IV
IT was more than a year after, that, one sunny August day, the Abbé de Ronceray alighted from the diligence as it stopped before the great stone gate of a white-walled convent in Provence. The air was soft, as Provence air is, and the sky was of a deep, deep blue, against which the masses of purplish woods showed darkly. The road was white and clean, and over everything grew roses of a rich red and a richer white and the palest pink,—all rioting in the beauty of the summer time.
The abbé had aged a little in that year, but his eyes were as kind as ever, and his carriage as soldierlike. He walked slowly down the avenue lined with tall Lombardy poplars, standing in ranks, like soldiers, toward the low, rambling convent building. There wasa sweet stillness over everything,—that peculiar quiet and absence of alarms which characterizes places from which the tumultuous world is excluded. The abbé’s thoughts were decidedly optimistic. The country had quieted down under the rule of the Corsican, and the abbé had no doubt, like all the rest of the Bourbon followers, that, after Napoleon’s day, France would again call for her rightful king, and he pleased himself mightily with the notion. Meanwhile, it was pleasanter living in France, even under the Corsican’s rule, than anywhere on earth,—for exile is hard upon your true Frenchman. He had served his term of duty with the Comte d’Artois, and had been heartily glad when he was excused from further attendance, for a time at least, and some other patient abbé had taken his place.
As he neared the open door in the middle of the sunny, whitewashed convent walls, he began to be a little eager respecting the person he was to see.
“Who would have thought Lady Betty Stair would ever be a religious! She seemed born to be of a court—her little feet seemed made for white satin slippers only, and dancing was more natural to her than walking. Ah, those Highland dances she used to do so like a sprite—and De Bourmont—”
The abbé shook his head and sighed. That chance word he let fall that night at Holyrood lay heavy on his conscience. He had made a long journey to confess it, and when told he had committed no sin, only an unfortunate inadvertence, his conscience was not altogether eased. For many years he had harbored no suspicion of the identity of the man who came to him that October evening in 1789, and in darkness and in whispers confessed having run Angus Macdonald through the body, when called to account for some slight to the Scotchman’s young sister. Of late, though, he was haunted by the thought that it was Bastien. Lady Betty Stair evidentlyknew who it was, but her cry, “My heart is broken!” seemed grotesquely out of place concerning Bastien, whom she notoriously hated. Being well skilled in the human heart, the abbé had seen how things were in the old days between De Bourmont and Lady Betty Stair; but, like everybody else, he was astounded when Lady Betty quietly left Holyrood, a few days after De Bourmont’s departure, and the next heard of her, she had entered the novitiate of the Sisters of Mercy. Scarcely less of a change had come over De Bourmont,—he, once the most careless, debonair young spirit in the world,—now, a silent, serious, determined soldier, without a hope or an aspiration beyond his duty. It was all very puzzling, and the abbé had not cleared it up when he pulled the convent bell and heard it clang through the building in the quiet of the August afternoon. The abbé, bowing low to the portress, asked to see the superior, and wasshown into the convent parlor to await her. It was so calm, so peaceful—and there were so many roses! They even climbed through the window, and their laughing faces peered over the stone sill. Presently the superior entered, and she and the abbé, having known each other long before the troubles, were delighted to meet once more; and to show her appreciation of the honor of the visit she took him into the convent garden, where a lay sister served seed cake and mulberry wine to him. The abbé crumbled his cake and made a heroic effort to drink the wine; but it was too much for his politeness and his charity combined. However, the superior, intent on hearing of all their mutual friends, did not remark this. After a while the abbé said:—
“I desire, after paying my respects to you, dear mother, to see Sister Claire, who is also an old friend of mine, despite the difference in our ages. She was in attendance upon their Royal Highnessesat Holyrood, and she was then Lady Betty Stair.”
“Ah, Sister Claire! Well, Monsieur l’Abbé, I can only say that the more of those fine ladies who come to us, the better. They have already served so hard an apprenticeship to the rule of the world, that ours seems simple enough to them. They find the hardest life of a religious easy by comparison with what society exacted of them. They always turn out our bravest sisters; they fear nothing.”
The abbé nodded his head with pleased approval at this.
“True, very true. It was not of the world that it was said, ‘For My yoke is easy, and My burden is light.’”
