THE ORPHAN OF THE RHINE
PART 7
Chapter 9
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot.
The world forgetting, by the world forgot;
Eternal sun-shine of the spotless mind.
Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep.
Obedient slumbers, that can wake and weep;
Desires composed, affections ever even.
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to heaven.
--POPE
The only
female acquaintance cultivated by Madame Chamont in her retirement was the
Superior of a convent of penitent Nuns, of the order of St Francis, to whom she
was recommended by Father Benedicta. This Abbess was a woman of high birth and
education. Her aspect was entirely divested of that stately reserve, which
usually accompanies undisputed authority. Her conduct was irreproachable, and
she blended judiciously all the elegances of refinement with maternal
tenderness. She loved the Nuns as her children, entering into all their
concerns and distresses with the lively interest of a friend, extending her
sympathy to all that were in need of it, her charity to the friendless, and her
succour to the oppressed. Her looks, her words, were those of comfort and
compassion, and her precepts, being delivered with plainness and energy, never
failed to persuade. Misfortune had given pensiveness to her demeanour without
throwing any thing of gloom around. The whole of her countenance was expressive
of the most fervent piety; no appearance of bigotry disgraced it, for her
religion was that of the heart, that of sentiment rather than of theory, which
taught her to cherish every virtue that dignifies the human mind, to instigate
by example, and to reward with affection.
To such
perfections as these Madame Chamont could not be insensible; and on a first
interview there was nothing she more ardently desired than to be included
amongst the number of her friends. She was not long denied this enviable
privilege; for the holy Benedicta had advanced much in her favour, and her own
insinuating address had done more. The lady Abbess found in the graceful ease
of her manners, a charm every way congenial to her mind. She saw she had
suffered, for time and reflection had not yet erased the mark of sorrow from
her countenance; yet this was not its only character gentleness, meekness, and
resignation, were blended with the harsher lines of calamity, each uniting to
soften what could not be eradicated.
She was
soon admitted into the cloister as an intimate, and spent many hours in the
society of her new acquaintance, who received her with inexpressible
tenderness, never allowing her to depart without a promise to shorten her next
absence. The difference of their years did not preclude the advances of
friendship of the most noble and interesting kind, though in this the Abbess
had considerably the advantage. But age had given nothing of gloom to her
deportment, having rather added to, than detracted from, its natural grace. She
soon loved Madame Chamont as her daughter, cherished her as a friend, and felt
unusually animated in her presence. Some of the Nuns beheld her with no symptoms
of pleasure; the attentions of their noble protectress, which had hitherto been
confined to themselves, were, they imagined, transferred to a stranger; and
though respect for their much-revered lady prevented them from murmuring, they
could not entirely conceal the cause of their chagrin.
At every
meeting the two friends were more delighted with each other than before, and
this attachment led them to indulge in the luxury of mutual confidence. The
lady Abbess related to Madame Chamont the most memorable events of her past
life; they were melancholy, but not uninteresting, and her gentle auditress,
who listened to her with the most lively concern, shed many tears at the
recital; the substance of which was as follows:
THE STORY
OF THE ABBESS
The
Superior of the convent of the penitent Nuns, of the order of St Francis, was
of Gallic extraction, being the only daughter of the Compte de Vendome, who was
a General Officer in the service of the Prince of Conde, when that renowned
warrior fought the famous battle of Jarnac with the Duke of Anjon.
His valour
was the boast of his country, the admiration of Europe, making him revered as
an ally, and equally dreaded as an enemy! After being celebrated, and almost
idolized in France for the signal victories he had gained, his hitherto
successful armies were routed by an attack from an unexpected quarter, and the
enemy being joined by numbers too powerful for resistance, they were called
upon to surrender.
The Compte,
unwilling to lessen his former fame by what he termed a shameful acquiescence,
resolutely refused to obey, chusing rather to die in the field than to tarnish
his spotless reputation by relinquishing his arms. Some of the soldiers
preferring captivity to death, consented to the proposition, whilst others, who
had caught somewhat of that martial ardour that animated the invincible soul of
their leader, persisted in a refusal. The fight now became more desperate; the
enemy was joined by a detachment coveniently ambushed near the place; the field
was soon covered with the dead and the wounded, and the father of the amiable
Abbess, after having defended himself bravely for a long time, was at last
overpowered and slain!
