed their way; as soon as the Unknown was mounted, hishead was raised, and his countenance resumed its accustomed expressionof command and authority. The robbers whom they met on their roaddiscovered in it marks of strong thought and extraordinary solicitude;but they did not, they could not, comprehend the cause. They knewnothing as yet of the great change which had taken place in the soul ofthe man, and certainly such a conjecture would not have entered intotheir minds.
The good dame hastened to draw the curtains around the litter; pressingthe hands of Lucy affectionately, she endeavoured to encourage her bywords of piety, congratulation, and tenderness. Seeing, however, thatbesides the exhaustion from so much suffering, the confusion andobscurity of all that had happened prevented the poor girl from beingalive to the satisfaction of her deliverance; she said what she thoughtwould be most likely to restore her thoughts to their ordinary course.She mentioned the village to which she belonged, and towards which theywere hastening.
"Yes, indeed!" said Lucy, remembering that this village was but a shortdistance from her own. "Oh! holy Virgin! I render thee thanks. Mymother! my mother!"
"We will send for her immediately," said her friend, not knowing that ithad already been done.
"Yes, yes; God will reward you. And you,--who are you? How is it thatyou have come here?"
"Our curate sent me, because this lord, whose heart God has touched,(blessed be his holy name!) came to our village to see the cardinalarchbishop, who is visiting among us, the dear man of God! This lord hasrepented of his horrible sins, and wishes to change his life; and hetold the cardinal that he had carried off an innocent girl, with theconnivance of another, whose name the curate did not mention to me."
Lucy raised her eyes to heaven.
"You know it, perhaps," continued the lady. "Well, the lord cardinalthought, that a young girl being in the question, a female should befound to accompany her; he told the curate to look for one, and thecurate kindly came to me----"
"Oh! may God reward you for your goodness!"
"And the curate desired me to encourage you, my poor child, to relieveyou from uneasiness at once, and to make you understand, how the Lordhas miraculously preserved you."
"Oh! miraculously indeed, through the intercession of the Virgin!"
"He told me to comfort you, to advise you to pardon him who has done youthis evil, to rejoice that God has shown compassion towards him, andeven to pray for him; for, besides its being a duty, you will derivecomfort from it to your own heart."
Lucy replied with a look which expressed assent as clearly as if she hadmade use of words, and with a sweetness which words could not haveexpressed.
"Worthy young woman!" resumed the friend. "And as your curate was alsoin our village, the lord cardinal judged it best to send him with us,thinking that he might be of some assistance. I had already heard thathe was a poor sort of a timid man; and on this occasion, he has beenwholly taken up with himself, like a hen with one chick."
"And he----he who is thus changed----who is he?"
"How! do you not know?" said the good dame, repeating his name.
"Oh! merciful heaven!" cried Lucy. For many times had she heard thisname repeated with horror, in more than one story, in which he hadappeared like the _Ogre_ of the fairy tale. At the idea of having beenin his terrible power, and of now being under his protection,--at thethought of such peril, and such deliverance, in reflecting who this manwas that had appeared to her so ferocious, and then so humble and sogentle, she was lost in astonishment, and could only exclaim, from timeto time, "Oh! merciful Heaven!"
"Yes, it is indeed a great mercy! it is a great happiness for half theworld in this neighbourhood, and afar off. When one thinks how manypeople he kept in continual alarm; and now, as our curate says----Butyou have only to look in his face to know that
he is truly changed. And,besides, by 'their works' ye shall know them."
We should not tell the truth, did we say that the good dame had nocuriosity to learn more of an affair in which she played so important apart; but, to her praise it must be added, that, feeling a respectfulpity for Lucy, and estimating the weight and dignity of the chargeconfided to her, she did not for a moment think of asking her anindiscreet or idle question. All her discourse in their short journeywas composed of expressions of tenderness and interest for the poorgirl.
"It must be long since you have eaten any thing."
"I do not remember----It must indeed be some time."
"Poor child! you must need something to restore your strength."
"Yes," replied Lucy, in a faint voice.
"At my house, thanks be to God, we shall find something presently. Be ofgood cheer, it is but a short distance off."
Lucy, wearied and exhausted by her various emotions, fell languidly tothe bottom of the litter, overcome by drowsiness; and her kind companionleft her to a short repose.
