“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 apron 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 passed, but of a frightful peril, of an obscure adventure, of which the messenger knew not the circumstances, and could give no explanation, and for which she could find no clue from previous facts. “Ah, great God! 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 principal 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. God 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 God and the Virgin for him, that God 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 embarrassed 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 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 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, God 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 embarrassment. “Poor young woman,” said he, “God 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 lordship, 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 embarrassment 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 hissuperiors(oh, Agnes!); and passing 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 God 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 God has punished us.”
“Accept from his hand the chastisement 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, blushing, but in a firm voice.
“He was a peaceable youth, too peaceable, perhaps,” added Agnes; “your lordship 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 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; 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 God 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 circumstance, 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 circumstances 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.”
“So much the better. And perhaps you have but too many who are more miserable, having no debts, because they have no credit?”
“Oh yes! indeed too many! they do what they can; but how can they supply their wants in these hard times?”
“Have them clothed at my expense; it is true that it seems to be robbery to spend any thing this year, except for bread; but this is a particular case.”
We cannot finish our record of the history of this day without briefly relating the conduct of the Unknown. Before his second return to the castle, the report of his conversion had preceded him; it had spread through the valley, and excited surprise, anxiety, and numerous conjectures. As he approached the castle he made a sign to all thebravoeshe met to follow him: filled with unusual apprehension, but with their accustomed submission, they obeyed; their number increased every moment. Reaching the castle, he entered the first court, and there, resting on his saddle bow, in a voice of thunder he gave a loud call, the wonted signal which all habitually obeyed. In a moment those who were scattered about the castle hastened to join the troop collected around their leader.
“Go and wait for me in the great hall,” said he; as they departed, he dismounted from his beast, and leading it himself to the stable, thence approached the hall. The whispering which was heard among them ceased at his appearance; retiring to one corner they left a large space around him.
The Unknown raised his hand to enforce the silence that his presence alone had already effected; then raising his head, which yet was above that of any of his followers, he said, “Listen to me, all of you; and let no one speak, unless I ask him a question. My friends, the way which we have followed until to-day leads to hell. I do not wish to reproach you, I could not effect the important change, inasmuch as I have been your leader in our abominable career; I have been the most guilty of all; but listen to what I am about to say.
“God in his mercy has called me to a change of life, and I have obeyed his call. May this same God do as much for you! Know, then, and hold for certain, that I would rather now die than undertake any thing against his holy law. I recall all the iniquitous orders which I may have given any one of you; you understand me. And farther, I order you to do nothing which I have hitherto prescribed to you. Hold equally for certain, that no one can hereafter commit evil under my protection, and in my service. Those who will remain with me on these conditions, I shall regard as children. I should be happy, in the day of famine, to share with them the last mouthful that remained to me. To those who do not 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 never return, unless they repent and intend to lead a new life, and under such circumstances they shall be received with open arms. Think of it this night; to-morrow morning I will receive your answer, and then I will give you your orders. Now, every one to his post. May God, who has shown compassion towards me, incline your hearts to repentance and good dispositions.”
He ceased, and all kept silence. Although strange and tumultuous thoughts fermented in their minds, no indication of them was visible. They had been habituated to listen to the voice of their lord, as to a manifestation of absolute authority, to which it was necessary to yield implicit obedience. His will proclaimed itself changed, but not enfeebled: it did not therefore enter their minds, that because he was converted they might become bold in his presence, or reply to him as they would to another man. They regarded him as a saint, indeed, but a saint 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 the greater number) the affection of vassals. Their admiration partook of the nature of love, mingled with that respect which the most rebellious and turbulent spirits feel for a superior, whom they have voluntarily recognised as such. The sentiments he expressed were certainly hateful to their ears, but they knew they were not false, neither were they entirely strange to them. If their custom had been to make them subjects of pleasantry, it was not from disbelief of their verity, but to drive away, by jesting, the apprehensions the contemplation of them might otherwise have excited. And now, there was none among them who did not feel some compunction at beholding their power exerted over the invincible courage of their master. Moreover, some of them had heard the extraordinary intelligence beyond the valley, and had witnessed and related the joy of the people, the new feeling with which the Unknown was regarded by them, the veneration which had succeeded their former hatred—their former terror. They beheld the man whom they had never regarded without trembling, even when they themselves constituted, to a great degree, his strength; they beheld him now, the wonder, the idol of the multitude,—still elevated above all others, in a different manner, no doubt, but in one not less imposing,—always above the world, always the first. They were confounded, and each was doubtful of the course he should pursue. One reflected hastily where he could find an asylum and employment; another questioned with himself his power to accommodate himself to the life of an honest man; another, moved by what he had said, felt some inclination for it; and another still was willing to promise any thing so as to be entitled to the share of a loaf, which had been so cordially proffered, and which was so scarce in those days. No one, however, broke the silence. The Unknown, at the conclusion of his speech, waved his hand imperiously for them to retire: obedient as a flock of sheep, they all quietly left the hall. He followed them, and stopping in the centre of the court, saw them all branch off to their different stations. He returned into the castle, visited the corridors, halls, and every avenue, and, finding all quiet, he retired to sleep,—yes, to sleep, for he was very sleepy. In spite of all the urgent and intricate affairs in which he was involved, more than at any former conjuncture, he was sleepy. Remorse had banished sleep the night before; its voice, so far from being subdued, was still more absolute—was louder—yet he was sleepy. The order of his household so long established, the absolute devotion of his faithful followers, his power and means of exercising it, its various ramifications, and the objects on which it was employed, all tended to create uncertainty and confusion in his mind,—still he was sleepy.
To his bed then he went, that bed which the night before had been a bed of thorns; but first he knelt to pray. He sought, in the remotest corner of 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 shall define the sentiments that pervaded his soul at this return to the habits of happy innocence? He slept soundly.