This
melancholy news was soon communicated to the Comptessa with all imaginable
delicacy, but she did not long survive the recital. She had been for some time
in a weak state, and this was a shock she was unable to sustain. Immediately on
her decease, Adela, her only surviving child, was consigned to the care of her
guardian, Monsieur de Santong, who resided in a distant part of the province.
He was a widower, of reduced fortunes; with one son, who was finishing his
education at one of the public seminaries in Paris.
Monsieur
was a man of stern and severe deportment, in disposition at once haughty and
morose, and his manners were so little calculated to please, that Adela, having
never since her birth left the side of her mother, shrunk with terror from his
gaze.
Before the
Comte de Vendome quitted his beloved home, to undertake his last fatal
expedition, he settled all his temporal affairs, leaving his daughter to the
protection of this his only surviving relative, on the death of her mother,
should this event take place before she was disposed of in marriage.
Monsieur
de Santong, having been long disgusted with the world, had retired from the
haunts of society to a small estate that he possessed in a remote and dreary
situation, where he lived as peaceful and undisturbed as if consigned to his grave.
Previous to his seclusion, he had mixed occasionally with people of various
descriptions, but without being able to select any one with whom he could
remain in habits of intimacy. He was a man of parts, without gaining the
respect that usually adheres to science, because he expected undue regard; and
in spite of the gravity of his appearance, the eccentricities of his conduct
frequently made him the sport of witticism: by the learned he was rejected for
his obstinacy, by the gay for his severity, and by the candid for his
misanthropy. Thus, after the death of his wife, and the departure of his son,
who was educated under the eye of one of his mother's relatives in the
metropolis, he was left a lonely and solitary being, in whom no one was
interested; few gave themselves the trouble to inquire whether he was still in
existence, and those who did, lamented, when answered in the affirmative, that
the useless were permitted to survive the worthy.
His
relation, the Compte de Vendome, was, perhaps, the only person of his
acquaintance by whom he was not thoroughly despised, though the sentiments and
disposition of this justly esteemed nobleman were so diametrically opposite to
his. The application and activity inseparable from a military capacity, had
indeed prevented a continual intercourse, and the connexion subsisting between
the families had silenced many out of respect to the much-revered Compte, who
might otherwise have uttered much to Monsieur de Santong's disadvantage. He had
more than once visited Monsieur before he took refuge in retirement; and, from
the observations he was enabled to make, was convinced that his knowledge was
profound, though obscured by caprice; and finding nothing to alledge against
him but his inordinate love of praise, and his eccentric indulgences, he fixed
upon him as the guardian of his Adela, should she be deprived of her parents
before that sacred trust should devolve to another.
The fair
orphan, being not more than seven years of age, received from Monsieur de
Santong the first rudiments of her education. She was not allowed, for reasons
never to be penetrated, to receive it in its usual form, in the shades of a
cloister, though the mansion in which she resided was equally dreary and
secluded. Society, or unexpected events, never retarded her progress, which
enabled her soon to become conversant in every branch of elegant literature,
and to be well acquainted with the classics, without being compelled to receive
their beauties through the medium of her mother tongue.
Monsieur
de Santong, who, next to his own son, loved her as much as he was capable of
loving any one, beheld the proficiency she made with surprise and pleasure; and
when in conversation with her, relaxed so much from his accustomed severity,
that she became imperceptibly more at ease in his presence; yet her youthful
imagination would frequently wander beyond the walls of the chateau, and
portray scenes of gaiety and happiness in the world, which the original would
not have equalled.
But, upon
the whole, the life of Adela passed less unpleasantly than might have been
imagined. A lively French woman, who was the director of the domestic affairs,
interested herself much in her happiness, and saved her from many moments of
despondency. Her name was Agnes; she had received a respectable education at
Moulines under the care of an aunt, and after meeting with some misfortunes in
life, respecting pecuniary affairs, had accepted a superior kind of service in
the family of Monsieur de Santong.