As to Don Abbondio, the descent from the castle did not cause him somuch fright as the ascent thither; but it was nevertheless notagreeable. When his alarm had first ceased, he felt relieved from anintolerable burthen; but he now began to torment himself in variousways, and found materials for such an operation in the present as wellas in the future. His manner of travelling, to which he was notaccustomed, he found to be exceedingly unpleasant, especially in thedescent from the castle to the valley. The driver, obedient to a signfrom the Unknown, made his beasts set off at a quick pace; the two muleskept up with the litter; and thus poor Don Abbondio, subjected to theunusual bounding and rebounding, which was more perilous from thesteepness of the declivity they were descending, was obliged to holdfast by the saddle in order to keep his seat, not daring to ask hiscompanions to abate somewhat of their speed. Moreover, if the road layon a height, along a ridge, the mule, according to the custom of theseanimals, would obstinately keep on the outside, and place his feetliterally on the very edge of the precipice. "Thou also," said he in hisheart to the beast, "thou also hath this cursed desire to seek danger,when there are so many other paths!" He tightened the rein on the otherside, but in vain; so that, although dying of vexation and fear, hesuffered himself, as was his custom, to be led by the will of another.The bravoes no longer caused him much uneasiness now that he feltconfidence in their master. "But," thought he, nevertheless, "if thenews of this great conversion spreads, while we are yet here, who knowshow these people may take it? Who knows what might be the result?Perhaps they might take it in their heads to think I had come as amissionary! and then (heaven preserve me!) they would make me suffermartyrdom!" But we have said enough of the terrors of Don Abbondio.
The company at last arrived at the extremity of the valley; thecountenance of the Unknown became more serene, and Don Abbondiorecovered in some degree his usual composure; but still his mind wasoccupied with more distant evils. "What will this fool Don Roderick say?To be exposed thus to scoffs and jests--how sorely will he feel it!he'll certainly play the devil outright! Perhaps he will seek anotherquarrel with me because I have been engaged in this cursed business!Having had the heart to send those two demons to attack me in the road,what he will do now, heaven knows. He cannot molest my lord thecardinal, because he is obviously beyond his reach; he will be obligedto champ the bit. However, the poison will be in his veins, and he willneed to discharge it somewhere. It is well known how these affairs end;the blows always fall on the weakest. The cardinal will busy himselfwith placing Lucy in safety; this other poor devil is beyond his reach,but what is to become of me? And what will the cardinal do to defend me,after having engaged me in the business? Can he hinder this atrociousbeing from serving me a worse turn than before? And then he has so manythings to think of! he cannot pay attention to every body! They who dogood, do it in the gross, and enjoy their satisfaction without regardingminute consequences: but your evil-doer is more diligent; he lingersbehind till he sees the last result, because of the fear that tormentshim. Shall I say I have acted by my lord archbishop's command, andagainst my own will? But it will seem that I favour villany! I--for thepleasure it gives me! Heaven forbid! but enough--I'll tell Perpetua thewhole story, and leave her to circulate it--if indeed, his reverendlordship should not take up the fancy to make the whole matter public,and thrust me forward as a chief actor. However, I am determined on onething: I will take leave of my lord the cardinal as soon as we arriveat the village, and go to my home. Lucy has no longer any need of me;she is under good protection; and, after so many fatigues, I may claimthe right to take some repose.--But, should my lord be seized with thedesire to know all her story, and I be compelled to relate the affair ofthe marriage! there would then be nothing wanting to complete my misery.And if he should visit my parish! Oh! let come what will, I will nottorment myself beforehand! I have cares enough. For the present I shallshut myself up at home. But I foresee too well that my last days must bepassed in trouble and vexation."
The little troop arrived before the services of the church were over;and passing, as they had previously done, through the crowd, theyproceeded to the house of Lucy's companion.
Hardly had Don Abbondio alighted from his mule, when, making the mostprofuse compliments to the Unknown, he begged him to apologise for himto the cardinal, as he was obliged to return directly to his parish onsome urgent business. He then went in search of a staff that he had leftin the hall, and which he was accustomed to call his horse, andproceeded homewards. The Unknown remained at the cardinal's house,awaiting his return from the church.
