The Betrothed Part 37

And here he stopped, as if pained by some recollection; after a moment's silence, he filled a plate with meat from the table, and adding a loaf of bread to it, tied up the whole in a napkin. "Take that," said he to the oldest of the children, and putting in her other hand a bottle of wine, "carry that to the widow Martha, and tell her to feast with her children. But be very careful what you say to her, don't seem to be doing 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 a tenderness that withdrew her from the contemplation of her own sorrows.

The conversation of this worthy man had already imparted a relief, that a direct appeal to her feelings would have failed to procure. Her spirit, yielding to the charm of the description of the august pomp of the church, of the emotions of piety there excited, and partaking of the enthusiasm of the narrator, forgot its woes, and, when obliged to recur to them, felt itself strengthened. The thought even of the great sacrifice she had imposed on herself, without having lost its bitterness, had a.s.sumed the character of austere and solemn tranquillity.

A few moments after, the curate of the village entered, saying that he was sent by the cardinal for intelligence concerning Lucy, and also to inform her that he desired to see her that day; then he thanked, in his lords.h.i.+p's name, her kind hosts for their benevolence and hospitality.

All three, moved to tears, could not find words to reply to such a message 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 was his own kind thought, her heart was overpowered, she raised her ap.r.o.n to her eyes, and her tears continued to flow long after the departure of the curate. As these tumultuous emotions, called forth by such unexpected benevolence, gradually subsided, the poor girl remembered that she had expressly solicited this very happiness of again beholding her mother, as a condition to her vow. "_Return me safely to my mother._" These words recurred distinctly to her memory. She was confirmed more than ever in her purpose to keep her vow, and repented again bitterly of the regret which she had for a moment experienced.

Agnes, indeed, even whilst they were speaking of her, was very near; it is easy to imagine the feelings of the poor woman at so unexpected an invitation, at the intelligence, necessarily confused and incomplete, of a peril which was pa.s.sed, but of a frightful peril, of an obscure adventure, of which the messenger knew not the circ.u.mstances, and could give no explanation, and for which she could find no clue from previous facts. "Ah, great G.o.d! ah, holy Virgin!" escaped from her lips, mingled with useless questions, during the journey. On the road she met Don Abbondio, who, by the aid of his staff, was travelling homewards.

Uttering an exclamation of surprise, Agnes made the driver stop. She alighted, and with the curate withdrew into a grove of chestnuts, which was on the side of the road. Don Abbondio informed her of all he had seen and known: much obscurity still rested upon his statement, but at least Agnes ascertained that Lucy was now in safety.

Don Abbondio then introduced another subject of conversation, and would have given her ample instruction on the manner of conducting herself with the archbishop, if he, as was probable, should wish to see her and her daughter. He said it would not answer for her to speak of the marriage; but Agnes, perceiving that he spoke only from his own interest, was determined to promise nothing, because she said, "she had other things to think of," and bidding him farewell, she proceeded on her journey.

The carriage at last reached the house of the tailor, and the mother and daughter were folded in each other's arms. The good wife, who was the only witness of the scene, endeavoured to soothe and calm their feelings; and then prudently left them alone, saying that she would go and prepare a bed for them.

Their first tumultuous joy having in some measure subsided, Agnes requested to hear the adventures of Lucy, who attempted to relate them; but the reader knows that it was a history with which no one was entirely acquainted, and to Lucy herself there was much that was inexplicable, particularly the fatal coincidence of the carriage being at that place precisely at the moment that Lucy had gone there by an extraordinary chance. With regard to this, the mother and daughter lost themselves in conjecture, without even approaching the real cause. As to the princ.i.p.al author of this plot, however, they neither of them doubted that it was Don Roderick.

"Ah, that firebrand!" cried Agnes; "but his hour will come. G.o.d will reward him according to his works, and then he will know----"

"No, no, mother, no!" cried Lucy. "Do not wish harm to him! do not wish it to any one! If you knew what it is to suffer! if you had experienced it! No, no! rather let us pray to G.o.d and the Virgin for him, that G.o.d would touch his heart as he has done that of the other lord, who was worse than he, and who is now a saint."