In the
society of this young woman, who possessed much genuine good humour, she
frequently rambled a considerable distance from the mansion when the
occupations of the day were over, and amused herself with surveying the
landscape which her secluded situation commanded. But books were her chief
amusements, and these were never denied her. Those selected by her guardian for
her instruction and entertainment were mostly of the learned kind, though she
was sometimes supplied with lighter works by the assistance of Agnes, from
which she reaped less solid advantage.
Several
years were passed in this manner without any material incident, till the
arrival of the younger Santong, who had just completed his studies, occasioned
an alteration in affairs.
He came
attended by a schoolfellow, his principal companion, who was introduced by the
name of Clairville to Monsieur, who received him with an air of coldness
bordering upon rudeness. The young chevalier, who did not fail to remark the
unpleasant consequence of his visit, appeared chagrined and uneasy, which Adela
perceiving, endeavoured to remove by every attention she was empowered to
bestow. In this she succeeded. His thoughts were soon abstracted from this
slight cause of distress, but were directed to a subject more dangerous to his
peace. He loved Adela the moment he beheld her, and without asking permission
of his reason for doing so: well aware of the distance at which fortune had
thrown him, he would have submitted, for the first time, to have solicited her
favours, could wealth have secured the possession of his wishes.
Every
interview increased his regard; he soon lived but for Adela, who was by no
means insensible to his merit; and from the native openness of her disposition,
felt no inclination to conceal from the observation of others the sentiment she
indulged in his favour.
The young
Santong, who was evidently as much inferior to his friend in mind as in person,
beheld the decided preference shewn to him by his fair relation with a degree
of dissatisfaction and displeasure, which he sometimes failed to disguise. He
had bestowed upon the person and accomplishments of Adela no common attention;
but her birth and splendid possessions were still more alluring in his eyes.
His father had intimated his intention of uniting him with his ward, whose
early seclusion from the world must have prevented the possibility of any other
attachment. He had acceded with rapture to the proposal before he was
introduced to her, and no sooner beheld her than lie considered her as his
future bride. Had his own vanity been less, he would have avoided throwing a
handsome young chevalier in her way, whose mind was not less perfect than his
person, and whose soul was formed for all the delicacies and refinements of the
tender passions.
Adela,
being a stranger to disguise, would frequently, in the absence of Clairville,
speak eloquently in his praise in the presence of Monsieur and the younger
Santong, and perceived, not without astonishment, the apparent coldness with
which her guardian repressed her innocent encomiums, and the flashes of anger
that occasionally darted from the eyes of his offended son. But unsuspicious of
the cause, she still continued to talk of him with that ardour of friendship,
which declared to the more experienced observer how tenderly she was attached
to the object of her commendation. Clairville, who felt the awkwardness of his
situation, endeavoured to reconcile himself to the thoughts of quitting the
chateau; but the idea of never again beholding her, in whose fate he was so
strongly interested, and of the probability of her being soon disposed of to
his more fortunate rival, sunk upon his heart, and he became pensive and
disconsolate. Every day brought with it fresh proof that the affections of his
friend were estranged from him, and that common courtesy only prevented him
from accelerating his departure. Conscious of this, he began internally to
despise himself for having so long yielded to the weakness of his feelings, and
resolved to regain his own esteem by naming an early day for his return to the
metropolis. Having once determined upon this mode of conduct, he hastened to
fulfil his intentions, and on the following morning, seeing his friend walking
alone in the shrubbery, he joined him with the resolution of executing his
purpose.
The young
Santong did not immediately observe him, being lost in musing, till the voice
of the once-respected chevalier roused him from his stupor; and turning towards
him, he accosted him with an expression of kindness that overcame him with
surprise and pleasure.
Contrary
to his original determination, he did not instantly make known his intention;
and being soon afterwards joined by Adela and Monsieur de Santong, he continued
to defer it.
The
conversation now became general, and more than usually lively; the young Comptessa
discoursed with her accustomed sprightliness, whilst the eyes of her lover,
announcing every feeling of his soul, conveyed a tender and earnest expression
as they became riveted upon her's. Not far from the mansion was an extensive
wood; and Santong having heard that it contained a large quantity of game,
proposed to de Clairville, as the morning was fine, to spend a few hours in the
diversion of shooting. His friend agreed to the proposal, though not without
some reluctance, as it would deprive him of the society of Adela, and they
began their excursion.