The next morning, in the village of Lucy, and throughout all the territory of Lecco, nothing was talked of but herself, the Unknown, the archbishop, and another person, who, although generally desirous to be talked of, would willingly have been forgotten on this occasion,—we mean Don Roderick.
Not that, previous to this period, the villagers had not conversed much of his actions, in secret, to those in whom they had perfect confidence; but now they could no longer contain themselves, nor surpress many enquiries on the marvellous events in which two persons so famous had played a part. In comparison of these two personages, Signor Don Roderick appeared rather insignificant, and all agreed in rejoicing over the ill success of his iniquitous designs; but these rejoicings were still, in some measure, moderated by fears of thebravoesby whom he was surrounded.
A good portion of the public censure was bestowed on his friends and courtiers. It did not spare the Signorpodestà, always deaf and dumb and blind to the deeds of this tyrant, but these opinions were expressed in an under-tone, because thepodestàhad his officers. Such regard was not paid to DoctorAzzecca Garbugli, who had only histricksand hisverbiageto employ for his defence; and as to the whole tribe of sycophants, resembling him, they were so pointed at, and eyed askance, that for some time they thought it most prudent to keep themselves within doors.
Don Roderick, struck, as by a thunderbolt, with the unexpected intelligence, so different from that which he had been anticipating from day to day, kept himself shut up in his castle, alone with his bravoes, devouring his rage for the space of two days, and on the third set off for Milan. If there had only existed the murmurs of the people, notwithstanding things had gone so far, he would perhaps have remained expressly to brave them; but he felt himself compelled to quit the field of contest, by the certain information that the cardinal was coming to the village. The count, his uncle, who knew nothing of the story but what Attilio had told him, would certainly require him to be one of the first to visit the cardinal, in order to obtain in public the most distinguished reception from him. The count would require it, because it was an important opportunity for making known in what esteem the house was held by his powerful eminence. To escape such a dilemma, Don Roderick, having risen before the sun, threw himself into a carriage with Griso, and, followed by the rest of thebravoes, retired like a fugitive, like (if we may be permitted to elevate him by such a comparison), like Catiline from Rome, foaming with rage, and threatening a speedy return to accomplish his revenge.
Meanwhile the cardinal approached, visiting every day one of the parishes situated in the territory of Lecco. On the day he was expected in the village, great preparations were made for his reception. At the entrance of the village, near the cottage of Agnes, a triumphal arch was erected, constructed of wood, covered with moss and straw, and ornamented with green boughs of birch and holly. The front of the church was adorned with tapestry; from every window of the houses were suspended quilts and sheets, intended for drapery; every thing, in short, whether in good taste or bad, was displayed in honour of this extraordinary occasion. At the hour of vespers (which was the hour Frederick usually selected to arrive at the churches which he visited), those who had not gone to church, the old men, women, and the youngest of the children, went forth, in procession, to meet their expected guest, headed by Don Abbondio. The poor curate was sad in the midst of the public joy; the tumult bewildered him; the movement of so many people, before and behind, disturbed him; and, moreover, he was tormented by the secret apprehension that the women had tattled, and that he should be obliged to render an account of his conduct to the cardinal.
Frederick appeared at last, or rather the crowd appeared, in the midst of which was his litter, and the retinue surrounding it. The persons who followed Don Abbondio scattered and mingled themselves with the crowd, notwithstanding all his remonstrances; and he, poor man, finding himself deserted by them, went to the church, there to await the cardinal’s approach.
The cardinal advanced, bestowing benedictions with his hands, and receiving them in return from the mouths of the people, who were with difficulty kept back by his attendants. Being of the same village as Lucy, these peasants were desirous of rendering to the archbishop peculiar demonstrations of respect, but this was not practicable, inasmuch as, wherever he went, he was received with every possible honour. In the very commencement of his pontificate, at his first solemn entrance into the cathedral, the concourse had been so great that his life was in peril. Some gentlemen, who were near him, drew their swords to keep back and alarm the crowd. Such was the rude violence of the times, that even in the general disposition to do honour to their archbishop, they were on the point of crushing him: and this defence would not have been sufficient, if two priests, of great vigour and presence of mind, had not raised him in their arms, and carried him from the church door to the foot of the great altar. His very first entrance into the church, therefore, might be recorded amidst his pastoral labours and the dangers he had run.
Entering the church, the cardinal advanced to the altar, and after having prayed some time, he addressed, as was his custom, some words to the people, on his love for them, on his desire for their salvation, and how they should dispose their minds for the duties of the morrow. He then withdrew to the house of the curate, and among other questions which he put to him, he interrogated him with regard to the character and conduct of Renzo. Don Abbondio replied that he was rather choleric and obstinate: but as the cardinal made more special and precise enquiries, he was obliged to confess that he was an honest peaceable youth, and even he himself could not comprehend how he had committed at Milan the conduct which had been imputed to him.
“As to the young girl,” continued the cardinal, “do you think she can return now with safety to her house?”
“At present,” replied Don Abbondio, “she can come and remain for a while. I say, at present, but,” added he with a sigh, “your illustrious lordship should be always near at hand.”
“God is always present,” said the cardinal. “But I will use my efforts to secure a place of safety for her.”
Before dismissing Don Abbondio, he ordered him to send a litter, on the following day, for Lucy and her mother.
Don Abbondio went away quite pleased that the cardinal had talked to him of the young couple, without even alluding to his refusal to marry them. “He knows nothing of it,” said he; “Agnes has kept silence! wonderful! She will see him again, ’tis true, but she shall have further instructions from me, so she shall.” He little thought, poor man, that Frederick had only deferred the enquiry until he should have more leisure to learn the reasons of his conduct.
But the solicitude of the good prelate for the disposal of Lucy had been rendered useless, by a circumstance which we will relate.