The good dame hastened to procure Lucy some refreshment to recruit herexhausted powers; she put some dry branches under a kettle which shereplaced over the fire, and in which swam a good fowl; after havingsuffered it to boil a moment, she filled a plate with the soup, andoffered it to Lucy, congratulating herself that the affair had happenedon a day, when, as she said, "the cat was not on the hearth." "It is aday of feasting for all the world," added she, "except for thoseunfortunate creatures who can hardly obtain bread of vetches, and apolenta of millet; they hope, however, to receive something from ourcharitable cardinal. As for us, thank heaven, we are not in thatsituation; between the trade of my husband and a small piece of land, wemanage to live comfortably. Eat, then, poor child, with a good appetite;the fowl will be done presently, and you shall have something better."She then set about making preparations for dinner for the family.
As Lucy's spirits and strength returned, the necessity of arranging herdress occurred to her mind; she therefore tied up her long disorderedtresses, and adjusted the handkerchief about her neck; in doing this,her fingers entwined themselves in the chaplet, which was theresuspended: she gazed at it with much emotion, and the recollection ofthe vow she had made, this recollection which had been suspended by somany painful sensations, now rose clearly and distinctly to her mind.All the newly-awakened powers of her soul were again in a momentsubdued. And if she had not been prepared for this by a life ofinnocence, resignation, and confidence, the consternation sheexperienced would have terminated in despair. After the first tumult ofher thoughts had in some measure subsided, she exclaimed, "Oh! unhappygirl! what have I done!"
But hardly had she pronounced the words, when she was terrified athaving done so; she recalled all the circumstances of her vow, herintolerable anguish, without hope of human aid, the fervour of herpetition, the fulness of resolution with which the promise had beenmade; and to repent of this promise, after having obtained the favourshe had implored, appeared to her sacrilegious ingratitude, perfidytowards God and the Virgin. It seemed to her that such infidelity wouldcertainly draw upon her new and more terrible evils, and if these shouldindeed be its consequences she could no longer hope for an answer to herprayers; she therefore hastened to abjure her momentary regret, anddrawing the chaplet reverently from her neck, and holding it in hertrembling hand, she confirmed her vow; at the same time ferventlypraying to God that he would g
rant her strength to fulfil it, and todrive from her thoughts circumstances which might, if they did not moveher resolution, still increase but too much the severity of thesacrifice. The absence of Renzo, without any probability of his return,which had at first been so bitter, appeared now to her a design ofProvidence, to make the two events conduce to the same end, and sheendeavoured to find in one a consolation for the other. She alsoremembered that Providence would, to finish the work, find means to makeRenzo resigned, and cause him to forget----But scarcely had this ideaentered her mind, when a new terror overwhelmed her. Conscious that herheart had still need of repentance, the unfortunate girl again hadrecourse to prayer, and mental conflict; and at length arose, if theexpression may be allowed, like a victor wearied and wounded, havingdisarmed his enemy.
Suddenly footsteps and joyous exclamations were heard; they proceededfrom the children of the family, who were returning from church. Twolittle girls and a little boy ran into the room; stopping a moment toeye the stranger, they then came to their mother, one asking the name oftheir unknown guest, another wanting to relate the wonders they hadseen. The good dame replied to them all with "Be quiet; silence!" Themaster of the house then entered with a calmer step; but with joydiffused over his countenance. He was the tailor of the village and itsenvirons; a man who knew how to read, and who had even read, more thanonce, the Legend of the Saints and the _Reali di Francia_; he wasregarded by the peasants as a man of knowledge, and when they lavishedtheir praises on him, he repelled them with much modesty, only sayingthat he had indeed mistaken his vocation, and that, perhaps, if he hadstudied---- Notwithstanding this little vanity he was the best naturedman in the world. He had been present when the curate requested his wifeto undertake her benevolent journey, and had not only given hisapprobation, but would have added his own persuasions, if that had beennecessary; and now that the ceremonies of the church, and above all, thesermon of the cardinal, had given an impetus to his amiable feelings, hereturned home with an ardent desire to know if the enterprise hadsucceeded, and to see the poor innocent girl in safety.
"See here!" said his wife to him as he entered, pointing to Lucy, whorose from her seat blushing, and stammering forth some apology. Headvanced towards her, and, with a friendly tone, cried, "You arewelcome! welcome! You bring the blessing of Heaven on this house! Howglad I am to see you here! I knew that you would arrive safely to ahaven, because I have never known the Lord commence a miracle withoutaccomplishing it; but I am well content to see you here. Poor child! Itis a great thing however to have been the subject of a miracle!"
