Old Elsie kneeled too; but, as she was praying, — being a thrifty old body in the use of her time, — she cast an eye up the steep mountain-path and calculated the distance of the little airy village. Just at that moment she saw two or three horsemen, who appeared to be stealthily observing them from behind the shadow of some large rocks.
When their devotions were finished, she hurried on her grandchild saying, —
“Come, dearie! it must be we shall find a shelter soon.”
The horsemen now rode up behind them.
“Good-evening, mother!” said one of them, speaking from under the shadow of a deeply slouched hat.
Elsie made no reply, but hurried forward.
“Good-evening, pretty maid!” he said again, riding still nearer.
“Go your ways in the name of God,” said Elsie. “We are pilgrims, going for our souls to Rome; and whoever hinders us will have the saints to deal with.”
“Who talks of hindering you, mother?” responded the other. “On the contrary, we come for the express purpose of helping you along.”
“We want none of your help,” said Elsie, gruffly.
“See, now, how foolish you are!” said the horseman. “Don’t you see that that town is a good seven miles off, and not a bit of bed or supper to be had till you get there, and the sun will be down soon? So mount up behind me, and here is a horse for the little one.”
In fact, the horsemen at this moment opening disclosed to view a palfrey with a lady’s saddle, richly caparisoned, as if for a person of condition. With a sudden movement, two of the men dismounted, confronted the travelers, and the one who had acted as spokesman, approaching Agnes, said, in a tone somewhat imperative, —
“Come, young lady, it is our master’s will that your poor little feet should have some rest.”
And before Agnes could remonstrate, he raised her into the saddle as easily as if she had been a puff of thistledown, and then turning to Elsie, he said, —
“For you, good mother, if you wish to keep up, you must e’en be content with a seat behind me.”
“Who are you? and how dare you?” said Elsie, indignantly.
“Good mother,” said the man, “you see God’s will is that you should submit, because we are four to you two, and there are fifty more within call. So get up without more words, and I swear by the Holy Virgin no harm shall be done you.”
Elsie looked and saw Agnes already some distance before her, the bridle of her palfrey being held by one of the horsemen, who rode by her side and seemed to look after her carefully; and so, without more ado, she accepted the services of the man, and, placing her foot on the toe of his riding-boot, mounted to the crupper behind him.
“That is right,” said he. “Now hold on to me lustily, and be not afraid.”
So saying, the whole troop began winding as rapidly as possible up the steep, rocky path to the mountain-town.
Notwithstanding the surprise and alarm of this most unexpected adventure, Agnes, who had been at the very point of exhaustion from fatigue, could not but feel the sensation of relief and repose which the seat in an easy saddle gave her. The mountain air, as they rose, breathed fresh and cold on her brow, and a prospect of such wondrous beauty unrolled beneath her feet that her alarm soon became lost in admiration. The mountains that rose everywhere around them seemed to float in a transparent sea of luminous vapor, with olive-orchards and well-tilled fields lying in far, dreamy distances below, while out towards the horizon silver gleams of the Mediterranean gradually widened to the view. Soothed by the hour, refreshed by the air, and filled with admiration for the beauty of all she saw, she surrendered herself to her situation with a feeling of solemn religious calm, as to some unfolding of the Divine Will, which might unroll like the landscape beneath her. They pursued their way in silence, rising higher and higher out of the shadows of the deep valleys below, the man who conducted them observing a strict reserve, but seeming to have a care for their welfare.
The twilight yet burned red in the sky, and painted with solemn lights the mossy walls of the little old town, as they plunged under a sombre antique gateway, and entered on a street as damp and dark as a cellar, which went up almost perpendicularly between tall, black stone walls that seemed to have neither windows nor doors. Agnes could only remember clambering upward, turning short corners, clattering down steep stone steps, under low archways,307 along narrow, ill-smelling passages, where the light that seemed so clear without the town was almost extinguished in utter night.
