“Now, Holy Mother,” said that excellent matron, “do help this young man to bring this affair out straight, and give an old woman, who has had a world of troubles, a little peace in her old age!”
Agnes found herself, therefore, quite unusually situated, alone in the company of a handsome young man, and apparently with the consent of her grandmother. Some girls might have felt emotions of embarrassment, or even alarm, at this new situation; but the sacred loneliness and seclusion in which Agnes had been educated had given her a confiding fearlessness, such as voyagers have found in the birds of bright foreign islands which have never been invaded by man. She looked up at Antonio with a pleased, admiring smile, — much such as she would have given, if a great handsome stag, or other sylvan companion, had stepped from the forest and looked a friendship at her through his large liquid eyes. She seemed, in an innocent, frank way, to like to have him walking by her, and thought him very good to carry her basket, — though, as she told him, he need not do it, it did not tire her in the least.
“Nor does it tire me, pretty Agnes,” said he, with an embarrassed laugh. “See what a great fellow I am, — how strong! Look, — I can bend an iron bar in my hands! I am as strong as an ox, — and I should like always to use my strength for you.”
“Should you? How very kind of you! It is very Christian to use one’s strength for others, like the good Saint Christopher.”
“But I would use my strength for you because — I love you, gentle Agnes!”
“That is right, too,” replied Agnes. “We must all love one another, my good Antonio.”
“You must know what I mean,” said the young man. “I mean that I want to marry you.”
“I am sorry for that, Antonio,” replied Agnes, gravely, “because I do not want to marry you. I am never going to marry anybody.”
“Ah, girls always talk so, my mother told me; but nobody ever heard of a girl that did not want a husband; that is impossible,” said Antonio, with simplicity.
“I believe girls generally do, Antonio; but I do not: my desire is to go to the convent.”
“To the convent, pretty Agnes? Of all things, what should you want to go to the convent for? You never had any trouble. You are young, and handsome, and healthy, and almost any of the fellows would think himself fortunate to get you.”
“I would go there to live for God and pray for souls,” said Agnes.
“But your grandmother will never let you; she means you shall marry me. I heard her and my mother talking about it last night; and my mother bade me come on, for she said it was all settled.”
“I never heard anything of it,” said Agnes, now for the first time feeling troubled. “But, my good Antonio, if you really do like me and wish me well, you will not want to distress me?”
“Certainly not.”
“Well, it will distress me very, very much, if you persist in wanting to marry me, and if you say any more on the subject.”
“Is that really so?” said Antonio, fixing his great velvet eyes with an honest stare on Agnes.
“Yes, it is so, Antonio; you may rely upon it.”
“But look here, Agnes, are you quite sure? Mother says girls do not always know their mind.”
“But I know mine, Antonio. Now you really will distress and trouble me very much, if you say anything more of this sort.”
“I declare, I am sorry for it,” said the young man. “Look ye, Agnes, I did not care half as much about it this morning as I do now. Mother has been saying this great while that I must have a wife, that she was getting old; and this morning she told me to speak to you. I thought you would be all ready, — indeed I did.”
“My good Antonio, there are a great many very handsome girls who would be glad, I suppose, to marry you. I believe other girls do not feel as I do. Giulietta used to laugh and tell me so.”
“That Giulietta was a splendid girl,” said Antonio. “She used to make great eyes at me, and try to make me play the fool; but my mother would not hear of her. Now she has gone off with a fellow to the mountains.”
“Giulietta gone?”
“Yes, haven’t you heard of it? She’s gone with one of the fellows of that dashing young robber-captain that has been round our town so much lately. All the girls are wild after these mountain fellows. A good, honest boy like me, that hammers away at his trade, they think nothing of; whereas one of these fellows with a feather in his cap has only to twinkle his finger at them, and they are off like a bird.”
The blood rose in Agnes’s cheeks at this very unconscious remark; but she walked along for some time with a countenance of grave reflection.
They had now gained the street of the city, where old Elsie stood at a little distance waiting for them.