As soon as
they were gone, the fair recluse retired pensively to her library, willing to
beguile the moments of absence with her books, her usual resources in the
moments of uneasiness. She felt, without knowing why, an unusual depression of
spirits, which she made many efforts to dissipate, but without success. She
reflected, with dissatisfaction, on the solicitous attentions of Santong, who,
she easily perceived, was designed by her guardian for her future husband. She
compared him with the noble, the insinuating stranger, and for the first time
discovered the partiality which the merit of the latter had inspired. He had
never openly declared his passion for her; but his expressive manners could not
be misconstrued, and he was apparently withheld, only by respectful diffidence,
from making a verbal confession.
Nothing
appeared so dreadful to her as a marriage with Santong; yet how was it to be
avoided, if her guardian insisted upon her compliance? How could she presume to
oppose him, to whose will she had hitherto yielded the most implicit obedience?
She knew that he was severe in his disposition, terrible in his displeasure,
and capable of adopting the most resolute measures, and of performing the most
daring actions. As to the younger Santong, he appeared to her somewhat
prejudiced mind to be deficient in every amiable qualification of the heart.
She wondered why the Chevalier de Clairville, who seemed to possess every moral
and elevated virtue, had enlisted him among the number of his intimates, since
there was certainly no reciprocity of sentiment to unite them in the bonds of
affection.
The young
sportsmen, having been absent some hours, and nothing happening to break the
train of her reflections, she took a walk towards the skirts of the wood, and
having reached a heathy mountain, seated herself upon a piece of broken rock,
and continued to muse on the subject which had so recently occupied her
thoughts. She had not been long in this situation before the report of a gun,
proceeding from the wood, convinced her they were returning from the excursion.
She started from her place without knowing whither she was going, and advancing
rapidly towards the spot from whence the sound was heard, a dreadful scream
alarmed her, and in the next moment she beheld young Santong and the servant,
who had attended them in their expedition, bearing the bleeding, and apparently
almost lifeless form of the Chevalier de Clairville!
What a
sight was this for Adela, the tender, the adoring Adela, to sustain! But
surprise and anguish soon depriving her of sensation, she sunk into a state of
insensibility. The cries of the servant (for Santong, transfixed in horror, was
unable to utter a sound) reached the chateau, and the domestics, with anxious
and terrified looks, crowded around them. Adela, who was long before she
discovered any symptom of returning life, was conveyed to her room, where every
method was employed to restore and console her; but a fever and delirium were the
consequence of this dreadful alarm, which threatened to terminate her
existence. The physician that attended de Clairville was called in to her
assistance, who pronounced her to be in a state of danger; at the same time
desired that she might be kept as tranquil as possible, as the only chance of
success depended upon the recomposing of her spirits. This induced her
attendants to delude her, in the intervals of reason, with the most flattering
information respecting the chevalier. The physician was also from necessity
compelled to aid the deception, by assuring her that his wounds were not
mortal, and that from their favourable appearance every thing was to be hoped.
This
joyful intelligence tended to accelerate her recovery, and as soon as she was
enabled to bear a repetition of the subject, inquired how the accident had
happened? But of this she could hear no satisfactory account. The young Santong
was alone acquainted with the particulars, and he being in a state little short
of distraction, was not in a situation to answer inquiries.
As soon as
Adela was sufficiently recovered from her illness to endure the sight of de
Clairville, he requested permission to see her. What they might mutually suffer
from so trying an interview, induced the worthy physician to deny him the
privilege; but as the necessity of refusing a dying request is, perhaps, one of
the severest inflictions that benevolence can endure, he at last yielded,
though not unreluctantly, to his wishes.
As soon as
Adela was informed of his desire, she quitted her room, for the first time
since she entered it, and proceeded, supported by Agnes, to the side of his
bed.
But what
were her feelings when, instead of finding him in a state of convalescence as
she had been taught to expect, she beheld him with the image of death stamped
upon his countenance, saw his lips quivering as if on the eve of closing for
ever, and heard his short convulsive breathings, with every other symptom of
approaching dissolution! The moment she fixed her eyes on the faded form before
her, a cold trembling seized her: she had but just power to repress the scream
that was escaping her, and afraid she should relapse into insensibility before
she should catch the last accents of his voice, clung still closer to Agnes.