We must not believe he was the only one who characterised the event bythis term, and that because he had read the legendary. Throughout thevillage, and the surrounding country, it was spoken of in no otherterms, as long as its remembrance lasted; and to say truth, if we regardits attendant circumstances, it would be difficult to find another namefor it.
He then approached his wife, who was employed in taking the kettle fromoff the fire, and said in a low voice, "Has all gone well?"
"Very well. I will tell you another time."
"Well, well, at your leisure."
When the dinner was ready, the mistress of the house made Lucy sit downwith them at the table, and helping her to a wing of the chicken,entreated her to eat. The husband began to dilate with much animation onthe events of the day; not without many interruptions from the children,who stood round the table eating their dinner, and who had seen too manyextraordinary things to be satisfied with playing the part of merelisteners. He described the solemn ceremonies, and then recurred to themiraculous conversion; but that which had made the most impression onhis mind, and of which he spoke the oftenest, was the sermon of thecardinal.
"To see him before the altar," said he, "a lord like him, to see himbefore the altar, as a simple curate----"
"And that golden thing he had on his head," said one of the littlegirls.
"Hush, be quiet. When one thinks, I say, that a lord like him, a man solearned, who, as they say, has read all the books in the world, a thingwhich no one else has done, not even in Milan; when one thinks that hehas adapted himself so to the comprehension of others, that every oneunderstood him----"
"I understood, I did," said the other little chatterer.
"Hush, be quiet. What did you understand, you?"
"I understood that he explained the Gospel, instead of the curate."
"Be quiet. I do not say that he was understood by those only who knowsomething, but even those who were the most stupid and ignorant, caughtthe sense perfectly. You might go now, and ask them to repeat hisdiscourse; perhaps they might not remember a single word, but they wouldhave its whole meaning in their head. And how easy it was to perceivethat he alluded to this _signor_, although he never pronounced his name!But one might have guessed it from the tears which flowed from his eyes.And all the people wept----"
"That is true," cried the little boy. "But why did they all cry likelittle children?"
"Be quiet. And there are, nevertheless, hard hearts in this country. Hehas made us feel that although there is a scarcity, we must returnthanks to God, and be satisfied; be industrious; do what we can, andthen be content, because unhappiness does not consist at all insuffering and poverty; unhappiness is the result of wicked actions.These are not fine words merely; it is well known that he lives like apoor man, that he takes the bread from his mouth to give to those thatare in need, when he might live an easier life than any one. Oh, then,there is great satisfaction in hearing him speak. He is not like manyothers, who say, 'Do as I say, and not as I do;' and besides, he hasmade it very apparent, that those even who are not what they call_gentlemen_, but who have more than is necessary, are bound to impart tothose who are in want."
And here he stopped, as if pained by some recollection; after a moment'ssilence, he filled a plate with meat from the table, and adding a loafof bread to it, tied up the whole in a napkin. "Take that," said he tothe oldest of the children, and putting in her other hand a bottle ofwine, "carry that to the widow Martha, and tell her to feast with herchildren. But be very careful what you say to her, don't seem to bedoing a charity, and don't say a word of it, should you meet any one;and take care not to break any thing."
Lucy was touched, even to tears, and her soul was filled with atenderness that withdrew her from the contemplation of her own sorrows.The conversation of this worthy man had already imparted a relief, thata direct appeal to her feelings would have failed to procure. Herspirit, yielding to the charm of the description of the august pomp ofthe church, of the emotions of piety there excited, and partaking of theenthusiasm of the narrator, forgot its woes, and, when obliged to recurto them, felt itself strengthened. The thought even of the greatsacrifice she had imposed on herself, without having lost itsbitterness, had assumed the character of austere and solemntranquillity.
A few moments after, the curate of the village entered, saying that hewas sent by the cardinal for intelligence concerning Lucy, and also toinform her that he desired to see her that day; then he thanked, in hislordship's name, her kind hosts for their benevolence and hospitality.All three, moved to tears, could not find words to reply to such amessage from such a person.
"Has your mother not yet arrived?" said the curate to Lucy.
"My mother!" cried she.