The two females had as far as possible resumed, for the few days they had to pass under the hospitable roof of the tailor, their usual manner of life. As she had done at the monastery, Lucy, in a small chamber apart, employed herself in sewing; and Agnes, keeping much at home, remained for the most part with her daughter. Their conversations were affectionate and sorrowful; both were prepared for a separation, since the sheep could not dwell in the neighbourhood of the wolf. But how long was this separation to continue? The future was dark and inexplicable, but Agnes, notwithstanding, was full of agreeable anticipation. “After all,” said she, “if no irreparable misfortune has befallen Renzo, we shall soon hear from him. If he has found employment, (and who can doubt it?) and if he keeps the faith he has sworn to you, why cannot we go and live with him?” Her daughter felt as much sorrow in listening to her hopes, as difficulty in replying to them. She still kept her secret in her heart; and although troubled at the idea of concealment with so good a mother, she was nevertheless restrained by a thousand fears from communicating it. Her plans were, indeed, very different from those of her mother, or rather, she had none, having committed the future into the hands of Providence; she therefore endeavoured to change the subject, saying in general terms that her only hope was to be permanently re-united to her mother.
“Do you know why you feel thus?” said Agnes; “you have suffered so much, that it seems impossible to you that things can turn out happily. But let God work; and if—— Let a ray of hope come—a single ray, and then we shall see that you will think differently.”
Lucy and her mother entertained a lively friendship for their kind hosts, which was warmly reciprocated; and between whom can friendship exist more in its purity, than between the benefactor and the recipients of the benefit, when both have kind hearts! Agnes, especially, had long gossips with the mistress of the house, and the tailor afforded them much amusement by his tales and moral discourses; at dinner particularly he had always something to relate of the sword of Roland, or of the Fathers of the Thebaid.
At some miles’ distance from the village there dwelt a certain Don Ferrante, and Donna Prassede his wife; the latter was a woman of high birth, somewhat advanced in age, and exceedingly inclined to do good; which is surely the most praiseworthy employment one can be engaged on in this world; but which, indulged in without judgment, may be rendered hurtful, like all other good things. To do good, we must have correct ideas of good in itself considered, and this can be acquired only by control over our own hearts. Donna Prassede governed herself with her ideas, as some do with their friends; she had very few, but to these she was much attached. Among these few, were a number unfortunately a little narrow and unreasonable, and they were not those she loved the least. Thence it happened that she regarded things as good, which were not really so, and that she used means which were calculated to promote the very opposite of that which she intended; to this perversion of her intellect may also be attributed the fact, that she esteemed all measures to be lawful to her who was bent on the performance of duty. In short, with good intentions, her moral perceptions were in no small degree distorted. Hearing the wonderful story of Lucy, she was seized with a desire to know her, and immediately sent her carriage for the mother and daughter. Lucy, having no desire to go, requested the tailor to find some excuse for her; if they had beencommon people, who desired to make her acquaintance, the tailor would willingly have rendered her the service, but, under such circumstances, refusal appeared to him a species of insult. He uttered so many exclamations, such as, that it was not customary—that it was a high family—that it was out of the question to sayNoto such people—that it might make their fortune—and that, in addition to all this, Donna Prassede was a saint,—that Lucy was finally obliged to yield, especially as Agnes seconded the remonstrances and arguments of the tailor.
The high-born dame received them with many congratulations; she questioned and advised them with an air of conscious superiority, which was, however, tempered by so many soft and humble expressions, and mingled with so much zeal and devotion, that Agnes and Lucy soon felt themselves relieved from the painful restraint her mere presence had at first imposed on them. In brief, Donna Prassede, learning that the cardinal wished to procure an asylum for Lucy, and impelled by the desire to second, and at the same time to anticipate, his good intention, offered to take the young girl to her house, where there would be no other service required of her than to direct the labours of the needle or the spindle. She added, that she herself would inform the cardinal of the arrangement.
Besides the obvious and ordinary benefit conferred by her invitation, Donna Prassede proposed to herself another, which she deemed to be peculiarly important; this was to school impatience, and to place in the right path a young creature who had much need of guidance. The first time she heard Lucy spoken of, she was immediately persuaded that in one so young, who had betrothed herself to a robber, a criminal, a fugitive from justice such as Renzo, there must be some corruption, some concealed vice. “Tell me what company you keep, and I will tell you who you are.” The visit of Lucy had confirmed her opinion; she appeared, indeed, to be an artless girl, but who could tell the cause of her downcast looks and timid replies? There was no great effort of mind necessary to perceive that the maiden had opinions of her own. Her blushes, sighs, and particularly her large and beautiful eyes, did not please Donna Prassede at all. She regarded it as certain as if she had been told it by one having authority, that the misfortunes of Lucy were a punishment from Heaven for her connection with that villain, and a warning to withdraw herself from him entirely. That settled the determination to lend her co-operation to further so desirable a work; for as she frequently said to herself and others, “Was it not her constant study to second the will of Heaven?” But, alas! she often fell into the terrible mistake of taking for the will of Heaven, the vain imaginings of her own brain. However, she was on the present occasion very careful not to exhibit any of her proposed intentions. It was one of her maxims, that the first rule to be observed in accomplishing a good design, is to keep your motives to yourself.
Excepting the painful necessity of separation the offer appeared to both mother and daughter very inviting, were it only on account of the short distance from the castle to their village. Reading in each other’s countenance their mutual assent, they accepted with many thanks thekindness of Donna Prassede, who renewing her kind promises, said she would soon send them a letter to present to the cardinal. The two females having departed, she requested Don Ferrante to write a letter, who, being a literary and learned man, was employed as her secretary on occasions of importance. In an affair of this sort, Don Ferrante did his best, and he gave the original to his wife in order that she could copy it; he warmly recommended to her an attention to the orthography, as orthography was among the great number of things he had studied, and among the small number over which he had control in his family. The letter was forthwith copied and sent to the tailor’s house. These events occurred a few days before the cardinal had despatched a litter to bring the mother and daughter to their abode.
