CHAPTER XXVI.

A MOUNTAIN IDYL, OR AN ALPINE ROMANCE.

"About eight months ago at last Easter-tide, and while the ladies of

Sainte Marie were attending mass in their little chapel, situated

about a quarter of a mile east from the road by which you descend to

Italia, a traveller was carried into their midst more dead than alive,

in a faint, having been struck down by the fell hand of disease

suddenly, and while making his way over the mountains; the hireling

who drove the conveyance had carried him in, well knowing the convent

and hospital to be a harbour of rest for the sick and weary, having

deposited his living freight upon one of the rude benches of the

chapel, bringing also his luggage, left him in God and our Lady's

hands. The mother superior at the close of mass, hastily summoned the

strong-armed portress, who with the assistance of the officiating

priest, carried him to the adjoining hospital. You all doubtless

observed traces of unusual beauty in Brother Thomas, but in the

emaciated form you have seen, can form no conception of his

comeliness, ere wasted by slow lingering fever; yes! he was handsome,

wondrously so. In critical cases of illness, the mother is wont to

call me to aid, I having studied the science of healing in the great

schools of Europe and England, ere taking the vows of our order; in

the character of physician I saw much of Monsieur--I mean Brother

Thomas. As a penance for evil, wrought by him upon mankind, he has

permitted me to tell his story, but as he is dead to his own former

world, and as a punishment, to no more speak his name. Suffice it to

say he is a man of culture, a man of letters. You have heard his

voice, and he was born among the great. Alas! when one sees to what

base ends education is applied plied, one is inclined to regret the

early days. At one time in the strangers illness, he was so nearly

passing through the valley of the Shadow of Death, as to make it

incumbent upon me to open his luggage in order to ascertain his name

and address, whereby to communicate with his friends; in an iron box I

was horror-struck to find volume after volume, his own work, which

rivalled Voltaire in its teachings. I trembled to think of such

godless productions within the walls of a holy convent and of the

awful responsibility resting upon myself; should I allow such

instruments of evil to exist? did it not seem providential, my being

placed in such a position as to be able in a few minutes, by the aid

of fire, to destroy the labour of years, and so give to the church

another victory over Satan?

"I saw him from time to time, and as it proved to be a low wasting

fever, he was with the sisters four long months. Among the nuns who

attend the sick, is a beautiful young English girl, of patrician face

and mien. And now a word of her; eighteen years ago, it was a _fete_

day at Rome, and among the seductions offered to the senses of man,

was that of the stage; one of your most gifted of English stars held

men chained in fetters wrought by her beauty and talent, night after

night, in their boxes at the theatre, while the priests of the Lord

wept at the altar, because of the deserted sanctuary; but it was

carnival time, and men, at that season, forget the God who gave them

power to enjoy. In one of the churches, at midnight, a lady closely

veiled, entered, carrying a bundle, and going up to the altar, without

reverence and in haste, deposited her burden at the foot of the cross.

The officiating priest directed one of the sextons to follow her in

haste, but the lady was too quick for him. A carriage was in waiting,

which a gentleman with hat over brow, and muffled about throat,

speedily drove off, almost before the lady was seated; they were soon

lost in the maddening crowd, for humanity held high revel; the jester

was abroad, and theatre, with amusement and music hall, poured forth

their devotees, though the ball, both in palace and street, would be

kept rolling all night. The emissaries of the church learned that your

star of the London stage left Rome closely veiled, and attended by a

stranger, a gentleman, at midnight. Enough said; only this, that her

business manager and waiting woman had been sent on to Venice, the

next scene of triumph, the morning of the same day. The child, a

lovely girl infant, wore robes of wealth, rich muslin and lace, and

was lolled in a carriage rug of the skin of the seal, five hundred

pounds, in English gold, was pushed loosely into the bosom of her

dress, and three lines of writing were found there also, which read as

follows: 'Communicate, in case of infant's death, with ----' giving

name of banking house at London; 'until that time we have instructions

to pay L200 yearly, for her benefit, _if not_ annoyed by efforts to

ascertain her parentage.' That child is the young Saxon nun, now at

the convent of Ste. Marie; a convent has been ever her home, and she

loves its life, early showing a strong inclination for the study of

medicine, for the past five years she has been an apt pupil of mine;

with great beauty, cleverness, and persuasive manner, she, at the

sick-bed, has gained already many souls within the true pale. And now,

to continue of the illness of Monsieur, now Brother Thomas, as I have

already made you aware, a low fever caused him to remain at the

convent for the space of four months. Sister Fidele, a French nun,

shared the fatigue and duty of ministering to the sick man's wants,

with the young Saxon sister, whose life I have told you of. She is

with us Sister Faith; a name given to her by his Holiness, Pope Pius,

her child-like belief and peaceful beauty of expression, suggesting

it.