The dying chevalier, though unable to articulate, extended his feeble hand to
grasp her's, with a look so tender, so mournful, so touching, that her grief
arose to agony!
Incapable
of moving, she still continued by his side, with her eyes fixed wildly upon his
face, with such an expression of anguish, that none present could refrain from
tears! At last the wan countenance on which she gazed assumed a more ghastly
paleness, the films obscured his sight, the pulse that had long beat, feebly
fluttered, and then ceased for ever, and that captivating, that once graceful
form, became stiffened in death! Adela's distress was now too acute to be
suppressed, and disengaging herself from Agnes, who could no longer restrain
her, she fell breathless on the bed! A deep silence, as of the grave, ensued,
which was only interrupted occasionally by the loud sobs of Monsieur de
Santong, who had remained in speechless sorrow at the farther end of the room
during this pathetic scene, unobserved by the unfortunate sufferers. It was too
much for human nature to endure with firmness, and the stern, and before
impenetrable, heart of the misanthropist melted at the touches of sympathy!
As soon as
the account of de Clairville's dissolution reached the ears of his son, he flew
into the room with the desperation of a maniac, declaring himself his murderer.
His cries recalled Adela to existence, who, regarding him with speechless
horror as he uttered the dreadful truth, threw herself into the arms of her
attendant, and was conveyed to her apartment.
It was
several days after this mournful event before she was in a situation to see any
one except her physician and confessor, and during that period the remorse and
distraction of Santong portended the loss of his senses! He raved continually
of Adela, besought his father to plead for his forgiveness, and then resign him
as a murderer to the laws of his country. He acknowledged that it was jealousy
alone that had instigated him to the horrid deed, having observed the
attachment that had subsisted between his friend and the young Comptessa ever
since its commencement, particularly the tender looks they had exchanged on the
morning that had witnessed his guilt, which, he added, had given fresh fuel to
that unbridled resentment, which was before too violent to be concealed or
subdued.
Though
Adela had been brought by this trying calamity nearly to the brink of the
grave, youth, united to a good constitution, finally triumphed, and in a few
weeks she was enabled to sit up in her room, and to converse with her
confessor.
Monsieur
de Santong, who had made daily inquiries concerning his unhappy ward ever since
the death of de Clairville, ventured, at the request of his son, to solicit an
audience. Having gained the permission he desired, he was ushered into the
room, and, with an aspect on which pity and distress were strikingly depicted,
placed himself on a chair by her side. Adela received him with a placid and
sorrowful air; but when he began to plead for his son, the assassin of the
noble chevalier, a slight blush of resentment tinged her cheek, and she
surveyed him with a look of mingled astonishment and displeasure. But when he
assured her that his son did not aspire to her love, but only besought her
forgiveness, and had convinced her that the atrocious crime his unfortunate
child had committed was not the effect of deliberate and premeditated cruelty,
the expression of her countenance changed, and compassion gave new softness to
its character. A heart that could deny its pardon to a wretch, suffering all
the agonies of guilt and remorse, must have been made of sterner materials than
was that of Adela; and she bestowed it in accents so gentle, that, though the
younger Santong never presumed to obtrude himself into her presence, when he
received an account of it from his father, he became more tranquil.
The
wretched culprit did not continue much longer at the chateau; and though
despondency had prompted the request concerning a resignation to the civil laws
of his country, other considerations determined him to purchase a dispensation
from the Pope, and to close his existence in some religious retirement.
Monsieur de Santong did not oppose his inclinations; this heavy calamity,
inflicted upon him by the violence of unregulated passions, had an effect upon
his mind as powerful as it was instantaneous. He was now no longer proud, vain,
or inaccessible; his favourite project, that of uniting his son to the heiress
of the noble house of Vendome, was at an end, and every earthly pursuit seemed
to have expired with it. Grief had the happy effect of convincing him that he
was not beyond the reach of misfortune, and by teaching him the insufficiency
of immoderate acquirements, had conveyed a lesson of humility and wisdom. When
the chevalier was first introduced to him, he imagined, in his fine person and
insinuating address, he discovered a formidable rival for his son. He saw his
perfections with dissatisfaction, because he believed they could not fail to attract
the regard of the youthful and blooming Adela; but now that he had paid so dear
for his rivalship, he felt nothing of prejudice lingering at his heart, and
cherished a kind of melancholy esteem for his memory. This sudden transition,
from moroseness to kindness, indicated that his former misanthropy was rather
the effect of circumstance than a natural inclination of the mind; for from
this time he became the mild guardian, the compassionate and tender father; and
could he have prevailed upon himself to have returned to society, might have
become the estimable friend.