At last they entered the damp court of a huge, irregular pile of stone buildings. Here the men suddenly drew up, and Agnes’s conductor, dismounting, came and took her silently from her saddle, saying briefly, “Come this way.”
Elsie sprang from her seat in a moment, and placed herself at the side of her child.
“No, good mother,” said the man with whom she had ridden, seizing her powerfully by the shoulders, and turning her round.
“What do you mean?” said Elsie, fiercely. “Are you going to keep me from my own child?”
“Patience!” replied the man. “You can’t help yourself, so recommend yourself to God, and no harm shall come to you.”
Agnes looked back at her grandmother.
“Fear not, dear grandmamma,” she said, “the blessed angels will watch over us.”
As she spoke, she followed her conductor through long, damp, mouldering passages, and up flights of stone steps, and again through other long passages, smelling of mould and damp, till at last he opened the door of an apartment from which streamed a light so dazzling to the eyes of Agnes that at first she could form no distinct conception as to where she was.
As soon as her eyesight cleared, she found herself in an apartment which to her simplicity seemed furnished with an unheard-of luxury. The walls were richly frescoed and gilded, and from a chandelier of Venetian glass the light fell upon a foot-cloth of brilliant tapestry which covered the marble floor. Gilded chairs and couches, covered with the softest Genoese velvet, invited to repose; while tables inlaid with choice mosaics stood here and there, sustaining rare vases, musical instruments, and many of the light, fanciful ornaments with which, in those days, the halls of women of condition were graced. At one end of the apartment was an alcove, where the rich velvet curtains were looped away with heavy cords and tassels of gold, displaying a smaller room, where was a bed with hangings of crimson satin embroidered with gold.
Agnes stood petrified with amazement, and put her hand to her head, as if to assure herself by the sense of touch that she was not dreaming, and then, with an impulse of curious wonder, began examining the apartment. The rich furniture and the many adornments, though only such as were common in the daily life of the great at that period, had for her simple eyes all the marvelousness of the most incredible illusion. She touched the velvet couches almost with fear, and passed from object to object in a sort of maze. When she arrived at the alcove, she thought she heard a slight rustling within, and then a smothered laugh. Her heart beat quick as she stopped to listen. There was a tittering sound, and a movement as if some one were shaking the curtain, and at last Giulietta stood in the door-way.
For a moment Agnes stood looking at her in utter bewilderment. Yes, surely it was Giulietta, dressed out in all the bravery of splendid apparel, her black hair shining and lustrous, great solid ear-rings of gold shaking in her ears, and a row of gold coins displayed around her neck.
She broke into a loud laugh at the sight of Agnes’s astonished face.
“So, here you are!” she said. “Well, now, didn’t I tell you so? You see he was in love with you, just as I said; and if you wouldn’t come to him of your own accord, he must fly off with you.”
“Oh, Giulietta!” said Agnes, springing towards her and catching her hands, “what does all this mean? and where have they carried poor grandmamma?”
“Oh, never worry about her! Do you know you are in high favor here, and any one who belongs to you gets good quarters? Your grandm
other just now is at supper, I doubt not, with my mother; and a jolly time they will have of it, gossiping together.”
“Your mother here, too?”
“Yes, simple, to be sure! I found it so much easier living here than in the old town, that I sent for her, that she might have peace in her old age. But how do you like your room? Were you not astonished to see it so brave? Know, then, pretty one, that it is all on account of the good courage of our band. For, you see, the people there in Rome (we won’t say who) had given away all our captain’s lands and palaces and villas to this one and that, as pleased them; and one pretty little villa in the mountains not far from here went to a stout old cardinal. What does a band of our men do, one night, but pounce on old red-hat and tie him up, while they helped themselves to what they liked through the house? True, they couldn’t bring house and all; but they brought stores of rich furnishing, and left him thanking the saints that he was yet alive. So we arranged your rooms right nobly, thinking to please our captain when he comes. If you are not pleased, you will be ungrateful, that’s all.”