Upon their arrival they went to the parsonage; orders having been left for their immediate admittance to the presence of the cardinal. The chaplain, who conducted them thither, gave them many instructions with regard to the ceremony to be used with him, and the titles to be given him; it was a continual torment to the poor man to behold the little ceremony that reigned around the good archbishop in this respect. “This results,” he was accustomed to say, “from the excessive goodness of this blessed man—from his great familiarity.” And he added that he had “even heard people address him withYes, sir, andNo, sir!”
At this moment, the cardinal was conversing with Don Abbondio on the affairs of his parish; so that the latter had no opportunity to repeat his instructions to the females; however, in passing by them as they entered, he gave them a glance, to make them comprehend that he was well satisfied with them, and that they should continue, like honest and worthy women, to keep silence.
After the first reception, Agnes drew from her bosom the letter of Donna Prassede, and gave it to the cardinal, saying, “It is from the Signora Donna Prassede, who says that she knows your illustrious lordship well, my lord, as naturally is the case with great people. When you have read, you will see.”
“It is well,” said Frederick, after having read the letter, and extracted its meaning from the trash of Don Ferrante’s flowers of rhetoric. He knew the family well enough to be certain that Lucy had been invited into it with good intentions, and that she would be sheltered from the snares and violence of her persecutor. As to his opinion of Donna Prassede, we do not know it precisely; probably she was not a person he would have chosen for Lucy’s protectress; but it was not his habit to undo things, apparently ordered by Providence, in order to do them better.
“Submit, without regret, to this separation also, and to the suspense in which you are left,” said he. “Hope for the best, and confide in God! and be persuaded, that all that He sends you, whether of joy or sorrow, will be for your permanent good.” Having received the benediction which he bestowed on them, they took their leave.
Hardly had they reached the street, when they were surrounded by a swarm of friends, who were expecting them, and who conducted them in triumph to their house. Their female acquaintances congratulated them, sympathised with them, and overwhelmed them with enquiries. Learning that Lucy was to depart on the following morning, they broke forth in exclamations of regret and disappointment. The men disputed with each other the privilege of offering their services; each wished to remain for the night to guard their cottage, which reminds us of a proverb; “If you would have people willing to confer favours on you, be sure not to need them.” This warmth of reception served a little to withdraw Lucy from the painful recollections which crowded upon her mind, at the sight of her loved home.
At the sound of the bell which announced the commencement of the ceremonies, all moved towards the church. The ceremonies over, Don Abbondio, who had hastened home to see every thing arranged for breakfast, was told that the cardinal wished to speak with him. He proceeded to the chamber of his illustrious guest, who accosted him as he entered, with “Signor Curate, why did you not unite in marriage, Lucy to her betrothed?”
“They have emptied the sack this morning,” thought Don Abbondio, and he stammered forth, “Your illustrious lordship has no doubt heard of all the difficulties of that business. It has been such an intricate affair, that it cannot even now be seen into clearly. Your illustrious lordship knows that the young girl is here, only by a miracle; and that no one can tell where the young man is.”
“I ask if it is true, that, before these unhappy events, you refused to celebrate the marriage on the day agreed upon? and why you did so?”
“Truly—if your illustrious lordship knew—what terrible orders I received—” and he stopped, indicating by his manner, though respectfully, that it would be imprudent in the cardinal to enquire farther.
“But,” said Frederick, in a tone of much more gravity than he was accustomed to employ, “it is your bishop, who, from a sense of duty, and for your own justification, would learn from you, why you have not done that which, in the ordinary course of events, it was your strict duty to do?”
“My lord,” said Don Abbondio, “I do not mean to say,—but it appears to me, that as these things are now without remedy, it is useless to stir them up—However, however, I say, that I am sure your illustrious lordship would not betray a poor curate, because, you see, my lord, your illustrious lordship cannot be every where present, and I—I remain here, exposed—However, if you order me, I will tell all.”
“Speak; I ask for nothing but to find you free from blame.”
Don Abbondio then related his melancholy story, suppressing the name of the principal personage, and substituting in its place, “a great lord,”—thus giving to prudence the little that was left him in such an extremity.
“And you had no other motive?” asked the cardinal, after having heard him through.
“Perhaps I have not clearly explained myself. It was under pain of death that they ordered me not to perform the ceremony.”
“And this reason appeared sufficient to prevent the fulfilment of a rigorous duty?”
“I know my obligation is to do my duty, even to my greatest detriment; but when life is at stake——”
“And when you presented yourself to the church,” said Frederick, with increased severity of manner, “to be admitted to the holy ministry, were there any such reservations made? Were you told that the duties imposed by the ministry were free from every obstacle, exempt from every peril? Were you told that personal safety was to be the guide and limit of your duty? Were you not told expressly the reverse of all this? Were you not warned that you were sent as a lamb among wolves? Did you not even then know that there were violent men in the world, who would oppose you in the performance of your duty? He, whose example should be our guide, in imitation of whom we call ourselves shepherds, when he came on earth to accomplish the designs of his benevolence, did he pay regard to his own safety? And if your object be to preserve your miserable existence, at the expense of charity and duty, there was no necessity for your receiving holy unction, and entering into the priesthood. The world imparts this virtue, teaches this doctrine. What do I say? O shame! the world itself rejects it. It has likewise its laws, which prescribe good, and prohibit evil; it has also its gospel, a gospel of pride and hatred, which will not admit the love of life to be offered as a plea for the transgression of its laws. It commands, and is obeyed; but we, we children and messengers of the promise! what would become of the church, if your language was held by all your brethren? Where would she now be, if she had originally come forth with such doctrines?”
Don Abbondio hung down his head; he felt under the weight of these arguments as a chicken under the talons of a hawk, who holds him suspended in an unknown region, in an atmosphere he had never before breathed. Seeing that a reply was necessary, he said, more alarmed than convinced,—
“My lord, I have done wrong; since we should pay no regard to life, I have nothing more to say. But when one has to do with certain powerful people, who will not listen to reason, I do not see what is to be gained by carrying things with a high hand.”