As soon as
Adela was recovered, she formed a resolution of secluding herself in a convent,
and took an early opportunity of informing Monsieur de Santong of her design.
Amazed at her intention, he offered some slight objections, which she speedily
removed, and then consented to inquire for a situation suitable to her wishes.
About a
week after she had made known her determination, the unhappy Santong repaired
to his monastery, which was somewhere in the southern part of France; and on
the succeeding day the Comptessa de Vendome was conducted by her guardian to
the convent, which, in obedience to her former desire, he had selected for her
residence: it contained a society of Carmelite Nuns of one of the strictest
orders in the country. Here she was admitted as a boarder; but owing to its not
meeting with her entire approbation, did not continue her abode in this place.
There was not one among the sisterhood with whom she could connect herself; for
the Lady of the convent was reserved, haughty, and mercenary, and the Nuns
seemed invariably to emulate her example.
This
influenced her intentions of not remaining in so unpleasant a society during
life, and led her to adopt a resolution of quitting it as soon as she could
inform herself of another more congenial to her taste. Having executed her
design, she left France, and removing into Germany, entered into a convent of
Penitent Nuns, of the order of St Francis. Here she spent several years as a
sister; and after the death of the Abbess, having endowed this religious asylum
with her vast possessions, was preferred to the honour of succeeding her as
Supenor. When this little affecting narrative was concluded, which was
illustrated with many elevated sentiments and tender incidents, which, unless
recited with the grace and eloquence of the amiable narrator, might fail to
interest the reader, she drew a small gem from her bosom, which contained the
name of the chevalier, wrought with his hair: it was suspended by a small
string of rubies, and was worn continually round her neck. As she gazed upon
this precious relic, a throbbing emotion disturbed her usually serene features;
she sighed, pressed it mournfully to her heart, and seemed to be insensible to
every thing for the moment but the recollection of her long-indulged sorrows.
Madame
Chamont, who had listened to her with a painful interest, bent over the arm of
the chair on which her friend was sitting, and mingled her tears with her's,
till their attention was recalled from melancholy reflection by the appearance
of a Nun who came to present a piece of embroidery to the Abbess, which she had
newly finished. As she advanced towards the Superior with a pensive and
dignified air, she bent gracefully to Madame Chamont, and drawing aside her
veil, discovered to her one of the most lovely faces she had ever seen. It was
pale, and marked with sorrow; but there was a certain expression of softness
and resignation in her fine Grecian features an air of meek, corrected sadness,
that could not be perused without pity and affection. As soon as she had
delivered her work, and had received the grateful commendation of the Abbess,
she drew her veil again over her face, and retired.
As soon as
she was gone, Madame Chamont, willing to withdraw her revered friend from the
luxury of too tender remembrances, praised the singular beauty of the sister,
and requested to be informed of her name. 'It is sister Cecilia,' returned the
Superior, 'one of the most devout Nuns of the order. She never enters into any
of our amusements, except at the holy festivals, and seems to dedicate the
whole of her life to prayer and religious exercises. She confines herself
almost entirely to her cell, seldom enters into conversation with any other
than her confessor, and preserves a life of uniform reserve and austerity.