“Giulietta,” said Agnes, who had scarcely seemed to listen to this prattle, so anxious was she to speak of what lay nearest her heart, “I want to see grandmamma. Can’t you bring her to me?”
“No, my little princess, I can’t. Do you know you are my mistress, now? Well, you are; but there’s one that’s master of us both, and he says none must speak with you till he has seen you.”
“And is he here?”
“No, he has been some time gone northward, and has not returned, — though we expect him to-night. So compose yourself, and ask for anything in the world, but to see your grandmother, and I will show that I am your humble servant to command.”
So saying, Giulietta courtesied archly and laughed, showing her white, shiny teeth, which looked as bright as pearls.
Agnes sat down on one of the velvet couches, and leaned her head on her hand.
“Come, now, let me bring you some supper,” said Giulietta. “What say you to a nice roast fowl and a bottle of wine?
“How can you speak of such things in the holy time of Lent?” said Agnes.
“Oh, never you fear about that! Our holy Father Stefano sets such matters right for any of us in a twinkling, and especially would he do it for you.”
“Oh, but Giulietta, I don’t want anything. I couldn’t eat, if I were to try.”
“Ta, ta, ta!” said Giulietta, going out. “Wait till you smell it. I shall be back in a little while.”
And she left the room, locking the door after her.
In a few moments she returned, bearing a rich silver tray, on which was a covered dish that steamed a refreshing odor, together with a roll of white bread, and a small glass flacon containing a little choice wine.
By much entreaty and coaxing, Agnes was induced to partake of the bread, enough to revive her somewhat after the toils of the day; and then, a little reassured by the familiar presence of Giulietta, she began to undress, her former companion officiously assisting her.
“There, now, you are tired, my lady princess,” she said. “I’ll unlace your bodice. One of these days your gowns will be all of silk, and stiff with gold and pearls.”
“Oh, Giulietta,” said Agnes, “don’t! — let me, — I don’t need help.”
“Ta, ta, ta! — you must learn to be waited on,” said Giulietta, persisting. “But, Holy Virgin! what is the matter here? Oh, Agnes, what are you doing to yourself?”
“It’s a penance, Giulietta,” said Agnes, her face flushing.
“Well, I should think it was! Father Francesco ought to be ashamed of himself; he is a real butcher!”
“He does it to save my soul, Giulietta. The cross of our Lord without will heal a deadly wound within.”
In her heart, Giulietta had somewhat of secret reverence for such austerities, which the whole instruction of her time and country taught her to regard as especially saintly. People who live in the senses more than in the world of reflection feel the force of such outward appeals. Giulietta made the sign of the cross, and looked grave for several minutes.
“Poor little dove!” she said at last, “if your sins must needs be expiated so, what will become of me? It must be that you will lay up stores of merit with God; for surely your sins do not need all this. Agnes, you will be a saint some day, like your namesake at the Convent, I truly do believe.”
“Oh, no, no, Giulietta! don’t talk so! God knows I wrestle with forbidden thoughts all the while. I am no saint, but the chief of sinners.”
“That’s what the saints all say,” said Giulietta. “But, my dear princess, when he comes, he will forbid this; he is lordly, and will not suffer his little wife” —
“Giulietta, don’t speak so, — I cannot hear it, — I must not be his wife, — I am vowed to be the spouse of the Lord.”
“And yet you love our handsome prince,” said Giulietta;312 “and there is the great sin you are breaking your little heart about. Well, now, it’s all of that dry, sour old Father Francesco. I never could abide him, — he made such dismal pother about sin; old Father Girolamo was worth a dozen of him. If you would just see our good Father Stefano, now, he would set your mind at ease about your vows in a twinkling; and you must needs get them loosed, for our captain is born to command, and when princes stoop to us peasant-girls, it isn’t for us to say nay. It’s being good as Saint Michael himself for him to think of you only in the holy way of marriage. I’ll warrant me, there’s many a lord cardinal at Rome that isn’t so good; and as to princes, he is one of a thousand, a most holy and religious knight, or he would do as others do when they have the power.”