Learning that the good archbishop had sent for her mother, that it washis own kind thought, her heart was overpowered, she raised her apron toher eyes, and her tears continued to flow long after the departure ofthe curate. As these tumultuous emotions, called forth by suchunexpected benevolence, gradually subsided, the poor girl rememberedthat she had expressly solicited this very happiness of again beholdingher mother, as a condition to her vow. "_Return me safely to mymother._" These words recurred distinctly to her memory. She wasconfirmed more than ever in her purpose to keep her vow, and repentedagain bitterly of the regret which she had for a moment experienced.
Agnes, indeed, even whilst they were speaking of her, was very near; iti
s easy to imagine the feelings of the poor woman at so unexpected aninvitation, at the intelligence, necessarily confused and incomplete, ofa peril which was passed, but of a frightful peril, of an obscureadventure, of which the messenger knew not the circumstances, and couldgive no explanation, and for which she could find no clue from previousfacts. "Ah, great God! ah, holy Virgin!" escaped from her lips, mingledwith useless questions, during the journey. On the road she met DonAbbondio, who, by the aid of his staff, was travelling homewards.Uttering an exclamation of surprise, Agnes made the driver stop. Shealighted, and with the curate withdrew into a grove of chestnuts, whichwas on the side of the road. Don Abbondio informed her of all he hadseen and known: much obscurity still rested upon his statement, but atleast Agnes ascertained that Lucy was now in safety.
Don Abbondio then introduced another subject of conversation, and wouldhave given her ample instruction on the manner of conducting herselfwith the archbishop, if he, as was probable, should wish to see her andher daughter. He said it would not answer for her to speak of themarriage; but Agnes, perceiving that he spoke only from his owninterest, was determined to promise nothing, because she said, "she hadother things to think of," and bidding him farewell, she proceeded onher journey.
The carriage at last reached the house of the tailor, and the mother anddaughter were folded in each other's arms. The good wife, who was theonly witness of the scene, endeavoured to soothe and calm theirfeelings; and then prudently left them alone, saying that she would goand prepare a bed for them.
Their first tumultuous joy having in some measure subsided, Agnesrequested to hear the adventures of Lucy, who attempted to relate them;but the reader knows that it was a history with which no one wasentirely acquainted, and to Lucy herself there was much that wasinexplicable, particularly the fatal coincidence of the carriage beingat that place precisely at the moment that Lucy had gone there by anextraordinary chance. With regard to this, the mother and daughter lostthemselves in conjecture, without even approaching the real cause. Asto the principal author of this plot, however, they neither of themdoubted that it was Don Roderick.
"Ah, that firebrand!" cried Agnes; "but his hour will come. God willreward him according to his works, and then he will know----"
"No, no, mother, no!" cried Lucy. "Do not wish harm to him! do not wishit to any one! If you knew what it is to suffer! if you had experiencedit! No, no! rather let us pray to God and the Virgin for him, that Godwould touch his heart as he has done that of the other lord, who wasworse than he, and who is now a saint."
The horror that Lucy felt in retracing events so painful and recent madeher hesitate more than once. More than once she said she had not theheart to proceed, and, choked by her tears, she with difficulty went onwith her narrative. But she was embarrassed by a different sentiment ata certain point of her recital, at the moment when she was about tospeak of her vow. She feared her mother would accuse her of imprudenceand precipitation; she feared that she would, as she had done in theaffair of the marriage, bring forward her broad rules of conscience, andmake them prevail; she feared that the poor woman would tell it to someone in confidence, if it were only to gain light and advice, and thusrender it public. These reflections made Lucy experience insupportableshame, and an inexplicable repugnance to speak on the subject. Shetherefore passed over in silence this important circumstance,determining in her heart to communicate it first to Father Christopher;but how great was her sorrow at learning that he was no longer at theconvent, that he had been sent to a distant country, a countrycalled----
"And Renzo?" enquired Agnes.
"He is in safety, is he not?" said Lucy, hastily.
"It must be so, since every one says so. They say that he has certainlygone to Bergamo, but no one knows the place exactly, and there has beenno intelligence from himself. He probably has not been able to find themeans of informing us."
"Oh, if he is in safety, God be thanked!" said Lucy, commencing anothersubject of conversation, which was, however, interrupted by anunexpected event--the arrival of the cardinal archbishop.
After having returned from the church, and having learnt from theUnknown the arrival of Lucy, he had seated himself at table, placing theUnknown on his right hand; the company was composed of a number ofpriests, who gazed earnestly at the countenance of their once formidablecompanion, so softened without weakness, so humbled without meanness,and compared it with the horrible idea they had so long entertained ofhim.