“And know you not that our gain is to suffer for the sake of justice? If you are ignorant of this, what is it you preach? What do you teach? What is thegood newswhich you proclaim to the poor? Who has required this at your hand, to overcome force by force? Certainly you will not be asked at the day of judgment, if you have vanquished the powerful, for you have neither had the commission nor the means to do so. But, youwillbe asked, if you have employed the means which have been placed in your power, to do that which was prescribed to you, even when man had the temerity to forbid it.”
“These saints are odd creatures,” thought Don Abbondio; “extract the essence of this discourse, and it will be found that he has more at heart the love of two young people, than the life of a priest.” He would have been delighted to have had the conversation terminate here, but he well perceived that such was not the intention of the cardinal, who appeared to be waiting a reply, or apology, or something of the kind.
“I say, my lord,” replied he, “that I have done wrong—We cannot give ourselves courage.”
“And why, then, I might say to you, have you undertaken a ministry which imposes on you the task of warring with the passions of the world? But, I will rather say, how is it that you have forgotten, that where courage is necessary to fulfil the obligations of this holy vocation, the Most High would assuredly impart it to you, were you earnestly to implore it? Do you think the millions of martyrs had courage naturally? that they had naturally a contempt for life, young Christians who had just begun to taste its charms, children, mothers! All had courage, simply because courage was necessary, and they trusted in God to impart it. Knowing your own weakness, have you ever thought of preparing yourself for the difficult situations in which you might be placed? Ah! if, during so many years of pastoral care, you had loved your flock, (and how could you refrain from loving them?) if you had reposed in them your affections, your dearest cares, your greatest delights, you would not have failed in courage: love is intrepid; if you had loved those who were committed to your spiritual guardianship, those whom you call children—if you had really loved them, when you beheld two of them threatened at the same time with yourself. Ah! certainly, charity would have made you tremble for them, as the weakness of the flesh made you tremble for yourself. You would have humbled yourself before God for the first risings of selfish terror; you would have considered it a temptation, and have implored strength to resist it. But, you would have eagerly listened to the holy and noble anxiety for the safety of others, for the safety of your children; you would have been unable to find a moment of repose; you would have been impelled, constrained to do all that you could to avert the evil that threatened them. With what then has this love, this anxiety, inspired you? What have you done for them? How have you been engaged in their service?”
And he paused for a reply.
Don Abbondio uttered not a word. It must be confessed that we ourselves, who have nothing to fear but the criticisms of our readers, feel a degree of repugnance in thus urging the unfashionable precepts of charity, courage, indefatigable solicitude for others, and unlimited sacrifice of self. But the reflection that these things were said by a man who practised what he preached, encourages us to proceed in our relation.
“You do not answer,” resumed the cardinal. “Ah! if you had followed the dictates of charity and duty, whatever had been the result, you would now have been at no loss for a reply. Behold, then, what you have done; you having obeyed iniquity, regardless of the requirements of duty; you have obeyed her promptly; she had only to show herself to you, and signify her desire, and she found you ready at her call. But she would have had recourse to artifice with one who was on his guard against her, she would have avoided exciting his suspicion, she would have employed concealment, that she might mature at leisure her projects of treachery and violence; she has, on the contrary, boldly ordered you to infringe your duty, and keep silence; you have obeyed, you have infringed it, and you have kept silence. I ask you now, if you have done nothing more. Tell me if it is true, that you have advanced false pretences for your refusal, so as not to reveal the true motive——”
“They have told this also, the tattlers!” thought Don Abbondio, but as he gave no indication of addressing himself to speech, the cardinal pursued,—“Is it true, that you told these young people falsehoods to keep them in ignorance and darkness?—I am compelled, then, to believe it; it only remains for me to blush for you, and to hope that you will weep with me. Behold where it has led you, (merciful God! and you advanced it as a justification!) behold to what it has conducted you, this solicitude for your life! It has led you——(repel freely the assertion if it appear to you unjust: take it as a salutary humiliation if it is not) it has led you to deceive the feeble and unfortunate, to lie to your children!”
“This is the way of the world!” thought Don Abbondio again; “to this devil incarnate,” (referring to the Unknown,) “his arms around his neck; and to me, for a half lie, reproaches without end! But you are our superiors; of course you are right. It is my star, that all the world is against me, not excepting the saints.” He continued aloud,—“I have done wrong! I see that I have done wrong. But what could I do in so embarrassing a situation?”
“Do you still ask? Have I not told you? And must I repeat it? You should have loved, my son, you should have loved and prayed; you would then have felt that iniquity might threaten, but not enforce obedience; you would have united, according to the laws of God, those whom man desired to separate; you would have exercised the ministry these children had a right to expect from you. God would have been answerable for the consequences, as you were obeying His orders; now, since you have obeyed man, the responsibility falls on yourself. And what consequences, just Heaven! And why did you not remember that you had a superior? How would he now dare to reprimand you for having failed in your duty, if he did not at all times feel himself obliged to aid you in its performance? Why did you not inform your bishop of the obstacles which infamous power exerted to prevent the exercise of your ministry?”
“Just the advice of Perpetua,” thought Don Abbondio vexed, to whose mind, even in the midst of these touching appeals, the images which most frequently presented themselves, were those of the bravoes and Don Roderick, alive and well, and returning at some future time, triumphant, and inflamed with rage. Although the presence, the aspect, and the language of the cardinal embarrassed him, and impressed him with a degree of apprehension, it was, however, an embarrassment and an apprehension which did not subjugate his thoughts, nor prevent him from reflecting that, after all, the cardinal employed neither arms nor bravoes.