Agnes, confused and agitated, turned away, and, as if seeking refuge, laid her down in the bed, looking timidly up at the unwonted splendor, — and then, hiding her face in the pillow, began repeating a prayer.
Giulietta sat by her a moment, till she felt, from the relaxing of the little hand, that the reaction of fatigue and intense excitement was beginning to take place. Nature would assert her rights, and the heavy curtain of sleep fell on the weary little head. Quietly extinguishing the lights, Giulietta left the room, locking the door.
CHAPTER XXV. THE CRISIS
Agnes was so entirely exhausted with bodily fatigue and mental agitation that she slept soundly till awakened by the beams of the morning sun. Her first glance up at the gold-embroidered curtains of her bed occasioned a bewildered surprise; — she raised herself and looked around, slowly recovering her consciousness and the memory of the strange event which had placed her where she was. She rose hastily and went to the window to look out. This window was in a kind of circular tower projecting from the side of the building, such as one often sees in old Norman architecture; — it overhung not only a wall of dizzy height, but a precipice with a sheer descent of some thousand feet; and far below, spread out like a map in the distance, lay a prospect of enchanting richness. The eye might wander over orchards of silvery olives, plantations with their rows of mulberry-trees supporting the vines, now in the first tender spring green, scarlet fields of clover, and patches where the young corn was just showing its waving blades above the brown soil. Here and there rose tufts of stone-pines with their dark umbrella-tops towering above all other foliage, while far off in the blue distance a silvery belt of glittering spangles showed where the sea closed in the horizon-line. So high was the perch, so distant and dreamy the prospect, that Agnes felt a sensation of giddiness, as if she were suspended over it in the air, — and turned away from the window, to look again at what seemed to her the surprising and unheard-of splendors of the apartment. There lay her simple peasant garb on the rich velvet couch, — a strange sight in the midst of so much luxury. Having dressed herself, she sat down, and, covering her face with her hands, tried to reflect calmly on the position in which she was placed.
With the education she had received, she could look on this strange interruption of her pilgrimage only as a special assault upon her faith, instigated by those
evil spirits that are ever setting themselves in conflict with the just. Such trials had befallen saints of whom she had read. They had been assailed by visions of worldly ease and luxury suddenly presented before them, for which they were tempted to deny their faith and sell their souls. Was it not, perhaps, as a punishment for having admitted the love of an excommunicated heretic into her heart, that this sore trial had been permitted to come upon her? And if she should fail? She shuddered, when she recalled the severe and terrible manner in which Father Francesco had warned her against yielding to the solicitations of an earthly love. To her it seemed as if that holy man must have been inspired with a prophetic foresight of her present position, and warned her against it. Those awful words came burning into her mind as when they seemed to issue like the voice of a spirit from the depths of the confessional: “If ever you should yield to his love, and turn back from this heavenly marriage to follow him, you will accomplish his damnation and your own.”
Agnes trembled in an agony of real belief, and with a vivid terror of the world to come such as belonged to the almost physical certainty with which the religious teaching of her time presented it to the popular mind. Was she, indeed, the cause of such awful danger to his soul? Might a false step now, a faltering human weakness, indeed plunge that soul, so dear, into a fiery abyss without bottom or shore? Should she forever hear his shrieks of torture and despair, his curses on the hour he had first known her? Her very blood curdled, her nerves froze, as she thought of it, and she threw herself on her knees and prayed with an anguish that brought the sweat in beaded drops to her forehead, — strange dew for so frail a lily! — and her prayer rose above all intercession of saints, above the seat even of the Virgin Mother herself, to the heart of her Redeemer, to Him who some divine instinct told her was alone mighty to save. We of the present day may look on her distress as unreal, as the result of a misguided sense of religious obligation; but the great Hearer of Prayer regards each heart in its own scope of vision, and helps not less the mistaken than the enlightened distress. And for that matter, who is enlightened? who carries to God’s throne a trouble or a temptation in which there is not somewhere a misconception or a mistake?
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 193