Dinner being over, the Unknown and the cardinal retired together. Aftera long interview, the former departed for his castle, and the lattersent for the curate of the parish, and requested him to conduct him tothe house where Lucy had received an asylum.
"Oh, my lord," replied the curate, "suffer me, suffer me. I will sendfor the young girl and her mother, if she has arrived,--the hoststhemselves, if my lord desires it."
"I wish to go to them myself," replied Frederick.
"There is no necessity that you should inconvenience yourself; I willsend for them immediately," insisted the curate, who did not understandthat, by this visit, the cardinal wished to do honour to misfortune,innocence, hospitality, and to his own ministry. But the superiorrepeating his desire, the inferior bowed, and they proceeded on theirway.
When they appeared in the street, a crowd immediately collected aroundthem. The curate cried, "Come, come, back, keep off."--"But," saidFrederick, "suffer them," and he advanced, now raising his hands tobless the people, now lowering them to embrace the children, whoobstructed his progress. They reached the house, and entered it, whilstthe crowd remained without. But amidst the throng was the tailor, whohad followed with others; his eyes fixed, and his mouth open, wonderingwhere the cardinal was going. When he beheld him entering his own house,he bustled his way through the crowd, crying out, "Make room for thosewho have a right to enter," and followed into the house.
Agnes and Lucy heard an increasing murmur in the street; and whilst theywere surmising the cause, the door opened, and, behold, the cardinal andthe curate!
"Is this she?" asked the former of the curate, and at a sign in theaffirmative he approached Lucy, who with her mother was standing,motionless and mute with surprise and extreme diffidence: but the tonesof the voice, the countenance, and above all, the words of Frederick,soon removed their embarrassment. "Poor young woman," said he, "God haspermitted you to be subjected to a great trial; but he has also made yousee that he watches over you, and has never forgotten you. He has savedyou, and in addition to that blessing, has made use of you to accomplisha great work through you, to impart the wonders of his grace and mercyto one man, and at the same time to comfort the hearts of many."
Here the mistress of the house entered the room with her husband:perceiving their guests engaged in conversation, they respectfullyretired to a distant part of the apartment. The cardinal bowed to themcourteously, and continued the conversation with Lucy and her mother. Hemixed with the consolation he offered many enquiries, hoping to findfrom their answers some way of rendering them still farther servicesafter their sufferings.
"It is a pity all the clergy were not like your lordship, and then theywould take the part of the poor, and not help to bring them intodifficulty for the sake of drawing themselves out of it," said Agnes,encouraged by the familiar and affable manner of Frederick, and vexedthat Don Abbondio, after having sacrificed others to his ownselfishness, should dare to forbid her making the least complaint to oneso much above him, when by so fortunate a chance the occasion presenteditself.
"Say all that you think," said the cardinal; "speak freely."
"I would say, that if our curate had done his duty, things would nothave been as they are."
The cardinal begging her to explain herself more clearly, she foundsome embarrassment in relating a history, in which she had at one timeplayed a part, which she felt very unwilling to communicate to such aman. However, she got over the difficulty; she related the projectedmarriage, the refusal of Don Abbondio, and the pretext he had offeredwi
th respect to his _superiors_ (oh, Agnes!); and passing to the attemptof Don Roderick, she told in what manner, being informed of it, they hadbeen able to escape. "But, indeed," added she in conclusion, "it wasescaping to fall into another snare. If the curate had told us sincerelythe difficulty, and had married my poor children, we would have left thecountry immediately, and gone where no one would have known us, not eventhe wind. Thus time was lost, and that which has happened, hashappened."
"The curate shall render me an account of this," said the cardinal.
"No, my lord, no," resumed Agnes. "I did not speak on that account, donot reprove him; because what is done, is done; and it would answer nopurpose. He is a man of such a character, that if the thing were to doover again, he would act precisely in the same way."
But Lucy, dissatisfied with this manner of telling the story, added, "Wehave also been to blame; it is plain that it was the will of God thething should not succeed."
"How can you have been to blame, my poor child?" said Frederick.
Lucy, notwithstanding the winks of her mother, related in her turn thehistory of the attempt made in the house of Don Abbondio, saying, as sheconcluded, "We did wrong, and God has punished us."