“Well, Agnes,” said Antonio, “so you really are in earnest?”
“Certainly I am.”
“Well, then, let us be good friends, at any rate,” said the young man.
“Oh, to be sure, I will,” said Agnes, smiling with all the brightness her lovely face was capable of. “You are a kind, good man, and I like you very much. I will always remember you kindly.”
“Well, good-by, then,” said Antonio, offering his hand.
“Good-by,” said Agnes, cheerfully giving hers.
Elsie, beholding the cordiality of this parting, comforted herself that all was right, and ruffled all her feathers with the satisfied pride of a matron whose family plans are succeeding.
“After all,” she said to herself, “brother was right, — best let young folks settle these matters themselves. Now see the advantage of such an education as I have given Agnes! Instead of being betrothed to a good, honest, forehanded fellow, she might have been losing her poor silly heart to some of these lords or gallants who throw away a girl as one does an orange when they have sucked it. Who knows what mischief this cavalier might have done, if I had not been so watchful? Now let him come prying and spying about, she will have a husband to defend her. A smith’s hammer is better than an old woman’s spindle, any day.”
Agnes took her seat with her usual air of thoughtful gravity, her mind seeming to be intensely preoccupied, and her grandmother, though secretly exulting in the supposed cause, resolved not to open the subject with her till they were at home or alone at night.
“I have my defense to make to Father Francesco, too,” she said to herself, “for hurrying on this betrothal against his advice; but one must manage a little with these priests, — the saints forgive me! I really think sometimes, because they can’t marry themselves, they would rather see every pretty girl in a convent than with a husband. It’s natural enough, too. Father Francesco will be like the rest of the world: when he can’t help a thing, he will see the will of the Lord in it.”
Thus prosperously the world seemed to go with old Elsie. Meantime, when her back was turned, as she was kneeling over her basket, sorting out lemons, Agnes happened to look up, and there, just under the arch of the gateway, where she had seen him the first time, sat the cavalier on a splendid horse, with a white feather streaming backward from his black riding-hat and dark curls.
He bowed low and kissed his hand to her, and before she knew it her eyes met his, which seemed to flash light and sunshine all through her; and then he turned his horse and was gone through the gate, while she, filled with self-reproach, was taking her little heart to task for the instantaneous throb of happiness which had passed through her whole being at that sight. She had not turned away her head nor said a prayer, as Father Francesco told her to do, because the whole thing had been sudden as a flash; but now it was gone, she prayed, “My God, help me not to love him! — let me love Thee alone!” But many times in the course of the day, as she twisted her flax, she found herself wondering whither he could be going. Had he really gone to that enchanted cloud-land, in the old purple Apennines, whither he wanted to carry her, — gone, perhaps, never to return? That was best. But was he reconciled with the Church? Was that great, splendid soul that looked out of those eyes t
o be forever lost, or would the pious exhortations of her uncle avail? And then she thought he had said to her, that, if she would go with him, he would confess and take the sacrament, and be reconciled with the Church, and so his soul be saved.
She resolved to tell this to Father Francesco. Perhaps he would — No, — she shivered as she remembered the severe, withering look with which the holy father had spoken of him, and the awfulness of his manner, — he would never consent. And then her grandmother — No, there was no possibility.
Meanwhile Agnes’s good old uncle sat in the orange-shaded garden, busily perfecting his sketches; but his mind was distracted, and his thoughts wandered, — and often he rose, and, leaving his drawings, would pace up and down the little place, absorbed in earnest prayer. The thought of his master’s position was hourly growing upon him. The real world with its hungry and angry tide was each hour washing higher and higher up on the airy shore of the ideal, and bearing the pearls and enchanted shells of fancy out into its salt and muddy waters.
“Oh, my master! my father!” he said, “is the martyr’s crown of fire indeed waiting thee? Will God desert His own? But was not Christ crucified? — and the disciple is not above his master, nor the servant above his lord. But surely Florence will not consent. The whole city will make a stand for him; — they are ready, if need be, to pluck out their eyes and give them to him. Florence will certainly be a refuge for him. But why do I put confidence in man? In the Lord alone have I righteousness and strength.”
