the HolyChurch, when she shrank away like some terrified creature, and said—
“‘I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven.’
“‘Arise, my daughter,’ said I, ‘and come with me.’ And I led the wayinto one of the confessionals of St. Jaques.
“She knelt; I listened. No words came. The evil powers had stricken herdumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when sheapproached confession.
“She was too poor to pay for the necessary forms of exorcism; andhitherto those priests to whom she had addressed herself were either soignorant of the meaning of her broken French, or her Irish-English, orelse esteemed her to be one crazed—as, indeed, her wild and excitedmanner might easily have led any one to think—that they had neglected thesole means of loosening her tongue, so that she might confess her deadlysin, and, after due penance, obtain absolution. But I knew Bridget ofold, and felt that she was a penitent sent to me. I went through thoseholy offices appointed by our Church for the relief of such a case. Iwas the more bound to do this, as I found that she had come to Antwerpfor the sole purpose of discovering me, and making confession to me. Ofthe nature of that fearful confession I am forbidden to speak. Much ofit you know; possibly all.
“It now remains for her to free herself from mortal guilt, and to setothers free from the consequences thereof. No prayers, no masses, willever do it, although they may strengthen her with that strength by whichalone acts of deepest love and purest self-devotion may be performed.Her words of passion, and cries for revenge—her unholy prayers couldnever reach the ears of the holy saints! Other powers intercepted them,and wrought so that the curses thrown up to heaven have fallen on her ownflesh and blood; and so, through her very strength of love, have brusedand crushed her heart. Henceforward her former self must be buried,—yea,buried quick, if need be,—but never more to make sign, or utter cry onearth! She has become a Poor Clare, in order that, by perpetual penanceand constant service of others, she may at length so act as to obtainfinal absolution and rest for her soul. Until then, the innocent mustsuffer. It is to plead for the innocent that I come to you; not in thename of the witch, Bridget Fitzgerald, but of the penitent and servant ofall men, the Poor Clare, Sister Magdalen.”
“Sir,” said I, “I listen to your request with respect; only I may tellyou it is not needed to urge me to do all that I can on behalf of one,love for whom is part of my very life. If for a time I have absentedmyself from her, it is to think and work for her redemption. I, a memberof the English Church—my uncle, a Puritan—pray morning and night for herby name: the congregations of London, on the next Sabbath, will pray forone unknown, that she may be set free from the Powers of Darkness.Moreover, I must tell you, sir, that those evil ones touch not the greatcalm of her soul. She lives her own pure and loving life, unharmed anduntainted, though all men fall off from her. I would I could have herfaith!”
My uncle now spoke.
“Nephew,” said he, “it seems to me that this gentleman, althoughprofessing what I consider an erroneous creed, has touched upon the rightpoint in exhorting Bridget to acts of love and mercy, whereby to wipe outher sin of hate and vengeance. Let us strive after our fashion, byalmsgiving and visiting of the needy and fatherless, to make our prayersacceptable. Meanwhile, I myself will go down into the north, and takecharge of the maiden. I am too old to be daunted by man or demon. Iwill bring her to this house as to a home; and let the Double come if itwill! A company of godly divines shall give it the meeting, and we willtry issue.”
The kindly, brave old man! But Father Bernard sat on musing.
“All hate,” said he, “cannot be quenched in her heart; all Christianforgiveness cannot have entered into her soul, or the demon would havelost its power. You said, I think, that her grandchild was stilltormented?”
“Still tormented!” I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress Clarke’s lastletter—He rose to go. We afterwards heard that the occasion of hiscoming to London was a secret political mission on behalf of theJacobites. Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man.
Months and months passed away without any change. Lucy entreated myuncle to leave her where she was,—dreading, as I learnt, lest if shecame, with her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me,that my love could not stand the repeated shocks to which I should bedoomed. And this she thought from no distrust of the strength of myaffection, but from a kind of pitying sympathy for the terror to thenerves which she clearly observed that the demoniac visitation caused inall.
I was restless and miserable. I devoted myself to good works; but Iperformed them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope of rewardand payment, and so the reward was never granted. At length, I asked myuncle’s leave to travel; and I went forth, a wanderer, with no distincterend than that of many another wanderer—to get away from myself. Astrange impulse led me to Antwerp, in spite of the wars and commotionsthen raging in the Low Countries—or rather, perhaps, the very craving tobecome interested in something external, led me into the thick of thestruggle then going on with the Austrians. The cities of Flanders wereall full at that time of civil disturbances and rebellions, only keptdown by force, and the presence of an Austrian garrison in every place.
I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard. He was awayin the country for a day or two. Then I asked my way to the Convent ofPoor Clares; but, being healthy and prosperous, I could only see the dim,pent-up, gray walls, shut closely in by narrow streets, in the lowestpart of the town. My landlord told me, that had I been stricken by someloathsome disease, or in desperate case of any kind, the Poor Clareswould have taken me, and tended me. He spoke of them as an order ofmercy of the strictest kind, dressing scantily in the coarsest materials,going barefoot, living on what the inhabitants of Antwerp chose tobestow, and sharing even those fragments and crumbs with the poor andhelpless that swarmed all around; receiving no letters or communicationwith the outer world; utterly dead to everything but the alleviation ofsuffering. He smiled at my inquiring whether I could get speech of oneof them; and told me that they were even forbidden to speak for thepurposes of begging their daily food; while yet they lived, and fedothers upon what was given in charity.
“But,” exclaimed I, “supposing all men forgot them! Would they quietlylie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?”
“If such were the rule the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but theirfounder appointed a remedy for such extreme cases as you suggest. Theyhave a bell—’tis but a small one, as I have heard, and has yet never beenrung in the memory man: when the Poor Clares have been without food fortwenty-four hours, they may ring this bell, and then trust to our goodpeople of Antwerp for rushing to the rescue of the Poor Clares, who havetaken such blessed care of us in all our straits.”
It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did notsay what I thought. I rather turned the conversation, by asking mylandlord if he knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain SisterMagdalen.
“Yes,” said he, rather under his breath, “news will creep out, even froma convent of Poor Clares. Sister Magdalen is either a great sinner or agreat saint. She does more, as I have heard, than all the other nuns puttogether; yet, when last month they would fain have made hermother-superior, she begged rather that they would place her below allthe rest, and make her the meanest servant of all.”
“You never saw her?” asked I.
“Never,” he replied.
I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in Antwerp.The political state of things became worse than ever, increased to itsheight by the scarcity of food consequent on many deficient harvests. Isaw groups of fierce, squalid men, at every corner of the street, glaringout with wolfish eyes at my sleek skin and handsome clothes.
At last Father Bernard returned. We had a long conversation, in which hetold me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy’s father, was servingin one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at Antwer
p. I askedFather Bernard if he would make us acquainted; which he consented to do.But, a day or two afterwards, he told me that, on hearing my name, Mr.Gisborne had declined responding to any advances on my part, saying hehad adjured his country, and hated his countrymen.
Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughterLucy. Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making hisacquaintance. Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the hiddenfermentation, for some coming evil, working among the “blouses” ofAntwerp, and he would fain have had me depart from out the city; but Irather craved the excitement of danger, and stubbornly refused to leave.
One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to anAustrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral.
“That is Mr. Gisborne,” said he, as soon as the gentleman was past.
I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer. He carriedhimself in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and fromhis years might have had some excuse
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