“And Sister Claire is no exception to the rest. She is so courageous—ready to do anything, to go anywhere—depend upon it, Monsieur l’Abbé, there is something in blood, after all.”
The mother superior said this as if it were a highly original remark, andthe abbé smiled,—he felt sure, whatever Lady Betty Stair professed to be, she was that with all her heart. And in a little while the mother superior arose to send Sister Claire to him, and presently he heard a quick, light step tripping down the flagged walk under the lilac-trees behind him. It gave him a weird sensation; he felt as if he were in the long gallery at Holyrood, and Lady Betty Stair was tripping toward him in little high-heeled red slippers, and she would appear before him in a moment in a gay little white gown, and make him a low courtesy as in the old days; and he did not come out of his day dream until he saw Sister Claire standing close by him, her face framed in white, and her graceful figure not wholly concealed by the habit of the Sisters of Mercy.
The abbé’s first idea was, that Lady Betty had grown taller and more beautiful than he could ever have dreamed. In place of her charming prettiness wasa lofty and touching beauty. Her old spirit was not gone,—there was the same gleam in her eyes, the same color in her cheeks, but glorified by the dignity of self-sacrifice. She was so glad to see the abbé that she squeezed his hand tightly in her two small palms; and then sat down by him on the bench. Both of them were a little shaken, and a diamond drop or two hung upon Sister Claire’s lashes.
“How kind you were to come!” she cried; and the abbé noticed, even in her voice, the magic change. It had always been sweet, but now it was thrilling. And he felt sure, in one minute, that whatever might have been the storms through which she had passed, now, at least, she was at peace.
“Tell me about yourself, my child,” he asked.
“There is not much to tell—only, that I have to-day obtained the desire of my heart. I have always longed tohelp our dear, brave soldiers in the field, and I was so afraid I would be made to teach, or to nurse the rich when they are ill, or something really hard. But to-day it is settled—I am to be with an ambulance—not in charge—for I have no experience yet—but I am to do what I have longed to do. I think my fighting blood must make me yearn to help our poor soldiers,—and God has been so good to me in letting me do it.”
“I congratulate you, my child. Nothing is nobler or more useful. You will perhaps find many old acquaintances among the officers, who will be of help to you.”
“I shall make them all help me,” she cried, nodding her head very much as of old. Then she began to ask after the Royal Highnesses both of them had served, and after many other persons they both knew. She could give him news of Madame Mirabel, who was well and happy in beingstill allowed to follow exiled royalty; and Monsieur Bastien, she said, smiling, had married the widow of a rich contractor. The abbé’s tongue was well under control, but his countenance remained expressive. Something in his look told Sister Claire that the subject of Bastien was unpleasing; and then she asked, quite calmly and naturally, “And Monsieur de Bourmont, what has become of him?”
The abbé started a little, but, seeing her quite composed, though a little pale, answered her in the most matter-of-fact way imaginable.
“A major of artillery. He frankly avowed his royalist principles to General Bonaparte, who assured him it should not stand in the way of his promotion, and it has not. But you would scarcely know him now, he is so changed.”
“How, Monsieur l’Abbé?” asked Sister Claire, turning still paler, but not losing her calmness.
“Grave, quiet, taciturn. You remember what a gay dare-devil he was once? He looks many years older, and in a little more than a year he has grown as gray as I am. He is, however, a useful and brilliant officer.”
“A useful and brilliant officer!” repeated Sister Claire, dreamily. “Then he ought to be content. None of those who live in the world can hope to be more than that.”
Then there was a little pause. The abbé felt a slight awkwardness in speaking of De Bourmont before her who had once been the Lady Betty Stair. And then a new courage leaped into Sister Claire’s glowing eyes, and she said, after a moment:—
“Monsieur l’Abbé, I wish to tell you something about Monsieur de Bourmont, which you may at some time convey to him, and it may give him comfort. You will understand that I ask you to regard what I tell you as a sacred confidence. You remember, nodoubt, the terrible circumstances of the death of my only brother, Angus Macdonald, of the Scottish Guard?”
“Quite well, my child. It was well impressed upon my memory.”
Sister Claire, for the first time, faltered a little, and when she resumed, her voice was tremulous.
“I never associated Monsieur de Bourmont with that tragedy of my youth until—until just before I left Holyrood Palace. But I found out—quite by accident—one of those terrible accidents of life—that—that—Monsieur de Bourmont killed my brother.” Sister Claire stopped, sighed, and passed her hand over her pale face.