And the old monk raised the psalm, “Quare fremunt gentes,” and his voice rose and fell through the flowery recesses and dripping grottoes of the old gorge, sad and earnest like the protest of the few and feeble of Christ’s own against the rushing legions of the world. Yet, as he sang, courage and holy hope came into his soul from the sacred words, — just such courage as they brought to Luther and to the Puritans in later times.
CHAPTER XVII. THE MONK’S DEPARTURE
The three inhabitants of the little dove-cot were sitting in their garden after supper, enjoying the cool freshness. The place was perfumed with the smell of orange-blossoms, brought out by gentle showers that had fallen during the latter part of the afternoon, and all three felt the tranquillizing effects of the sweet evening air. The monk sat bending over his drawings, resting the frame on which they lay on the mossy garden-wall, so as to get the latest advantage of the rich golden twilight which now twinkled through the sky. Agnes sat by him on the same wall, — now glancing over his shoulder at his work, and now leaning thoughtfully on her elbow, gazing pensively down into the deep shadows of the gorge, or out where the golden light of evening streamed under the arches of the old Roman bridge, to the wide, bright sea beyond.
Old Elsie bustled about with unusual content in the lines of her keen, wrinkled face. Already her thoughts were running on household furnishing and bridal finery. She unlocked an old chest, which from its heavy, quaint carvings of dark wood must have been some relic of the fortunes of her better days, and, taking out of a little till of the same a string of fine, silvery pearls, held them up admiringly to the evening light. A splendid pair of pearl ear-rings also was produced from the same receptacle.
She sighed at first, as she looked at these things, and then smiled with rather an air of triumph, and, coming to where Agnes reclined on the wall, held them up playfully before her.
“See here, little one!” she said.
“Oh, what pretty things! — where did they come from?” said Agnes, innocently.
“Where did they? Sure enough! Little did you or any one else know old Elsie had things like these! But she meant her little Agnes should hold up her head with the best. No girl in Sorrento will have such wedding finery as this!”
“Wedding finery, grandmamma,” said Agnes, faintly, “what does that mean?”
“What does that mean, sly-boots? Ah, you know well enough! What were you and Antonio talking about all the time this morning? Did he not ask you to marry him?”
“Yes, grandmamma; but I told him I was not going to marry. You promised me, dear grandmother, right here, the other night, that I should not marry till I was willing; and I told Antonio I was not willing.”
“The girl says but true, sister,” said the monk; “you remember you gave her your word that she should not be married till she gave her consent willingly.”
“But, Agnes, my pretty one, what can be the objection?” said old Elsie, coaxingly. “Where will you find a better-made man, or more honest, or more kind? — and he is handsome; — and you will have a home that all the girls will envy.”
“Grandmamma, remember, you promised me, — you promised me,” said Agnes, looking distressed, and speaking earnestly.
“Well, well, child! but can’t I ask a civil question, if I did? What is your objection to Antonio?”
“Only that I don’t want to be married.”
“Now you know, child,” said Elsie, “I never will consent to your going to a convent. You might as well put a knife through my old heart as talk to me of that. And if you don’t go, you must marry somebody; and who could be better than Antonio?”
“Oh, grandmamma, am I not a good girl? What have I done, that you are so anxious to get me away from you?” said Agnes. “I like Antonio well enough, but I like you ten thousand times better. Why cannot we live together just as we do now? I am strong. I can work a great deal harder than I do. You ought to let me work more, so that you need not work so hard and tire yourself, — let me carry the heavy basket, and dig round the trees.”
“Pooh! a pretty story!” said Elsie. “We are two lone women, and the times are unsettled; there are robbers and loose fellows about, and we want a protector.”
“And is not the good Lord our protector? — has He not always kept us, grandmother?” said Agnes.