"But to proceed, Sister Fidele, seeing her patient was ever restless

and unsatisfied during the absence of Sister Faith, informed the

Mother Abbess, saving: 'He is a heretic, mother, and if you permit

Sister Faith to be more with him her prayers, zeal and gentle pious

converse may impress his godless soul.'

"Thus it was that Sister Faith spent all her time not devoted to

necessary rest at the bedside of Monsieur. But, alas for the weakness

of man, instead of the piety of her teachings impressing his soul, or

the sacredness of her office shielding her from such passions, her

great beauty had kindled in his heart the flame of a moral love. I as

her father confessor learned of the unlawful words spoken to her; my

indignation and sorrow were great. But when she assured me that to her

he was only a soul to be saved, that her life was only happy in doing

good for the beloved Church, that no earthly love could ever enter her

soul; moreover, that she firmly believed the stranger was beginning to

feel the beauties of our holy faith I abandoned my resolve to bring

him hither, and instead left him in her hands. At first he tried every

fascination of which he was master to make her love him and fly with

him. I need not tell you without avail. Then her gentle piety seemed

to have touched his heart. He permitted her to send for me. I obeyed

the summons joyfully, for I well knew what a triumph over Satan his

conversion would be, and his own wish or consent to see me made me

hopeful. We conversed by the hour on knotty theological questions, he

talking well and seeming at times half persuaded to be a Christian,

but as if too proud to humble himself. The blessed saints made

intercession for him, for our prayers were heard; and I had the great

triumph of baptising and administering to him the blessed sacrament of

the Holy Eucharist. After he had received he begged of me a private

interview, and then implored of me to give him Sister Faith to wife.

He said her great faith and gentle converse had made him think, 'If

these things be, how great is my condemnation.' It was she who had

taught him to say or think it possible he might ever say: 'Whereas I

was blind I now see.' He said he had great wealth, and if she was his

they would give much gold to the Church.

"But I could not grant his wish. Six months before his advent amongst

us our sweet-faced sister had taken, the black veil; had she been in

her novitiate I might by personal application to his Holiness have

granted his prayer. He bowed his head in grief. I told him of the

unchanging vow of celibacy of priest and nun, and of the immovableness

of the Church; I feared he would have a relapse and removed him

hither, where he has since taken our vows, and is now a brother. You

have heard his wondrous power of song, and, as I told you, goes soon

to Paris. He grieves yet to the very heart that Sister Faith cannot be

his, but his penances are severe, and I am in hopes the saints will

strengthen him to subdue the flesh altogether to the spirit; 'tis so

new to him to sing the songs of the Church that he practices at

whatever hour allowed him; but has been anxious to destroy his infidel

writings that I have given him an hour to-day and tonight at midnight

for the work.

"Such, noble guests, is a page in our new brother's life," concluded

the priest.

"And a most interesting page, reverend father," said Lady Esmondet.

"What a checkered life his has been," said Lionel thoughtfully, as

they wended their way from the quiet seclusion of the monastery out to

the carriage which was to convey them once more to the busy life of

the world.

"Yes, none more so," said the priest; "how kind is Providence to lead

this wayward soul at last, and in its great pride to the cross, and

through the piety of a young maiden."

Here the heavy, iron gate of the garden is reached and they bid the

hospitable, though austere, monk adieu.

"Could we see the beautiful Sister Faith?" enquired Vaura; "if we in

our descent into Italy, call at the convent of Ste. Marie, I feel so

interested in her, she deserves perfect happiness; do you think

reverend Father, that she is so?"