“Why did you not think,” pursued Frederick, “that if no other asylum was open to these innocent victims, I could myself receive them, and place them in safety, if you had sent them to me; sent them afflicted and desolate to their bishop; as therefore belonging to him, as the most precious part, I say not of his charge, but of his wealth! And as for you, I should have been anxious for you; I would not have slept until certain that not a hair of your head would be touched; and do you not suppose that this man, however audacious he may be, would have lost something of his audacity, when convinced that his designs were known by me, that I watched over them, and that I was decided to employ for your defence all the means within my power! Know you not, that if man promises too often more than he performs, he threatens also more than he dare execute? Know you not that iniquity does not depend solely on its own strength, but on the credulity and cowardice of others?”
“Just the reasoning of Perpetua,” thought Don Abbondio, without considering that this singular coincidence in judgment of Frederick Borromeo and his servant, was an additional argument against him.
“But you,” pursued the cardinal, “you have only contemplated your own danger. How is it possible that your personal safety can have appeared of importance enough to sacrifice every thing to it?”
“Because I saw them, I saw those frightful faces,” escaped from Don Abbondio. “I heard those horrible words. Your illustrious worship talks well, but you should have been in the place of your poor priest, and have had the same thing happen to you.”
No sooner had he uttered these words than he bit his tongue, perceiving that he had suffered himself to be overcome by vexation; he muttered in a low voice, “Now for the storm!” and raising his eyes timidly, he was astonished to see the cardinal, whom he never could comprehend, pass from the severe air of authority and rebuke, to that of a soft and pensive gravity.
“It is but too true,” said Frederick. “Such is our terrible and miserable condition! We exact rigorously from others, that which it may be we would not be willing to render ourselves; we judge, correct, and reprimand, and God alone knows what we would do in the same situation, what wehavedone in similar situations. But, woe be to me, if I take my weakness for the measure of another’s duty, for the rule of my instruction! Nevertheless it is certain, that while imparting precepts, I should also afford an example to my neighbour, and not resemble the pharisee, who imposes on others enormous burthens, which he himself would not so much as touch with his finger. Hear me then, my son, my brother; the errors of those in authority, are oftener better known to others than to themselves; if you know that I have, from cowardice, or respect to the opinions of men, neglected any part of my duty, tell me of it frankly, so that where I have failed in example, I may at least not be wanting in humble confession. Show me freely my weakness, and then words from my mouth will be more available, because you will be conscious that they do not proceed from me, but that they are the words of Him who can give to us both the necessary strength to do what He prescribes.”
“Oh! what a holy man, but what a troublesome one!” thought Don Abbondio. “He censures himself, and wishes that I should examine, criticise, and control evenhisactions!” He continued aloud,—“Oh! my lord jests, surely! Who does not know the courage and indefatigable zeal of your illustrious lordship?” “Yes,” added he to himself, “by far too indefatigable!”
“I do not desire praise that makes me tremble, because God knows my imperfections, and what I know of them myself is sufficient to humble me. But I would desire that we should humble ourselves together; I would desire that you should feel what your conduct has been, and that your language is opposed to the law you preach, and according to which you will be judged.”
“All turns against me. But these persons who have told your lordship these things, have they not also told you that they introduced themselves treacherously into my house, for the purpose of compelling me to perform the marriage ceremony, in a manner unauthorised by the church?”
“Theyhavetold me, my son; but what afflicts and depresses me, is to see you still seeking excuses; still excusing yourself by accusing others; still accusing others of that which should have formed a part of your own confession. Who placed these unfortunates, I do not say under the necessity, but under the temptation, to do what they have? Would they have sought this irregular method, if the legitimate way had not been closed to them? Would they have thought of laying snares for their pastor, if they had been received, aided, and advised by him? of surprising him, if he had not concealed himself? And you wish to make them bear the blame; and you are indignant that, after so many misfortunes, what do I say? in the very midst of misfortune, they have suffered a word of complaint to escape before their pastor and yours? that the complaints of the oppressed and the afflicted should be hateful to the world, is not astonishing; but to us! and what advantage would their silence have been to you? Would you have been the gainer from their cause having been committed entirely to the judgment of God? Is it not an additional reason to love them, that they have afforded you the occasion to hear the sincere voice of your pastor; that they have provided for you the means to understand more clearly, and quite as far as may be in your power, the great debt you have contracted to them? Ah! if they had even been the aggressors, I would tell you to love them for that very reason. Love them, because they have suffered, and do suffer; love them, because they are a part of your flock, because you yourself have need of pardon and of their prayers.”
Don Abbondio kept silence, but no longer from vexation, and an unwillingness to be persuaded; he kept silence from having more things to think of than to say. The words which he heard were unexpected conclusions, a new application of familiar doctrine. The evil done to his neighbour, which apprehension on his own account had hitherto prevented him from beholding in its true light, now made a novel and striking impression on his mind. If he did not feel all the remorse which the cardinal’s remonstrances were calculated to produce, he experienced at least secret dissatisfaction with himself and pity for others; a blending of tenderness and shame; as, if we may be permitted to use the comparison, a humid and crushed taper at first hisses and smokes, but by degrees receives warmth, and imparts light, from the flame of a great torch to which it is presented. Don Abbondio would have loudly accused himself, and deplored his conduct, had not the idea of Don Roderick still obtruded itself into his thoughts; however, his feeling was sufficiently apparent to convince the cardinal that his words had at last produced some effect.
“Now,” pursued Frederick, “one of these unfortunate beings is a fugitive afar off, the other on the point of departure; both have but too much reason to keep asunder, without any present probability of being re-united. Now, alas! they have no need of you; now, alas! you have no longer the opportunity to do them good, and our short foresight can assure us of but little of the future. But who knows, if God in his compassion is not preparing the occasion for you? Ah! do not let it escape; seek it, watch for it, implore it as a blessing.”