“Oh, that’s well enough to say, but folks can’t always get along so; it’s far better trusting the Lord with a good strong man about, — like Antonio, for instance. I should like to see the man that would dare be uncivil to his wife. But go your ways; it’s no use toiling away one’s life for children, who, after all, won’t turn their little finger for you.”
“Now, dear grandmother,” said Agnes, “have I not said I would do everything for you, and work hard for you? Ask me to do anything else in the world, grandmamma; I will do anything to make you happy, except marry this man, — that I cannot.”
“And that is the only thing I want you to do. Well, I suppose I may as well lock up these things; I see my gifts are not cared for.”
And the old soul turned and went in quite testily, leaving Agnes with a grieved heart, sitting still by her uncle.
“Never weep, little one,” said the kind old monk, when he saw the silent tears falling one after another; “your grandmother loves you, after all, and will come out of this, if we are quiet.”
“This is such a beautiful world,” said Agnes, “who would think it would be such a hard one to live in? — such battles and conflicts as people have here!”
“You say well, little heart; but great is the glory to be revealed; so let us have courage.”
“Dear uncle, have you heard any ill-tidings of late?” asked Agnes. “I noticed this morning you were cast down, and to-night you look so tired and sad.”
“Yes, dear child, — heavy tidings have indeed come. My dear master at Florence is hard beset by wicked men, and in great danger, — in danger, perhaps, of falling a martyr to his holy zeal for the blessed Jesus and his Church.”
“But cannot our holy father, the Pope, protect him? You should go to Rome directly and lay the case before him.”
“It is not always possible to be protected by the Pope,” said Father Antonio, evasively. “But I grieve much, dear child, that I can be with you no longer. I must gird up my loins and set out for Florence, to see with my own eyes how the battle is going for my holy master.”
“Ah, must I lose you, too, my dear, best friend?” said Agnes. “What shall I do?”
“
Thou hast the same Lord Jesus, and the same dear Mother, when I am gone. Have faith in God, and cease not to pray for His Church, — and for me, too.”
“That I will, dear uncle! I will pray for you more than ever, for prayer now will be all my comfort. But,” she added, with hesitation, “oh, uncle, you promised to visit him!”
“Never fear, little Agnes, I will do that. I go to him this very night, — now even, — for the daylight waxes too scant for me to work longer.”
“But you will come back and stay with us to-night, uncle?”
“Yes, I will, — but to-morrow morning I must be up and away with the birds; and I have labored hard all day to finish the drawings for the lad who shall carve the shrine, that he may busy himself thereon in my absence.”
“Then you will come back?”
“Certainly, dear heart, I will come back; of that be assured. Pray God it be before long, too.”
So saying, the good monk drew his cowl over his head, and, putting his portfolio of drawings under his arm, began to wend his way towards the old town.
Agnes watched him departing, her heart in a strange flutter of eagerness and solicitude. What were these dreadful troubles which were coming upon her good uncle? — who those enemies of the Church that beset that saintly teacher he so much looked up to? And why was lawless violence allowed to run such riot in Italy, as it had in the case of the unfortunate cavalier? As she thought things over, she was burning with a repressed desire to do something herself to abate these troubles.
“I am not a knight,” she said to herself, “and I cannot fight for the good cause. I am not a priest, and I cannot argue for it. I cannot preach and convert sinners. What, then, can I do? I can pray. Suppose I should make a pilgrimage? Yes, — that would be a good work, and I will. I will walk to Rome, praying at every shrine and holy place; and then, when I come to the Holy City, whose very dust is made precious with the blood of the martyrs and saints, I will seek the house of our dear father, the Pope, and entreat his forgiveness for this poor soul. He will not scorn me, for he is in the place of the blessed Jesus, and the richest princess and the poorest maiden are equal in his sight. Ah, that will be beautiful! Holy Mother,” she said, falling on her knees before the shrine, “here I vow and promise that I will go praying to the Holy City. Smile on me and help me!”
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 184