"Your own lovely face, Mademoiselle, looks as if it had never been

clouded by sorrow. The face of Sister Faith is unclouded as your own,

and we know that the trials of the world can never reach her, the

protecting arms of the church enfold her; I am full of regrets that

you cannot see her, she is now praying devotedly to the saints that

Brother Thomas may be given strength to banish her image altogether

from his heart, as well as attending two cases of fever among the

inmates."

"Are you not afraid, in her great self-abnegation, that her own health

will give way?" inquired Lady Esmondet.

"No, she is gifted with wonderful health and strength, one quiet hour

in the cell restores the vigour lost in days and nights of fatigue;

and now adieu, and may the blessing of St. Gregory go with you, and I

thank you in the name of Christ's poor, for the gold you have given."

"Adieu, adieu, farewell!".

And our friends are again _en route_.

"Depend upon it," said Lionel, "in ages to come, the good Sister Faith

will be Ste. Faith of the Alpine mountains."

"Poor young creature, I cannot but think," said Vaura, her eyes

suffused with tears, "that she would be happier in the bright world,

loved and loving, than in the cloister."

"What a gifted couple they would have been," observed Lady Esmondet.

"Brother Thomas has lived and knows what life is, and I cannot help

thinking the cloister, will not bring him peace," said Lionel.

"What a power in the church the nuns are," said Vaura; "not in her

grand ceremonial, not in her unity, not in her much gold dwelleth her

greatest and most powerful arm, but in her gentle sisterhood."

"True," said Lionel; "though I cannot but think, that the church would

have gained more had they united the Saxon nun with the now Brother

Thomas; what a power their united lives, and with much gold; his

influence will not tell immurred in a cell."

"I am sure we shall not soon forget the story of poor Brother Thomas

and Sister Faith," remarked Vaura.

"There was a time," said Lionel, "when I used to wonder that so many

fellows gave up this life of ours and buried themselves in a monastry,

but as I listened to the priest I felt that if a man is feeling that

the love of the one woman he craves can never be his, that, as an

escape from the speculative eye of Mrs. Grundy, a cell might look

inviting."

"So you give Mrs. Grundy credit for a speculative eye, Lionel," said

Lady Esmondet, amusingly.

"What else is she but a speculator? she is ever busy, always alive and

speculating with some unfortunate beings, name or fame," said Lionel

bitterly.

"I am glad we have run away from her; she cannot be with us on the

mountains, so rest easy for to-day, Lionel," answered Lady Esmondet.

"No," said Vaura, earnestly; "the Alpine heights are too pure and too

lofty for her, she loves the heated gaslit _salon_, with the music of

many voices; but we are all the better for an outing with Dame Nature,

I do love her so, with her sunlit air, her breezy fan, her robes of

green, while her children, the brook and field, sing and laugh, they

are so merry and so rich; yes, I love her so, I should just like to

take her in my arms; see the birds in the trees as we pass, she rocks

them to sleep, for as she breathes she sways the branches to and fro,

and so gives a tuneful accompanyment to their song ere they rest."

And so in gay chit-chat or more serious converse, the descent into

fair Italia is made. The grand passion of Trevalyon's life becoming

more earnest, and completely mastering him for this sweet woman; the

companion of his journey; for not only her grace and rich beauty made

him her captive, but her tender womanliness, underlying her vivacity,

charmed him, and his eyes were seldom off her face as she sat opposite

him; he was never tired of watching the ever-warying expression of her

countenance; and poor Lionel, subdued at last, felt he must clear

himself to Eric Haughton, and have her ever beside him.

Her grey eyes were luminous as stars with a warmer light as they

sometimes rested on his; there was a wild rose bloom on her cheeks

painted by nature, with the invigorating air of the mountains.

Sometimes, with a gay _abandon_, she tossed aside head-gear and cloak,

and with Lionel, descended from the carriage to cull some rare moss or

late flower, or make the ascent of a higher spot to view some lovelier

scene; just now she is looking more than usually lovely. In this

prelude to real love-making, as was now taking place daily between

Lionel and Vaura; what a magical softening of expression there is,

what a sweetness of languor in the eyes, a tremulous sighing from the

waiting heart; and yet, she is blissfully happy, for she knows that

she is loved by a man whom she will love, aye, does, with all the

sympathy and passion of her nature.