“I shall not fail, my lord—I shall not fail to do so, I assure you,” replied Don Abbondio, in a tone that came from the heart.
“Ah! yes, my son, yes!” cried Frederick with affectionate dignity; “Heaven knows that I would have desired to hold other converse with you. We have both had a long pilgrimage through life. Heaven knows how painful it has been to me, to grieve your old age by reproaches; how much more I should have loved to occupy the time of this interview in mutual consolation, and mutual anticipation of the heavenly hope which is so near our grasp! God grant that the language I have been obliged to hold may be useful to both of us! Act in such a manner, that He will not call me to account on the great and terrible day, for having retained you in a ministry of which you were unworthy. Let us redeem the time; the night is far spent; the spouse will not linger; let us keep our lamps trimmed and burning. Let us offer to God our poor and miserable hearts, that he may fill them with his love!” So saying he arose to depart; Don Abbondio followed him.
We must now return to Donna Prassede, who came, according to agreement, on the following morning, for Lucy, and also to pay her duty to the cardinal. Frederick bestowed many praises on Lucy, and recommended her warmly to the kindness of Donna Prassede; Lucy separated herself from her mother with many tears, and again bade farewell to her cottage and her village. But she was cheered by the hope of seeing her mother once more before their final departure, as Donna Prassede informed them that it was her intention to remain for a few days at her villa, and Agnes promised to visit it again to take a last farewell.
The cardinal was on the point of setting out for another parish, when the curate of the village near which the castle of the Unknown was situated, demanded permission to see him. He presented a small packet, and a letter from that lord, in which Frederick was requested to present to Lucy’s mother a hundred crowns of gold, to serve as a dowry for the maiden, or for any other purpose she might desire. The Unknown also requested him to tell them, that if ever they should be in need of his services, the poor girl knew but too well the place of his abode, and as for him, he should consider it a high privilege to afford her protection and assistance. The cardinal sent immediately for Agnes, and informed her of the commission he had received. She heard it with equal surprise and joy.
“God reward this signor!” said she; “your illustrious lordship will thank him in our name, but do not say a word of the matter to any one, because we live in a world—you will excuse me, I know a man like your lordship does not tattle about such things, but—you understand me.”
Returning to her house, she shut herself up in her chamber, and untied the packet; although she was prepared for the sight, she was filled with wonder at seeing in her own power and in one heap such a quantity of those coins which she had rarely ever seen before, and never more than one at a time. She counted them over and over again, and wrapping them carefully in a leather covering, concealed them under one corner of her bed. The rest of the day was employed in reverie and projects for the future, and desires for the arrival of the morrow; the night was passed in restless dreams, and vain imaginings of the blessings to be produced by this gold; at break of day, she arose, and departed for the villa of Donna Prassede.
The repugnance Lucy had felt to mention her vow, had not all diminished, but she resolved to overcome it, and to disclose the circumstance to her mother in this conversation, which would probably be the last they should have for a long time.
No sooner were they left alone, than Agnes, with an animated countenance, but in a low voice, said, “I have great news to tell you,” and she related her unexpected good fortune.
“God bless this signor,” said Lucy; “you have now enough to live comfortably yourself, and also to benefit others.”
“Oh! yes, we can do a great deal with this money! Listen, I have only you, that is, I have only you two in the world, for from the moment that Renzo first addressed you, I have considered him as my son. We will hope that no misfortune has befallen him, and that we shall soon hear from him. As for myself, I would have wished to lay my bones in my own country, but now that you cannot stay here on account of this villain, (oh! even to think that he was near me, would make me dislike any place!) I am quite willing to go away. I would have gone with you to the end of the earth before this good fortune, but how could we do it without money? The poor youth had indeed saved a few pence, of which the law deprived him, but in recompence God has sent us a fortune. So then, when he has informed us that he is living, and where he is, and what are his intentions, I will go to Milan for you—yes, I will go for you. Formerly I would not have dreamt of such a thing, but misfortune gives courage and experience. I have been to Monza, and I know what it is to travel. I will take with me a man of resolution; for instance, Alessio di Maggianico; I will pay the expense, and—do you understand?”
But perceiving that Lucy, instead of exhibiting sympathy with her plans, could with difficulty conceal her agitation and distress, she stopped in the midst of her harangue, exclaiming, “What is the matter? are you not of my opinion?”
“My poor mother!” cried Lucy, throwing her arms around her neck, and concealing on her bosom her face, bathed in tears.
“What is the matter?” said Agnes, in alarm.
“I ought to have told you sooner, but I had not the heart to do it. Have pity on me.”
“But speak, speak then.”
“I cannot be the wife of that unfortunate youth.”
“Why? how?”
Lucy, with downcast looks and flowing tears, confessed at last the vow which she had made. She clasped her hands, and asked pardon of her mother for having concealed it from her, conjuring her to speak of it to no one, and to lend her aid to enable her to fulfil it.
Agnes was overwhelmed with consternation; she would have been angry with her daughter for so long maintaining silence towards her, had not the grave thoughts that the circumstance itself excited, stifled all feeling of resentment. She would have blamed her for her vow, had it not appeared to her to be contending against Heaven; for Lucy described to her again, in more lively colours than before, that horrible night, her utter desolation, and unexpected preservation! Agnes listened attentively; and a hundred examples that she had often heard related, that sheherselfeven had related to her daughter, of strange and horrible punishments for violated vows, came to her memory. “And what wilt thou do now?” said she.
“It is with the Lord that care rests; the Lord and the holy Virgin. I have placed myself in their hands; they have never yet abandoned me, they will not abandon me now that——The favour I ask of God, the only favour, after the safety of my soul, is to be restored to you, my beloved mother! He will grant it, yes, he will grant it. That fatal day——in the carriage——Oh! most holy Virgin! Those men——who would have thought I should be the next day with you?”
“But why not tell your mother at once?”
“Forgive me, I had not the heart——What use was there in afflicting you sooner?”