The horror that Lucy felt in retracing events so painful and recent made her hesitate more than once. More than once she said she had not the heart to proceed, and, choked by her tears, she with difficulty went on with her narrative. But she was embarra.s.sed by a different sentiment at a certain point of her recital, at the moment when she was about to speak of her vow. She feared her mother would accuse her of imprudence and precipitation; she feared that she would, as she had done in the affair of the marriage, bring forward her broad rules of conscience, and make them prevail; she feared that the poor woman would tell it to some one in confidence, if it were only to gain light and advice, and thus render it public. These reflections made Lucy experience insupportable shame, and an inexplicable repugnance to speak on the subject. She therefore pa.s.sed over in silence this important circ.u.mstance, 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 the convent, that he had been sent to a distant country, a country called----

"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 certainly gone to Bergamo, but no one knows the place exactly, and there has been no intelligence from himself. He probably has not been able to find the means of informing us."

"Oh, if he is in safety, G.o.d be thanked!" said Lucy, commencing another subject of conversation, which was, however, interrupted by an unexpected event--the arrival of the cardinal archbishop.

After having returned from the church, and having learnt from the Unknown the arrival of Lucy, he had seated himself at table, placing the Unknown on his right hand; the company was composed of a number of priests, who gazed earnestly at the countenance of their once formidable companion, so softened without weakness, so humbled without meanness, and compared it with the horrible idea they had so long entertained of him.

Dinner being over, the Unknown and the cardinal retired together. After a long interview, the former departed for his castle, and the latter sent for the curate of the parish, and requested him to conduct him to the house where Lucy had received an asylum.

"Oh, my lord," replied the curate, "suffer me, suffer me. I will send for the young girl and her mother, if she has arrived,--the hosts themselves, if my lord desires it."

"I wish to go to them myself," replied Frederick.

"There is no necessity that you should inconvenience yourself; I will send for them immediately," insisted the curate, who did not understand that, by this visit, the cardinal wished to do honour to misfortune, innocence, hospitality, and to his own ministry. But the superior repeating his desire, the inferior bowed, and they proceeded on their way.

When they appeared in the street, a crowd immediately collected around them. The curate cried, "Come, come, back, keep off."--"But," said Frederick, "suffer them," and he advanced, now raising his hands to bless the people, now lowering them to embrace the children, who obstructed his progress. They reached the house, and entered it, whilst the crowd remained without. But amidst the throng was the tailor, who had followed with others; his eyes fixed, and his mouth open, wondering where the cardinal was going. When he beheld him entering his own house, he bustled his way through the crowd, crying out, "Make room for those who have a right to enter," and followed into the house.

Agnes and Lucy heard an increasing murmur in the street; and whilst they were surmising the cause, the door opened, and, behold, the cardinal and the curate!

"Is this she?" asked the former of the curate, and at a sign in the affirmative he approached Lucy, who with her mother was standing, motionless and mute with surprise and extreme diffidence: but the tones of the voice, the countenance, and above all, the words of Frederick, soon removed their embarra.s.sment. "Poor young woman," said he, "G.o.d has permitted you to be subjected to a great trial; but he has also made you see that he watches over you, and has never forgotten you. He has saved you, and in addition to that blessing, has made use of you to accomplish a great work through you, to impart the wonders of his grace and mercy to 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 respectfully retired to a distant part of the apartment. The cardinal bowed to them courteously, and continued the conversation with Lucy and her mother. He mixed with the consolation he offered many enquiries, hoping to find from their answers some way of rendering them still farther services after their sufferings.

"It is a pity all the clergy were not like your lords.h.i.+p, and then they would take the part of the poor, and not help to bring them into difficulty for the sake of drawing themselves out of it," said Agnes, encouraged by the familiar and affable manner of Frederick, and vexed that Don Abbondio, after having sacrificed others to his own selfishness, should dare to forbid her making the least complaint to one so much above him, when by so fortunate a chance the occasion presented itself.