"Accept from his hand the chastisement you have endured, and takecourage," said Frederick; "for who has a right to rejoice and hope, ifnot those who have suffered, and who accuse themselves?"
He then asked where was the betrothed; and learning from Agnes (Lucystood silent with downcast eyes) the fact of his flight, he expressedastonishment and displeasure, and asked the reason of it. Agnes toldwhat she knew of the story of Renzo.
"I have heard of him before," said the cardinal; "but how could a man,who was engaged in affairs of this nature, be in treaty of marriage withthis young girl?"
"He was a worthy young man," said Lucy, blushing, but in a firm voice.
"He was a peaceable youth, too peaceable, perhaps," added Agnes; "yourlordship may ask any one if he was not, even the curate. Who knows whatintrigues and plots may have been going on at Milan? There needs littleto make poor people pass for rogues."
"That is but too true," said the cardinal; "I will enquire about him,without doubt." He took a memorandum of the name of the young man,adding that he expected to be at their village in a few days; thatduring his sojourn there, Lucy could return home without fear, and inthe mean while he would procure her an asylum till all was arranged forthe best.
Turning to the master and mistress of the house, they came forward; herenewed the thanks he had addressed to them by the mouth of the curate,and asked them if they would be willing to keep the guests God had sentthem for a few days.
"Oh yes, my lord," replied the dame, with a manner which said more thanthis timid reply; but her husband, quite animated by the presence ofsuch a man, by the desire to do himself honour on an occasion of suchimportance, studied to make a fine answer. He wrinkled his forehead,strained his eyes, and compressed his mouth, but nevertheless felt aconfusion of ideas, which prevented him from uttering a syllable. Buttime pressed; the cardinal appeared to have interpreted his silence. Thepoor man opened his mouth, and said, "Imagine----" Not a word more couldhe say. His failure not only filled him with shame on that day, but everafter, the unfortunate recollection intruded itself to mar the pleasureof the great honour he had received. How many times, in thinking of thiscircumstance, did a crowd of words come to his mind, every one of whichwould have been better than "_Imagine!_" But the cavities of our brainsare full enough of thoughts when it is too late to employ them.
The cardinal departed, saying, "May the blessing of Heaven rest on thishouse!"
That evening he asked the curate in what way it would be best toindemnify the tailor, who could not be rich, for his hospitality. Thecurate replied, that truly neither the profits of his trade, nor hisincome from some little fields that the good tailor possessed, would atthis time have enabled him to be liberal to others; but from havingsaved something the few years previous, he was one of the most easy incircumstances in the district; that he could allow himself to exercisesome hospitality without inconvenience, and that he would do it withpleasure; and that he was confident he would be hurt if money wasoffered to him.
"He has probably," said the cardinal, "some demands on people who areunable to pay."
"You may judge, my lord; the poor people pay with the overplus of theharvest; this year there has been no overplus; on the contrary, everyone is behind in point even of necessities."
"Well, I take upon myself all these debts. You will do me the favour toobtain from him the memoranda, and cancel them."
"It may be a very large sum."
"So much the better. And perhaps you have but too many who are moremiserable, having no debts, because they have no credit?"
"Oh yes! indeed too many! they do what they can; but how can they supplytheir wants in these hard times?"
"Have them clothed at my expense; it is true that it seems to be robberyto spend any thing this year, except for bread; but this is a particularcase."
We cannot finish our record of the history of this day without brieflyrelating the conduct of the Unknown. Before his second return to thecastle, the report of his conversion had preceded him; it had spreadthrough the valley, and excited surprise, anxiety, and numerousconjectures. As he approached the castle he made a sign to all the_bravoes_ he met to follow him: filled with unusual apprehension, butwith their accustomed submission, they obeyed; their number increasedevery moment. Reaching the castle, he entered the first court, andthere, resting on his saddle bow, in a voice of thunder he gave a loudcall, the wonted signal which all habitually obeyed. In a moment thosewho were scattered about the castle hastened to join the troop collectedaround their leader.
"Go and wait for me in the great hall," said he; as they departed, hedismounted from his beast, and leading it himself to the stable, thenceapproached the hall. The whispering which was heard among them ceased athis appearance; retiring to one corner they left a large space aroundhim.