“And Renzo?” said Agnes, shaking her head.
“Ah!” cried Lucy, starting, “I must think no more of the poor youth. God has not intended——You see it appears to be his will that we should separate. And who knows?——But no, no; the Lord will preserve him from every danger, and render him, perhaps, happier without me.”
“But, nevertheless, if you had not bound yourself for ever, provided no misfortune has happened to Renzo, with this money, I would have found a remedy for all our other evils.”
“But, my mother, would this money have been ours if I had not passed that terrible night? It is God’s will that all should be thus; his will be done!” And her voice became inarticulate through tears.
At this unexpected argument, Agnes maintained a mournful silence. After some moments, Lucy, suppressing her sobs, resumed,—“Now that the thing is done, we must submit cheerfully; and you, dear mother, you can aid me, first in praying to the Lord for your poor daughter, and then it is necessary that Renzo should know it. When you ascertain where he is, have him written to, find a man,—your cousin Alessio, for instance, who is prudent and kind, who has always wished us well, and who will not tattle. Make Alessio write to him, and inform him of the circumstance as it occurred, where I was, and how I suffered; tell him that God has ordered it thus, and that he must set his heart at rest; that, as for me, I can never be united to any one. Make him understand the matter clearly; when he knows that I have promised the Virgin——he always has been pious——And you, as soon as you hear from him, get some one to write to me, let me know that he is safe and well——and, nothing more.”
Agnes, with much emotion, assured her daughter that all should be done as she desired.
“I would say something more; that which has befallen the poor youth, would never have occurred to him, if he had never thought of me. He is a wanderer, a fugitive; he has lost all his little savings; he has been deprived of every thing he possessed, poor fellow! and you know why—and we, we have so much money! Oh! mother, since the Lord has sent us wealth, and since the unfortunate——you regard him as your son, do you not? Ah! divide it, share it with him! Endeavour to find a safe man, and send him the half of it. God knows how much he may need it!”
“That is just what I was thinking of,” replied Agnes. “Yes, I will do it certainly. Poor youth! And why did you think I was so pleased with the money, if it were not——but—I came here well pleased,’tis true; but, since matters are so, I will send it to him. Poor youth! he also——I know what I mean. Certainly money gives pleasure to those who have need of it; but this money—Ah! it is not this that will make him prosper.”
Lucy returned thanks to her mother for her prompt and liberal accordance with her request, so fervently, that an observer would have imagined her heart to be still devoted to Renzo, more than she herself was aware of.
“And without thee, what shall I do—I, thy poor mother?” said Agnes, weeping in her turn.
“And I, without you, my dear mother? and in a house of strangers, at Milan? But the Lord will be with us both, and will re-unite us. In eight or nine months we shall see each other again; let us leave it to him. I will incessantly implore this favour from the Virgin; if I had any thing more to offer her, I would not hesitate; but she is so compassionate, she will surely grant my prayer.”
The mother and daughter parted with many tears, promising to see each other again, the coming autumn, at the latest, as if it depended on themselves!
A long time elapsed before Agnes heard any thing of Renzo; neither message nor letter was received from him; the people of the village were as ignorant concerning him as herself.
She was not the only one whose enquiries had been fruitless; it was not a mere ceremony in the cardinal Frederick, when he promised Lucy and Agnes, to inform himself of the history and fate of Renzo; he fulfilled that promise, by writing immediately to Bergamo for the purpose. While at Milan, on his return from visiting his diocese, he received a reply, in which he was informed that little was known of the young man; that he had made, it was true, a short sojourn in such a place, but that one morning he had suddenly disappeared; that a relation of his, with whom he had lived while there, knew not what had become of him; he thought that he had probably enlisted for the Levant, or had passed into Germany, or, which was most likely, that he had perished in crossing the river. It was added, however, that should any more definite intelligence be received concerning him, his illustrious lordship should immediately be informed of it.
These reports eventually travelled to Lecco, and reached the ears of Agnes. The poor woman did her best to ascertain the truth of them; but she was kept in a state of suspense and anxiety by the contradictory accounts which were given, and which were, in fact, all without foundation.
The governor of Milan, lieutenant-general under Don Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova, had complained bitterly to the lord resident of Venice at Milan, that a robber, a villain, an instigator of pillage and massacre, the famous Lorenzo Tramaglino, had been received in the Bergamascan territory. The resident replied, that he knew nothing of the matter, but that he would write to Venice for information concerning it, in order to give some explanation to his Excellency.
It was a maxim at Venice to encourage the tendency of the Milanese workmen in silk, to establish themselves in the Bergamascan territory, by making them find it to their advantage to do so. For this reason, Bortolo was warned confidentially, that Renzo was not safe in his present residence, and that he would do wisely to place him in some other manufactory, and even cause him to change his name for a while. Bortolo, who was quick of apprehension, made no objections, related the matter to his cousin, and taking him to another place fifteen miles off, he presented him, under the name ofAntonio Rivolta, to the master of the manufactory, who was a native of Milan, and moreover his old acquaintance. He, although the times were hard, did not require much entreaty to induce him to receive a workman so warmly recommended by an old friend. He saw reason afterwards to congratulate himself on the acquisition, although, at first, the young man appeared rather heedless, because, when they calledAntonio, he scarcely ever answered.
A short time after, an order arrived from Venice to the captain of Bergamo, to inform himself, and send word to government, whether there was not within his jurisdiction, and particularly in such a village, such an individual. The captain having obeyed in the best manner he could, transmitted a reply in the negative, which was transmitted to the resident at Milan, in order that he should transmit it to Don Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova.
There were not wanting inquisitive people, who enquired of Bortolo why the young man had left him. The first time the question was put to him, he simply replied, “He has disappeared.” To relieve himself, however, from the most persevering, he framed the stories we have already related, at the same time offering them as mere reports that he had heard; without, however, placing much reliance on them.