"Say all that you think," said the cardinal; "speak freely."

"I would say, that if our curate had done his duty, things would not have been as they are."

The cardinal begging her to explain herself more clearly, she found some embarra.s.sment in relating a history, in which she had at one time played a part, which she felt very unwilling to communicate to such a man. However, she got over the difficulty; she related the projected marriage, the refusal of Don Abbondio, and the pretext he had offered with respect to his _superiors_ (oh, Agnes!); and pa.s.sing to the attempt of Don Roderick, she told in what manner, being informed of it, they had been able to escape. "But, indeed," added she in conclusion, "it was escaping to fall into another snare. If the curate had told us sincerely the difficulty, and had married my poor children, we would have left the country immediately, and gone where no one would have known us, not even the wind. Thus time was lost, and that which has happened, has happened."

"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, do not reprove him; because what is done, is done; and it would answer no purpose. He is a man of such a character, that if the thing were to do over again, he would act precisely in the same way."

But Lucy, dissatisfied with this manner of telling the story, added, "We have also been to blame; it is plain that it was the will of G.o.d the thing 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 the history of the attempt made in the house of Don Abbondio, saying, as she concluded, "We did wrong, and G.o.d has punished us."

"Accept from his hand the chastis.e.m.e.nt you have endured, and take courage," said Frederick; "for who has a right to rejoice and hope, if not those who have suffered, and who accuse themselves?"

He then asked where was the betrothed; and learning from Agnes (Lucy stood silent with downcast eyes) the fact of his flight, he expressed astonishment and displeasure, and asked the reason of it. Agnes told what 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 with this young girl?"

"He was a worthy young man," said Lucy, blus.h.i.+ng, but in a firm voice.

"He was a peaceable youth, too peaceable, perhaps," added Agnes; "your lords.h.i.+p may ask any one if he was not, even the curate. Who knows what intrigues and plots may have been going on at Milan? There needs little to make poor people pa.s.s 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; that during his sojourn there, Lucy could return home without fear, and in the mean while he would procure her an asylum till all was arranged for the best.

Turning to the master and mistress of the house, they came forward; he renewed 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 G.o.d had sent them for a few days.

"Oh yes, my lord," replied the dame, with a manner which said more than this timid reply; but her husband, quite animated by the presence of such a man, by the desire to do himself honour on an occasion of such importance, studied to make a fine answer. He wrinkled his forehead, strained his eyes, and compressed his mouth, but nevertheless felt a confusion of ideas, which prevented him from uttering a syllable. But time pressed; the cardinal appeared to have interpreted his silence. The poor man opened his mouth, and said, "Imagine----" Not a word more could he say. His failure not only filled him with shame on that day, but ever after, the unfortunate recollection intruded itself to mar the pleasure of the great honour he had received. How many times, in thinking of this circ.u.mstance, did a crowd of words come to his mind, every one of which would have been better than "_Imagine!_" But the cavities of our brains are full enough of thoughts when it is too late to employ them.

The cardinal departed, saying, "May the blessing of Heaven rest on this house!"

That evening he asked the curate in what way it would be best to indemnify the tailor, who could not be rich, for his hospitality. The curate replied, that truly neither the profits of his trade, nor his income from some little fields that the good tailor possessed, would at this time have enabled him to be liberal to others; but from having saved something the few years previous, he was one of the most easy in circ.u.mstances in the district; that he could allow himself to exercise some hospitality without inconvenience, and that he would do it with pleasure; and that he was confident he would be hurt if money was offered to him.

"He has probably," said the cardinal, "some demands on people who are unable to pay."

"You may judge, my lord; the poor people pay with the overplus of the harvest; this year there has been no overplus; on the contrary, every one is behind in point even of necessities."

"Well, I take upon myself all these debts. You will do me the favour to obtain from him the memoranda, and cancel them."

"It may be a very large sum."