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