The Unknown raised his hand to enforce the silence that his presencealone had already effected; then raising his head, which yet was abovethat of any of his followers, he said, "Listen to me, all of you; andlet no one speak, unless I ask him a question. My friends, the way whichwe have followed until to-day leads to hell. I do not wish to reproachyou, I could not effect the important change, inasmuch as I have beenyour leader in our abominable career; I have been the most guilty ofall; but listen to what I am about to say.
"God in his mercy has called me to a change of life, and I have obeyedhis call. May this same God do as much for you! Know, then, and hold forcertain, that I would rather now die than undertake any thing againsthis holy law. I recall all the iniquitous orders which I may have givenany one of you; you understand me. And farther, I order you to donothing which I have hitherto prescribed to you. Hold equally forcertain, that no one can hereafter commit evil under my protection, andin my service. Those who will remain with me on these conditions, Ishall regard as children. I should be happy, in the day of famine, toshare with them the last mouthful that remained to me. To those who donot wish to continue here, shall be paid what is due of their salaries,and a further donative; they have liberty to depart, but they must neverreturn, unless they repent and intend to lead a new life, and under suchcircumstances they shall be received with open arms. Think of it thisnight; to-morrow morning I will receive your answer, and then I willgive you your orders. Now, every one to his post. May God, who hasshown compassion towards me, incline your hearts to repentance and gooddispositions."
He ceased, and all kept silence. Although strange and tumultuousthoughts fermented in their minds, no indication of them was visible.They had been habituated to listen to the voice of their lord, as to amanifestation of absolute authority, to which it was necessary to yieldimplicit obedience. His will proclaimed itself changed, but notenfeebled: it did not therefore enter their minds, that because he wasconverted they might become bold in his presence, or reply t
o him asthey would to another man. They regarded him as a saint, indeed, but asaint sword in hand.
In addition to the fear with which he inspired them, they felt for him(especially those who were born in his service, and these were thegreater number) the affection of vassals. Their admiration partook ofthe nature of love, mingled with that respect which the most rebelliousand turbulent spirits feel for a superior, whom they have voluntarilyrecognised as such. The sentiments he expressed were certainly hatefulto their ears, but they knew they were not false, neither were theyentirely strange to them. If their custom had been to make them subjectsof pleasantry, it was not from disbelief of their verity, but to driveaway, by jesting, the apprehensions the contemplation of them mightotherwise have excited. And now, there was none among them who did notfeel some compunction at beholding their power exerted over theinvincible courage of their master. Moreover, some of them had heard theextraordinary intelligence beyond the valley, and had witnessed andrelated the joy of the people, the new feeling with which the Unknownwas regarded by them, the veneration which had succeeded their formerhatred--their former terror. They beheld the man whom they had neverregarded without trembling, even when they themselves constituted, to agreat degree, his strength; they beheld him now, the wonder, the idol ofthe multitude,--still elevated above all others, in a different manner,no doubt, but in one not less imposing,--always above the world, alwaysthe first. They were confounded, and each was doubtful of the course heshould pursue. One reflected hastily where he could find an asylum andemployment; another questioned with himself his power to accommodatehimself to the life of an honest man; another, moved by what he hadsaid, felt some inclination for it; and another still was willing topromise any thing so as to be entitled to the share of a loaf, which hadbeen so cordially proffered, and which was so scarce in those days. Noone, however, broke the silence. The Unknown, at the conclusion of hisspeech, waved his hand imperiously for them to retire: obedient as aflock of sheep, they all quietly left the hall. He followed them, andstopping in the centre of the court, saw them all branch off to theirdifferent stations. He returned into the castle, visited the corridors,halls, and every avenue, and, finding all quiet, he retired tosleep,--yes, to sleep, for he was very sleepy. In spite of all theurgent and intricate affairs in which he was involved, more than at anyformer conjuncture, he was sleepy. Remorse had banished sleep the nightbefore; its voice, so far from being subdued, was still moreabsolute--was louder--yet he was sleepy. The order of his household solong established, the absolute devotion of his faithful followers, hispower and means of exercising it, its various ramifications, and theobjects on which it was employed, all tended to create uncertainty andconfusion in his mind,--still he was sleepy.
To his bed then he went, that bed which the night before had been a bedof thorns; but first he knelt to pray. He sought, in the remotest cornerof his memory, the words of prayer taught him in his days of childhood.They came one by one: an age of vice had not effaced them. And who shalldefine the sentiments that pervaded his soul at this return to thehabits of happy innocence? He slept soundly.