'She is
the only one of the sisterhood with whose story I am unacquainted, though she
has been in the society upwards of fourteen years; nor have any of the Nuns,
not even those for whom she possesses the most decided regard, been able to
gain admission into her confidence. Yet, though she has preserved this
invariable reserve, none of the inhabitants of the cloister are more tenderly,
more universally beloved. She is the first to shew consolation and kindness to
all who are in need of it; her breast is the temple of benevolence, the seat of
truth and of virtue. Her charity is as unbounded as her other excellencies, and
she seems capable of no other enjoyment than what she derives from the source
of religion, and the happiness of her fellow-creatures. Besides these solid and
estimable virtues, she possesses many charming accomplishments, which, but for
their being connected with the stable principles, the intrinsic excellencies of
the mind, might be justly deemed of little value. Nature has bestowed upon her,
amongst her other gifts, a rich and excursive fancy; the devout pieces, which
are used not unfrequently on the most solemn occasions, attuned to the notes of
the organ, are chiefly of her composing; and for grace, delicacy, and energy of
thought, may be said to be nearly unequalled. In music she is an avowed
proficient, and the needle-work she has just brought for my inspection,'
resumed the Abbess, 'is an indisputable proof of her taste in that elegant
department.'
There was
something in this account, united with the exalted, yet meek devotion, that
characterized the appearance of the Nun, so affecting to Madame Chamont, that,
when the Superior had finished, she still listened, in hopes of hearing a
farther account of her. But her informer had related all that she knew of her,
except that she was a Neapolitan, and that it was believed she had suffered
some severe irremediable calamity previous to her retirement from the world.
Madame
Chamont's curiosity was now more than ever awakened; she thought of the Signora
di Capigna, the supposed mother of Laurette, and anxiety to be informed of the
truth of this surmise arose to the most painful impatience. The more she mused
upon the subject, the more probable it appeared, that the devout Cecilia was no
other than the once celebrated Neapolitan, the fair unfortunate victim of early
seduction, who, after the death of her father, was believed either to have died
of grief, or to have sought a remedy for it in some religious seclusion. When
she considered every thing the Abbess had uttered, her grief, her silence
respecting her family and name, her penitential devotions, the length of time
since she had entered into the convent answering so nearly to the age of
Laurette, her Italian origin every circumstance seemed to convince her that the
conjecture was not founded on error, which determined her, if possible, to gain
further intelligence; but the difficulty of accomplishing her design repressed
the energy of the enterprize; was it likely that the fair Nun, who had denied
her confidence to so many with whom she was in habits of intimacy, and even to
the Superior herself, should impart it to a stranger, one whom she had scarcely
seen, and who had no possible claim on her regard or attention?
As soon as
she had quitted the convent, she returned silently towards the castle,
meditating as she went upon this new incident. If this was really the Signora
de Capigna, and her idea concerning Laurette was a just one, she was doubtless
ignorant respecting her offspring, who had probably been conveyed from her
without her consent or knowledge. The actions of the Marchese were so veiled in
mystery, that it was impossible to comprehend, or to account for them. But the
propriety of acquainting sister Cecilia with the situation of her child, if by
any means Laurette could be proved to be her's, appeared, every time she
reflected upon it, more striking. After much consideration, she formed the
resolution of sending a few lines to the Nun by Father Benedicta, who was
confessor of the convent.
Some days
passed before she had an opportunity of accomplishing her design, not being
able to gain an interview with him in private; but having written a letter to
be in readiness, in which she avoided mentioning any thing of herself or her
charge, merely asking if she ever had a daughter, and was ignorant of her fate,
she committed it to the care of the Father. The holy Benedicta eyed the
direction, which was written in Italian, with a look expressive of surprise;
and then placing it silently in the folds of his habit, bowed meekly, and
withdrew. It was not long before the Monk returned again to the castle, and as
soon as he was admitted into the presence of Madame Chamont, presented her with
an answer to her epistle, which she instantly opened. It contained many
grateful acknowledgments, elegantly and delicately expressed, and, without any
reference to her own peculiar misfortunes, informed her she never had a
daughter. The conclusion, expressive of the devout spirit of the writer,
breathed a solemn benediction, commending her with impressive fervency to the
protection of Heaven. The signature, which bore no other name than that of
Cecilia, a penitent Nun of the order of St Francis, seemed to have been written
with a disordered hand, and to have been watered with her tears.
Satisfied
that this either was not Signora di Capigna, or that Laurette was not the
daughter of that unfortunate beauty, she made no further attempt to investigate
the subject; and whether from chance or design she was unable to ascertain, the
Nun never more entered the apartment of the Abbess when Madame Chamont was
there.
To be continued