“But Monsieur de Bourmont did not kill your brother,” replied the abbé, quietly.
Sister Claire shook her head, and said, in a tone of piercing sadness:—
“Ah, Monsieur l’Abbé, you have forgotten. It was from you yourself I heard the words, ‘My first penitentwas a murderer;’ and the first time I ever saw Monsieur de Bourmont at Holyrood, he said, ‘I was the Abbé de Ronceray’s first penitent.’”
“He was wrong. He was not my first penitent; he was my second. I was locked up alone in the room with the murderer when Monsieur de Bourmont arrived, and the confession was made me by that miserable man before Monsieur de Bourmont came near me. He, too, went to confession for the first time in many years, and I recall he said, at the time, that he was my first penitent,—I had been his superior officer, you may remember,—and I did not contradict him; but it was a mistake.”
There was a long pause after this, and the abbé carefully avoided looking at Sister Claire. Presently he continued:—
“I was not present when he made the assertion which so misled you, else I would have contradicted him then.”
A still longer pause followed, and the abbé heard Sister Claire say to herself:—
“Bastien was the man who killed my brother.”
The old priest seemed not to hear Sister Claire’s words. He only said, in a mildly vexed tone:—
“How well should one guard the tongue! And how unguarded was mine! I think the Evil One must have been at my elbow when I made that indiscreet remark. Forget it, my child!”
He still kindly looked away from Sister Claire, and began to speak of resignation under sorrows, and those other commonplaces which wait upon human misery. His voice sounded far away to Sister Claire. It seemed to come from a great distance,—beyond the convent wall, with its wealth of roses; beyond the fields and the vineyards, where the shadows lay long in the declining sun. After a long, long while,some faint words escaped her. She tried to speak calmly, but her words were half-sobbed out:—
“I am glad—more glad than I can say—that Monsieur de Bourmont is not, as I thought, guilty of my brother’s blood. But I think it is right he should know the mistake—the cruel mistake I was under. Tell him so, I beg of you; and tell him also that I ask his pardon for ever suspecting him of such a thing.”
“I will see him and repeat to him every word you ask me,” replied the abbé.
Then they both rose, and involuntarily walked down the flagged path toward the door. Sister Claire was struggling with her agitation, but she was conquering it. Presently she spoke again.
“When I left Holyrood—suddenly, Monsieur l’Abbé, you may remember—I wrote a few lines of farewell to Monsieur de Bourmont. I did not tellhim why I left,—he does not know to this day.”
The old abbé knew well enough what her incoherent words meant; he supplied the meaning without the least trouble. When, at last, he felt it was safe to look at Sister Claire, he began to believe that, after all, nothing could be better than what was. De Bourmont had done heroic things, and Sister Claire would do things equally heroic.
“Remember, my child,” he said, “the believer who puts his hand to the plough—”
“Let him not look back,” continued Sister Claire, in a thrilling voice. “Much better—much better to go on. Say to Monsieur de Bourmont that I hope he will be happy; and I shall not be—unhappy.”
“‘Tell him so, I beg of you.’”
“‘Tell him so, I beg of you.’”
“No; you will not be unhappy,” replied the abbé. He was exalted enough to see that Sister Claire had before her a great and useful life, and such people are to be envied, notpitied. They stood together at the convent door with clasped hands. It was a solemn parting, for each felt it was for all time.
“Good-by, my child. You will be happy,” were the abbé’s parting words. Sister Claire did not speak, but stood at the door watching his tall, thin, but still soldierly figure as it disappeared down the poplar-bordered lane. Purple shadows were falling upon the landscape, and the scent of the roses grew almost painfully sweet. Sister Claire lifted a pale, glorified face toward the opaline sky, where a new moon hung low, like a silver lamp, and her lips moved in prayer. Suddenly a bell clanged loudly four times behind her. It was her number—she was needed. She turned to go, and met the superior face to face.
“You look pale, sister,” said the superior, kindly. “These visits from the outside world are sometimes agitating. Have you heard bad news?”
“No, I have not, mother; I have heard very good news,” answered Sister Claire. “A person whom I deeply loved, I thought had been guilty of a crime; and I have this day, this hour, found that he is innocent,”—and she went upon her task with a face like an angel’s.